Tazen Watts is in front of me, crouching down, one hand wrapped around my body, rubbing my back. His eyes are concerned. He’s got an alarmed look on his face. His lips are gently parted and his eyes are narrowed, making a little crinkle form on his forehead.

I don’t want his concern.

“Hey, you doing okay there, angel?”

“I’m,” I gasp, “fine.”

I try to stand but my knees wobble and I go crashing back down.

“Whoa there. You need to sit.”

He turns and flicks his fingers, and a moment later a waiter comes over with a glass of water. Tazen takes it, nods and turns back to me, placing it in my hands. He curls his fingers around mine and for a moment, my breathing becomes shallow. But it’s because of the feeling of his hands on mine, and not from my panic attack.

“Drink it. It’ll help. Trust me.”

Trust him? He wants to take something from me that I’m not ready to give up—I understand his need to buy my garage, but I want him to understand how important it is to me. He doesn’t see that. I jerk my hand and the glass, and water sloshes over the side and lands on my lap. His eyes hold mine as I bring it to my lips and sip it.

“You have panic attacks often?”

I lean in close, having gotten myself together enough to leave. I stare at his lips and his eyes shoot to mine, a strange attraction sparking between us. I ignore it and lean closer, then I tilt the glass forward and all the water in it spills out and lands all over him. He leaps backwards and I stand, staring down at him with cold eyes. “I have them when assholes come into my life and try to take everything I love away.”

Then I step past him and rush off down the sidewalk.

Tazen Watts will get nothing from me.

Nothing.

CHAPTER THREE

By the time I get home that night, I’m emotionally exhausted. My eyes are heavy and burning. My chest feels like there’s a two hundred pound weight lying on top of it. My legs ache with every step I take towards my front door. I am dreading going in there, but not because I’m afraid of how my dad will react. It’s because I’m ashamed over how I reacted.

He might deserve a lot of things, but he didn’t deserve my verbal or physical assault. I shouldn’t have behaved the way I did and because of that, I am swimming in guilt. It’s like beating up a wounded puppy. He doesn’t know what he’s doing. My attacking him only makes me the bad guy. I should have held it together, kept myself calm. My actions did nothing to change the situation; in fact, they did nothing to him except confuse him more.

I reach out with a shaky hand when I stop at the old, rickety front door. I take a deep breath and curl my fingers around the handle, turning it and pushing it open. I step through the front door and inhale deeply. Something smells … nice.

Curious, I walk towards the kitchen. I immediately see my dad standing at the microwave, pulling out a dish. He turns and notices me, and quickly places the dish down. He doesn’t look drunk, but his eyes are bloodshot red. He does, however, look defeated. His shoulders are slumped and he looks exhausted. “Quinnie, honey,” he says, his voice full of shame. “I’m sorry.”

My heart breaks.

I rush over and throw myself into his arms. “It’s okay, Dad. I’m sorry I did that.”

I can smell alcohol on him, but I didn’t expect not to. He can’t just stop drinking. If it were that easy he would have already done it. I have tried to get him help before, but you can’t force someone to do something unless they’re ready, and I don’t have the money to send him to a rehabilitation center.

“I made dinner,” he says, giving me a wonky smile.

I look down at the dish. It’s a mix of pasta that seems clumped together with a cheesy sauce.

“Oh,” I say, staring at the mess. “It looks, ah, great.”

“Mac and cheese,” he mumbles, leaning down to pull out two bowls. “Nothing special.”

He serves me a bowl of food and we sit down at the table. I take a mouthful and struggle to swallow it down. I keep going because he’s trying and it isn’t right of me to turn my nose up when he’s actually making an effort. Dad, on the other hand, scarfs his down as if it’s the best food he’s ever tasted. That makes me sad.

“Listen,” he says after swallowing his final bite. “I’m going to fix this for us.”

My chest tightens, because there’s no possible way he can pull himself together to help me. I know he’ll try, but he’s too far gone to dedicate himself to this for long. I know that better than anyone.

“Dad,” I begin, but he waves a hand, cutting me off.

“No. It isn’t fair that I’m leaving all this on you, Quinnie. You should be enjoying life, making friends…” His eyes scan the small, crappy house. “Moving out.”

I close my eyes.

He reaches over, his warm hand capturing mine. I flick my eyes open and glance at him. “Dad, you owe twenty-two thousand dollars in thirty days. How do you suppose you will fix that?”

“I’ll find a way, but I promise you, Quinnie, that I will figure it out. I won’t leave you without a home.”

It’s not the home I care about. If only he understood that. It’s the garage, because that’s not just the place I work, it’s the only home I’ve ever known.

“Listen, let’s talk about this tomorrow. Right now, I’m exhausted. Thank you for dinner, Dad.”

I stand and take my bowl into the kitchen. I rinse it out and then kiss Dad on the head before heading towards my room.

“I’ll fix it, Quinnie,” he calls after me.

I don’t answer him. There’s nothing he can do to fix this.

I’m the last hope this garage has.

*   *   *

“Come with me, Quinn girl.” Jace grins, flashing the killer of all killer smiles.

I’m walking down the sidewalk, nearly at the garage the next morning. Jace caught up to me two blocks ago, after coming to my house to get me but finding I had only just left. He’s been following me, trying to convince me to go to the races on the weekend, where Tazen is unveiling his newest race car. Tazen gave him free tickets and two nights’ accommodation. Talk about trying to bribe him. The dick. I’d rather stab myself in the eye with a blunt instrument than go to anything that jerk is at.

“Why are you awake so early?” I ask, trying to change the subject. “Was your girl for the night unsatisfied?”

He snorts. “No lady leaves my bed unsatisfied.”

I roll my eyes. “Sure, Fabio.”

He nudges me with his shoulder, getting back to the subject I’ve been trying to avoid. “Come with me, Quinn! It’s two days.”

“I don’t have two days,” I point out.

I really don’t have two days. I have so much to do and I honestly don’t know how the hell I’m going to find the time to pull it all off in a month.

“You have two days,” he protests. “The garage is closed on the weekends.”

“Yeah, it is,” I mutter. “And I’m trying to save it so I’ll be spending my weekend coming up with ways to do that.”

“We’ll talk while we’re drinking cocktails by the pool and watching famous car racers fly around the track.”