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Dante withers beneath Lane’s glare. The salesman finally squares his shoulders and decides to attempt to salvage a bit of his dignity.
“If you’d prefer, I can get somebody else to assist you,” he says.
Lane stares at him, remaining silent for a long minute. Dante shifts on his feet and slides his hands into his pockets, likely to keep himself from blotting his damp palms on his slacks. Lane looks over at me and grins.
“Nah. It’s fine. I just wanted you to squirm a little since that was a really stupid assumption to make,” Lane says with a laugh.
Dante lets out a relieved breath and attempts to recover a little bit of his mojo as he puts that wide, too-white smile back on his face.
“You’re right. It was a dumb assumption to make. You’re so very right,” Dante says. “And from here on out, I promise I’ll make no more assumptions.”
“That’s a good place to start,” Lane says. “So, what can you show us in terms of electric vehicles or hybrids?”
I turn to Lane, that anxiety welling up within me again. Taking his hand, I squeeze it and he looks over at me.
“Lane, I appreciate what you're trying to do, but I—"
“Lanie, this is happening and I need you to find a way to be all right with this,” he says. “Trust me, it will make me feel better knowing you're not walking home alone at night. So, just think of it as you're doing something for me."
I gnaw on my bottom lip and look down at the ground, shaking my head as I try to fight off the waves of anxiety washing over me. I pay my own way. I always have and I always will. Letting Lane buy me a freaking car just feels wrong on so many levels.
At the same time, it would be nice to not have to walk home at night, especially knowing there’s somebody out there stalking me. It would be safer. But then, am I just trying to find a way to justify it to myself?
I don’t know, but the way Lane is looking at me tells me I have no choice in this. Lane is going to do what he wants to do. In this case, it's taking care of me. And I’d be lying if I said there isn’t a piece of me that, mixed in with all the anxiety, feels loved and cared for in ways I never knew I could be. It makes me remember that somebody once told me I deserve to be loved—and that I need to learn to let people love me.
A small smile crosses my face as I look up at Lane. “I saw a small SUV over there I thought looked pretty nice.”
Lane smirks. “Good girl.”
12
LANE
Ipull to a stop behind the diner and park Lanie’s new car before getting out and giving it a quick look over. After a lot of back and forth and discussion, Lanie had finally decided on a black Hyundai Tucson hybrid. Right up to the end, she kept trying to convince me that we didn’t need to do this. That she couldn’t accept a car from me. As tiresome as the argument was, I understand her objections.
She’s not a girl who enjoys a free ride. She wants to earn it. I get that and I respect the hell out of it.
But like I told her, it will make me feel a hell of a lot better to not have her out on the streets alone. Especially at night. If she doesn’t want to “bother” me by asking for a ride somewhere, at least I know she can get there on her own and won’t have to worry so much about being jumped and dragged into the bushes where some psycho can rape and kill her.
No, a car doesn’t guarantee her safety. But it sure as hell eliminates a lot of the things I worry about. Now, all I need to do is track down this fucking creep who’s bothering her.
For now, I just want to see her face when she sees her new car back here. It’s black with a deep red trim, and gray leather interior, and has all the bells and whistles. She argued against every upgrade the salesman offered, not wanting to drive the price up any further, but I negotiated a good price for the package we got.
I’m pleased with the deal and think this is going to be a good starter car for Lanie. Once she gets more comfortable behind the wheel, we’ll think about upgrading to something like a Ranger Rover, perhaps.
After locking up the car and setting the alarm, I walk around to the front of the diner. The electronic bell chimes as I step through the door. The place is about three-quarters full—the dinner rush, presumably—and the two waitresses I see are running around like chickens with their heads cut off. A middle-aged man with thinning brown hair and a bushy mustache wearing a shirt and tie steps over to me with a pleasant expression on his face.
“Evening. It’ll be just a minute and we can get you seated,” he says, his tone friendly. “We’re a little understaffed at the moment—”
“Is Lanie here? I don’t see her.”
His expression darkens. “No. I’m afraid she’s not here at the moment.”
I frown. “She’s supposed to be working tonight.”
“She is. She was,” he says, seemingly flustered. “She’s not here right now.”
“I don’t understand. Is she here or not?”
