Chapter 10

10

Leah

After finishing my work with a student at the public library, I trek back to my car to drive to my next session. I shiver. It’s a rare rainy day. My hoodie isn’t offering much protection against the cold because the fabric is damp.

My body is pleasantly sore from the orgasms Gage gave me last night. At one point, he sat on the chair near his always-curtained bedroom windows. Then he instructed me to rub myself on his thigh like I did the first time we met.

That kind of activity takes strength. Excellent workout.

Excellent orgasm.

We still haven’t fucked, though. It’s been four days since the night we dry-humped. So I know the issue isn’t that he can’t orgasm. For some reason, he doesn’t want to. At least not with me.

And I can live without that. Sure, I crave the intimacy. The two of us, staring into each other’s eyes and being connected in such a vulnerable way. But he’s giving me what he can, and it’s enough. It has to be enough.

There’s so much more to our time together, too. In the soft way he touches my hand when we’re sitting on the couch together, quietly reading. In the half-smile he makes when I tease him. In the way he reminds me to behave, because if I don’t, “Daddy” is going to come out and make me behave.

He hasn’t threatened me with a spanking yet, but it seems like the next logical step. I shiver again, and not from the cold.

Rain patters against my windshield as I navigate toward San Esteban School of the Arts. My next student wants to meet at a campus café.

The car behind me was at the library, too. I’m not sure why I notice it, because it’s plain white, nondescript. Maybe it’s the way my spine prickles every time I catch it in my rearview. Are they following me?

A part of me says I’m overthinking this. Another part of me kicks the first part of me and says in Danica’s voice, Bitch, we were just fucking kidnapped. Paranoia is healthy .

It’s a relief when the white car turns onto a different street before I reach campus. I’m just imagining things.

I cross campus to reach the coffee shop, and I see someone who reminds me of Dmitri. It isn’t him, though—the man has the same color hair, but a slighter build. I feel a pang of longing just the same.

I haven’t heard from Dmitri since Mr. Aseyev’s birthday party three days ago. I did hear from his cousin. He texted me photos of us playing bocce ball, taken by one of his moms. He added, I challenged Uncle Craig to a rematch this weekend. You in?

I wasn’t sure what to say. Was he serious? It didn’t sound like it. I reacted with a smiley face and hoped that was good enough.

Besides, I have enough on my mind. The auction is this weekend. I’m on the fence about attending. Dmitri was upset, and my petty self wants to do the auction simply to spite him. But I also don’t want to make him feel bad. We were friends. We are friends. I don’t want to be a dick.

Why should what I do with my body affect our friendship, though?

I nod to myself. Fuck it. I’m doing the auction. Gage promised to win me, so I’m not worried about that.

“You know I’ll fuck around with you for free,” I told him last night.

“I know, baby girl.” He grinned, showing his teeth, his dark eyes predatory. “Why don’t you show me right now?”

What followed was that interlude where I got off on his leg.

I reach the coffee shop, my hoodie soaked all the way through. It so seldom rains, I don’t keep an umbrella or raincoat in my car.

My tutoring session goes well, and it’s time for my final session of the day—Hector, back at the public library. I leave the coffee shop and return to campus parking, but I stop short. Is that the same white car, parked across the lot from mine?

No, it must be a different one. The other couldn’t have found me here—they turned off Solitaire Street before I did.

I keep an eye on the other car as I climb into mine. I lock the doors before even starting the engine. A feeling of unease tightens my shoulders. As I pull out of the lot, the other car remains where it is. It doesn’t look like anyone is inside it, anyway.

Chill the fuck out, Leah .

I blast the heater, hoping to dry off on my way back to the public library. Next week, I’m going to ask my new sophomore to meet me at the public library instead. The coffee shop was cute, but noisy. More importantly, I don’t love driving back and forth.

I reach the library and peel off my too-wet hoodie. At least the rain has stopped.

No sign of the white car, thank fuck. I can’t handle more people creeping on me. Mick’s loan sharks were enough excitement for several lifetimes.

I hurry into the shelter of the library and join Hector at one of the big tables.

“Leah, hey.” Hector gestures at the Advanced Placement prep books stacked in front of him.

“Hey. Are you ready to party?”

“Tests are in May. I don’t know if I can handle it.” His deep brown eyes are wide with anxiety.

“You can.” I nod for emphasis. “You’re going to be one of the best prepared students in the exam hall.”

“If you say so. Where should we start?”

I run him through sample test questions. Next, I have him practice the steps of organizing short essays for the free response portion of the test.

By the end of our hour, Hector is smiling and joking about the perfect score he’s going to get. I feel like I’m really making a difference in a kid’s life.

It makes me wonder about the students whose parents can’t afford my rates. What sort of help are they getting outside the classroom?

“Hey, Hector,” I say as we walk out. “What are the rest of your classmates doing for AP test prep? Like, the ones who don’t have tutors?”

“Our teachers give us practice tests and stuff. It’s just harder to get more individual help.”

I tuck that information away. I’m not sure what I’ll do with it, but helping Hector study for the test unlocked something in me—a new desire to help more students.

Hector is parked closer than I am. I wave goodbye as he gets into his truck before making my way to my car.

The rain picks up again, big fat drops falling swiftly. I break into a jog—I don’t want the water to soak through my bag and ruin my laptop.

Halfway to my car, I skid to a stop.

My heart jumps into my throat.

The white car is back.

No, I need to act casual. I glance around as if taking in the general surroundings, but I pay special attention to the car. Is someone in the driver’s seat? I can’t tell. It’s too far away.

It could be a different car. White cars are common. But something about it feels wrong.

Chills race up and down my spine. I unlock my car and throw myself inside, locking the door after me and starting the engine.

As I drive out of the lot, I try to see the white car’s license plate number through the rain. My windows are too blurry.

On the plus side, the car doesn’t follow me.

This is too much of a coincidence. I’m certain it was the same car. I have no proof, and if I tried to tell anyone, I’d come off like a paranoid drama queen.

I drive to Gage’s penthouse—it’s still hard to think of his place as my “home,” as much as he wants me to. The entire way, I check my mirrors, on the lookout for the white car.

It makes no appearance, but the itchy, creepy feeling along my spine doesn’t disappear.

Because it didn’t follow me before, yet it found me again. Did another car follow me instead? I didn’t notice anyone.

Something else is up. The realization hits as I pull into Gage’s parking garage.

Electronic trackers. Someone could have stuck one in my bag, or on my car, and I’d never know.

I check my bag but I don’t find anything unusual.

As soon as I get out of my car, I drop to my hands and knees on the concrete and start searching. I’m not even sure what I’m looking for. Where would I put a tracker, if I wanted to be sneaky about it?

I run my fingers under the wheel wells and make my way to the rear bumper. The license plate looks a little crooked, and one of the screws isn’t pushed all the way in. When I push on the plate, it doesn’t go all the way against the car.

Dread pools in my stomach as I twist the screw loose. When I free the loose side of the license plate, I can tug it outward just enough to feel behind it.

Holy fucking shit. There’s something back there. I pry it free with my fingers, breaking a nail in the process, but I don’t care.

It’s a disc, about one and a half inches in diameter. It bears a star symbol.

It’s a Tagger. Hastily put on the car, if the state of that license plate screw is any indication.

But who put it there? Who’s driving the white car?

* * *

Gage

I force myself to stand next to the large picture windows in the living room. The rain started up again after a brief break. I don’t like Leah being out there on the road. Southern California drivers lose their minds at the slightest hint of precipitation—they either drive recklessly as if there’s no danger, or they drive too slow. The mixture of behavior is where the risk lies.

I want to go out and search for Leah. I want to put her in my much-safer, newer car. I’d buckle her in, make sure the heaters were blasting if she was wet from the rain.

I wonder how she would respond to a new car as a gift…but I don’t want to frighten her away.

Just the same, I grab my phone and start researching vehicle safety features. She may let me buy her a car at some point, and I want to get her the best and safest one available.

The door to the penthouse opens. Leah steps in, soaked and shivering. Her cheeks are so pale, she looks ghostly.

I drop my phone on the nearest table. Crossing the room, I gather a blanket from the sofa, wrapping it around her. That won’t do much good, though—her clothes are the problem.

“Let’s get you changed, baby girl.”

“Th-thanks.” Her teeth are chattering.

I take her bag, which is drier than the rest of her. She must have been shielding it with her body during the worst of the rain.

Her hands are in fists as I lead her to her room and get a change of clothes. I help her peel out of her jeans and shirt, then I dry her with the soft blanket. Goosebumps prickle every inch of her skin. A thudding need convulses in my chest—a need to fix this, to make it right, to make Leah comfortable.

I help her into a soft T-shirt and sweatpants. Her left hand is still in a fist. I rub it between my hands, trying to warm her cold skin.

She stiffens up, muscles rigid, eyes wary.

I step back to give her space, but I keep her hand in mine. “Baby, are you okay?”

Slowly, she unclasps her fist. A Tagger rests in her palm. I recognize the top-of-the-line tracking device because it’s the same brand I put in my luggage on the rare occasions I travel.

Frowning, I ask, “Where’d you get that?”

“Behind my car’s license plate.”

Blinding worry. Rage. My muscles tense. Who’s tracking my little girl? I check my emotions so I don’t frighten her. “I assume you didn’t put it there yourself. Do you know where it came from?”

“No, I saw a white car. It kept ending up where I was today, but I didn’t recognize it. It could be a hired car. It could be anyone.” Her gaze shifts to the side, away from my face.

“Anyone.”

She nods, but doesn’t meet my eyes. Her cheeks flush delicately.

“You think I would track you.” It’s a statement, not a question. Leah doesn’t trust me.

Her blush deepens. “I’m sorry, it’s not that. I know it’s not you. It’s just…I don’t know who else would have reason to. And a few nights ago, you said all that stuff about being obsessed.”

She’s right—I did say those things. And I meant them. But I would never place a Tagger on her car without her knowledge.

She continues, “Unless things aren’t over with the loan sharks. Maybe the Wentzes have friends who are mad at me?”

“I suppose that’s possible.” There’s another glaring possibility—one that I’m reluctant to mention. “Could it be Dmitri?”

“It’s not his car, and he can’t afford to hire someone to tail me.”

Unspoken is the knowledge that I could afford to hire someone. I want to rage at the injustice of her suspicion, but I understand it.

“Here.” I hold out my hand.

She drops the Tagger in my palm, exhibiting a small amount of trust.

I take a photo of the back of the device. It includes some numbers and other code. I text it to Ryder Callihan at Ironwood and follow the text with a phone call.

He answers on the third ring. “Gage. Thanks for the pic.”

“Can you find out who it belongs to?”

“I’ll put our people on it. Where’d you find it?”

“It was behind my girlfriend’s license plate.”

“Fuck. I’ll have them rush. I’ll text you the results when we have them.”

“Text Leah, too. At the same time. I’ll send you her number.”

He doesn’t ask why he needs to text Leah. I’m grateful I don’t have to explain that I’m working to hold onto her trust.

As soon as I end the call, Leah moves closer and wraps her arms around me from behind. She presses her head against my back. “Thank you. And I’m sorry.”

I turn around so we’re hugging from the front. “It’s all right. I understand why you would be suspicious. I am obsessed with you, after all.”

She gives me that crooked smile I love so much. “Good news, then. I’m obsessed with you, too.”