After opening the door for me, Short, for some unknown reason, once I am seated, leans across me to click the seatbelt into place as if I were a child. Then, he holds on to the door andstares. “You sure you’re going to be alright? What if your dad is still angry?”
Mentally crossing my fingers, I reply as firmly as possible. “He’ll probably have passed out by now.” I don’t tell him, if there’s one good thing my dad does, he moderates his drinking. But inside, I wish those words were true.And that he hasn’t taken advantage of my absence.
Still, his eyes burn into me. “Give me your phone.” Not wanting to delay, I do as he says. Taking it into his possession, he turns it to face me, so it unlocks. Then he stabs at the keys before handing it back to me. “I put my number in it. He lifts one finger to you again, you call me. You got it?”
Knowing I won’t, I hastily agree.
“Bron.” He remains standing beside the car. “I’m fuckin’ worried about you, okay? Will you text me when you get home and let me know you’re safe? That your dad’s out for the count and won’t hurt you again?” When I hesitate, he raps his knuckles on the top of my car. “That’s it, I’m going to follow you home?—”
“I’ll text you,” I promise him fast. Anything to keep him away.
With a final look that shows his reluctance, Short steps back. I’m free to leave the compound.
After the prospect opens the gate, I drive away from the Kings of Anarchy and back to the place, which, while it doesn’t have cells or keys, might as well be my prison.
