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Shooter did most of the talking, which suited Hawk just fine. Hawk kept his gaze off Tildy for the most part, not wanting to alert her father to his undue interest in her.
Mr. Fletcher shook his head and handed Shooter a credit card. “I don’t suppose you’re authorized to work on a Mercedes,” he said looking around the garage to where a hot rod and a custom chopper were on display.
If Shooter was offended he didn’t show it. “Not as such,” he admitted. “No, Sir. But I’ve been working in garages all my life, and this was an easy fix.”
Tildy’s dad was barely listening. He fiddled with his phone, while Shooter ran the card. “Well, I’ll take it to our mechanic tomorrow,” he informed everyone. “I hope this doesn’t void the warranty.” He glanced at Tildy, who kept her gaze on the concrete floor. Mr. Fletcher sighed angrily. “Of course, it wouldn’t be an issue, if you’d told me the car was having problems,” he snapped.
Tildy raised her head and looked at him. “I did,” she insisted. “I-” But her father’s icy glare made her shut her mouth again.
Hawk was fairly certain she’d mentioned the problems with the car. He was also certain that, like now, Mr. Fletcher was probably too distracted to give a shit about anything his daughter had to say. Tildy’s father slid the smartphone into his pocket, took out a pen, and signed the receipt for the parts and labor.
“I have to get back to the office,” he snapped at her. “Do you think you can manage to get home this time without any further incidents?”
Tildy pressed her lips together and nodded.
Hawk resisted the urge to grab the man by his silk tie. Instead, he turned his attention to Tildy. “The car’s parked out back,” he said to her. “I’ll show you.”
This seemed to placate her father. He turned and stalked to his car, leaving her behind. Tildy shook her head. “You don’t have to,” she told Hawk. “I’ll get it.” She turned and went out the side door without waiting for anyone to respond.
Undeterred, Hawk followed her out to her car. “Tildy,” he called after her, but she didn’t turn. He caught up to her easily, and put a hand on her shoulder. She stopped and wiped a hand over her cheeks. As Hawk circled in front of her, he saw her tears. “Are you alright?” he asked, mentally cursing himself, because the answer was obvious.
She nodded nevertheless, putting up a good front. Apparently Tildy was great at putting up a front. He hooked her thin sweater with his thumb and slowly pulled it off her shoulder. She closed her eyes but didn’t fight him. In the sunlight, he saw several smallish bruises: some yellow, some green, and some purple. All dispelled any hope Hawk might have had about how infrequently this happened. He replaced the garment carefully; it wasn’t necessary to see the other arm.
“Thought I knew all your secrets,” he told her.
She opened her eyes and looked at him with an expression of pain and resignation. Hawk reached up and wiped a tear away for her. He dipped his fingers to the neckline of her shirt and pulled out the forbidden necklace. It was supposed to help her find her way, but it was failing miserably, because Tildy looked utterly lost.
Hawk had a more reliable option.
“You have my number?” he asked.
Tildy blinked up at him, momentarily confused.
“I called you from my cell,” he reminded her. “Do you still have the number?”
“Yes.”
“I want you to call me,” he insisted. “If you’re in trouble. Or…if you just want to talk.”
She frowned, and Hawk could tell she was about to say, ‘Thanks, but no thanks.’
He moved closer and cupped her face in his large hands. With his thumbs, he brushed away more tears. He leaned down and kissed her forehead. “Can we be friends, Tildy?” he asked quietly. “Is that enough?”
Miraculously, she smiled up at him. “Do I get to ride on your bike?”
He grinned but shook his head. “No one shares the saddle,” he replied.
“I did.”
“Yeah, but you needed rescuing.”
Hawk figured it went without saying that she still did.
Chapter 15
Tildy tucked the medal back into her shirt and slid behind the wheel of her newly fixed car. It started immediately and idled smoothly. She pulled out of the lot and headed home. When she got home, the house was still empty, as usual. Her father had gone back to the bank, and her mother was surely still working. The smells of cooking filled the first floor though, and Tildy went to see what was for dinner.
“Hola, Carmen,” Tildy said upon entering the kitchen.
The slightly older woman smiled politely. “Hola.”
Try as she might, Tildy was not close with the woman, who’d been working for the Fletcher family for the last five months. Cooks rarely stayed longer than a year. Tildy never asked why; she didn’t have to. Tildy had been working for her parents since graduating college, and her mother pinched, poked, pulled, and prodded her like livestock if she upset the bank’s clients. Tildy had never seen her mother actually treat anyone else that way, but her exacting demands wore everyone out just the same.
