Rules of a Rebel and a Shy Girl - Jessica Sorensen Page 0,69

beside my car, I freeze. Terror whiplashes through me as a man in his forties wearing a button down shirt and jeans hops out and strides toward the front of my car.

Good God, I’m going to die tonight, either by the hand of Dane or this man who’s clearly stalking me for reasons that probably have to do with my mom.

You’re not going to die. Just fix the problem. Call Beck because it’s either that or let Dane or rich dude end you.

My fingers tremble as I start to push Beck’s number, ready to accept the consequences of my actions and pray I don’t lose him. But I pause as the older guy storms toward Dane, slams his palms against his chest, and shoves him to the ground.

“What the fuck!” Dane shouts, scurrying to his feet.

The man puts his boot on Dane’s chest, pinning him to the ground. “If you so much as come near her again, I will fucking end you. Got it?”

My jaw nearly smacks my knees. Who the freak is this badass old guy?

“Fuck you, old man,” Dane spits, struggling to get up. “This isn’t any of your business.” His face bunches in pain as the man leans more of his weight on Dane’s chest.

“I don’t think you’re really in a position to decide that, are you?” the man asks, rolling up his sleeves and revealing his muscular, tattooed arms. “Now, I’m going to move my foot. You have exactly five seconds to get up, get in your car, drive away, and never, ever come back here.” With that, he steps back, removing his foot from Dane’s chest.

Dane launches to his feet, balling his hands into fists. “You’re going to regret ever doing that.”

“One,” the man starts counting, sounding kind of bored.

Dane spits on the ground, as if that somehow proves he’s tough.

“Two,” the man continues, and Dane’s eyes briefly widen. “Three.”

Dane spins around and barrels for his car. The man keeps counting as Dane starts up the engine. He reaches five as the Mustang flies out of the parking lot, leaving a cloud of dust behind. Once the taillights have vanished down the road, the man turns to me.

“Are you okay?” he asks cautiously.

“Um … Yeah …” I don’t know what to say. Why did he do what he did? If he expects some sort of payment …

He must read my hesitancy because he says, “I just wanted to help. That’s all.”

“Okay … Thanks.” I stare at his eyes, which look strikingly familiar under the glow of the lamppost. “Do I know you?”

Instead of answering, he walks toward the front of the car. “Pop the hood, and I’ll see if I can figure out why it won’t start.”

The fact that he knows about my car trouble puts me right back on edge.

“I can’t pay you,” I say, “with money or anything else.”

His eyes enlarge, and then he promptly shakes his head. “I don’t want anything at all.”

“Then why are you doing this?”

“To help you.”

I don’t know whether I should trust him, but the doors are locked and the pepper spray is in my hand if I need it.

“Fine.” I pull the lever that pops the hood.

He flips the latch underneath and raises the hood, disappearing out of my sight.

I hold my breath as he works, my finger hovering over Beck’s contact number, preparing to dial if I need to. Several minutes tick by before the man peers around the hood.

“Turn the key and see if it starts,” he says.

I turn over the key and breathe freely again as the engine grumbles to life.

The man pushes down the hood and walks over to the driver’s side window with his now greasy arms crossed. “I think you might really need to consider getting a new car. I temporarily fixed it, but the engine’s about to fall apart.”

“Thanks for the advice,” I say, moving my foot toward the gas pedal, eager to get the heck out of here. “And thanks for temporarily fixing my car.”

“Anytime.” He lowers his head to level his gaze with mine, and again, I’m struck with an odd sense of familiarity. “I’d really like to help you get one.”

So much for his nice-guy act.

“I already told you I’m not that kind of girl.”

“What kind of girl do you think I think you are?” he asks, a crease forming between his brows.

“The kind of girl who …” My cheeks heat, and the words won’t leave my mouth. I gesture at the club. “The kind of girl