I snatched up the box and marched into the foyer, steam billowing from my ears. I hated how guilty I must have sounded.
“Natasha!” My father’s shout echoed off the high ceiling.
Reluctantly, I turned to face him.
“I expect very little from you. This is not a big ask.” He plunged his hands into his pants pockets. “Should I write the check for your tuition and your car payment, or are you dropping out and leaving the BMW here?”
The car I could live without. Though I was told it was a birthday gift, not yet another marionette string with which he tried to control me. The tuition, however, I needed. College was expensive. The money Paul gave me to work with Cade wasn’t enough to live on and my internship at the rehab center was unpaid. Moving back home to live with my father was out of the question. If the options were swallow my pride or endure my dad, well…the choice was obvious.
“You will not see him again.” My father inclined his chin. I waited for him to demand I concede, but he didn’t. “You’re dismissed.”
I didn’t linger.
At home I collected my mail and carried it, along with my hard-won package, into my apartment. My place was a short five-minute commute from my father’s house—aka, the Montgomery Mausoleum. I mentally noted during that short drive to change any and all shipping addresses to my new apartment.
I dropped the envelopes on the counter and walked through my tidy third-floor apartment to the bedroom of my dreams. It was enormous, and with the en suite bathroom, took up nearly half the floor plan. My bed was dressed in a dove gray comforter, pale pink throw pillows, and flanked by a padded gray headboard. My dresser, wardrobe, and vanity were antiques, beautiful alabaster white, and the same furniture from my youth.
I sliced through the packing tape on the box using a metal nail file and settled on the bed to examine the contents. I’d ordered three books: Stuttering Therapy, A Therapist’s Guide to Better Speech, and Bad Boy Bodyguard.
The novel, with a shirtless, tattooed male model on the cover, was one I’d bought on a whim. The unsmiling mouth and the tattoos decorating the cover model’s sculpted arms reminded me of a certain uncooperative patient-slash-hobbyist-mechanic.
I stroked the cover with my thumb and considered my father’s threats. Would Morton Montgomery really pull the rug out from under me if I continued seeing Cade? If I stopped our fruitless therapy sessions, I would have more time to dedicate on my schoolwork and the internship.
I picked up one of the speech books I ordered and felt a surge of determination. Cade had spoken today. More than once. He’d also moved himself out of the house. He was close to a significant change. If he was able to speak again, he could go back to college. Pursue law school. Fulfill his dream of becoming an attorney. If I quit on him now, would he backtrack?
I refused to give up when we were this close.
As much as he’d like to believe it, Morton Montgomery didn’t rule the world. It wasn’t any of his business what I did or who I spent my time with. Plus, if Paul didn’t rat me out, how would my father know?
I tucked the romance book into my nightstand drawer and selected one of the other books instead. Then I kicked off my shoes, propped my head on a pillow, and started reading about how, exactly, to help Cade relearn to speak.
Chapter Four
Cade
“How’s she coming along?”
I was bent over Devlin’s SUV when he asked. Rather than answer, I snapped my fingers and pointed at the toolbox.
“Socket?”
I nodded. He slapped the metal into my palm. I ducked back under the hood.
“She looks about the same is why I’m asking,” he said.
Like his car would look any different on the outside after I fixed its insides? I was proof that the outside could look the same whether or not the insides were in working order.
I finished up and dropped the hood with a bang. Then my gaze went to my girl. My 1969 powder blue Chevrolet Camaro. She was not a new Blue; no car could replace Blue. But she was a classic. And by “classic” I mean she was full of rust holes and needed a new alternator. Basically, she needed a whole lot of love and money.
Don’t we all.
“Do you have her running yet?” Dev, hands in his pockets, strolled over to the Camaro.
“Yeah.” I liked that word. It came out clean most of the time. No tricky consonant at the end or the beginning.
“You work tonight?”
I nodded, cleaning my hands on an orange rag.
“See you there.” He rounded his car and climbed behind the wheel. Elbow resting on the open window, he said, “Thanks for the assist. Dinner’s on me tonight.”
I tipped my chin as he pulled out of the driveway. My eyes went to my new-slash-old car Paul bought me for my birthday a few months back. It was a peace offering. He felt guilty about draining my bank account when he’d been neck-deep in gambling. He’d been going to Gamblers Anonymous since my accident, which made me hate him a lot less. The car ran. Didn’t sound pretty, but she ran. I hadn’t named her yet. I was afraid I’d be attached too soon.
I didn’t have to work for a few more hours, and there was no Tasha coming over to bother and/or sexually frustrate me, so I decided to work on my nameless car. I cranked up the radio in the garage to drown out the neighbor’s lawnmower buzzing across the street. When I rolled beneath the Chevy, my thoughts returned to that night on Alley Road.
Street racing wasn’t legal. So, it was a bit pot/kettle for me to give Paul crap for gambling illegally. In my defense (Your Honor), the big difference between Paul and me was that I won more money than I lost.
I liked everything about a street race. The low rumble that shook my balls when I revved the engine, the scent of burning rubber when I peeled away from the starting line. The adventure. The risk. Hot, loud, enthralling, and over in seconds. College classes were the opposite. They were dull and dragged on for eternity.
Cars had always been a part of me. Before I met my ex, I planned on becoming a mechanic, but Brooke didn’t want to marry a blue-collar guy. She made sure I understood that any man of hers couldn’t show up at a dinner party with grease under his fingernails. I loved her, so I traded in my tools for textbooks.
I chose poorly.
Anyway. That night on Alley Road I had the race under control. Until Blue slid on an invisible sheet of black ice. I spun the wheel to the right and lost control, tires sliding, headlights from the other cars blinding me. My precious Audi crashed into a fire hydrant and sent me on one fucked-up ride. I dropped out of college, moved home with Dad, and ruined any chances of becoming an audiobook narrator.
My body healed. My tongue didn’t follow suit.
I pushed out from under the Camaro, suddenly claustrophobic. I couldn’t remember much about the accident. The ambulance came and took me to the hospital where doctors performed surgery and bandaged me up.
Tasha had been there when I opened my eyes that next morning. Second person I saw, after my father. Her blond head and sympathetic blue eyes filled with concern reminded me of an angel. For a second I thought I was dead. My eyes met hers and I was suddenly short of breath.
Though that could’ve been the two cracked ribs. Hard to say.