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“She called me from a comedy club and asked me to get her an Uber, but after what happened, I would feel better if you got her home.”
“Why?”
“Well, um, she was on a date, and he stole her purse. And her car.”
“Jesus Christ,” I mutter with a shake of my head. “Where is she?”
“At the Comedy Hour in Franklin.”
“That’s a forty-minute drive from here. Can’t her parents go get her?”
“No. Holly doesn’t talk to her parents anymore, not since they told her they wouldn’t pay for college if she didn’t study what they wanted her to study.”
Well, shit.
If one of my girls were robbed and stranded someplace, I would hope someone would help them out.
Sighing in defeat, I tell her, “Call and tell her I’m on the way.”
“I have the number for the club, but her phone was in her purse…”
“The one that was stolen?”
“Yes.”
“How many times have I told you that you can’t trust any-fucking-body nowadays?”
“I know that, Dad. I’m not the one stranded in the middle of nowhere.”
“Right. Sorry. I’ll make sure your friend gets home safe, and I’ll see what I can do about getting her car back.”
“You think you can find it?”
“There aren’t many car thieves or chop shops around here that I don’t know.”
“Of course. Why am I not surprised?”
“Is that your way of thanking me?” I ask as I stand up and start toward the door.
“Thanks, Dad,” she says softly.
“You’re welcome, baby girl.”
CHAPTERTWO
Holly
The female bartender took pity on me after she let me use the phone and gave me a soda. Then some guy came up and started flirting with me, offering me shots.
I accepted, too depressed to even be angry at this point while I wait for a ride.
My date stole everything I had of value. What little cash I had and my debit card were in my purse too. Not that there’s much for him to drain from my account.
Right now, he could even be rifling through my town house, taking…well, there’s not much of value there either. He has my car and phone. The rest of my belongings aren’t worth the trouble of hauling them off.
I occasionally laugh at the headlining comedian’s skit for the second time that night, certain Joe, if that’s even his real name, was lying about them being his favorite. His punch line for a dick joke is interrupted by a gruff, masculine voice behind me grumbling, “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”
I turn to look at the face of the voice and nearly slide off my stool before his lightning-fast hands grab my waist to steady me.
