How much more time did I need before I could face Skylar and talk through our future? I didn't know and would never find out.

An angry, persistent knock on the front door whisked my eyes away from the mirror.

I tried to rush from the bathroom, but I got caught up fumbling with the lock. When I made it out, Skylar was wrapped in the bed sheet, heading toward her bag of clothes.

"Don't!" I warned her with my hand up. "Just . . . stay out of sight."

With her tears still damp on her face, she eased back onto the bed as if she were breakable.

My thoughts couldn't be with her . . . where they belonged. I had to change modes and deal with a very unwelcome presence.     

When I cracked open the door, I didn't like what I saw. For an old guy, he was a solid tower of intimidation. "Can I help you?"

He strutted closer. His tie and black suit rustled in the breeze. It exposed his massive girth and gun holster. "I'm here for Skylar."

I thought he might be a detective, but there was an idling Lincoln Town Car in front of my building, so I wasn't sure. "She's busy."

"Get her. She's to come with me."

I didn't like his tone. "And who the fuck are you?"

"It's okay, Scott," Skylar murmured as she came beside me, fully dressed. She took the door away from me and opened it wide enough to reveal herself. "He's my father's chauffer."

"Does that give him the right to tell us what to do?" I glanced at Skylar and then glared at the cretin in front of me dangerously hard. I wanted to move . . . him . . . away. Or do something worse. It took more mental energy to control myself. "It's a free country last I knew. So she's not going anywhere!"

He made an exaggerated sniffing noise. "Smells like an illegal substance. I could make some calls. And make sure your grubby carcass never sees the light of day."

Yeah, like that would work, you prick.

"That's not necessary," Skylar jumped in while I was still fuming over the insult. "I'll go. But Barry, can we have a minute first?" She looked to him for an answer and received a cold stare. He didn't even back away from the door, so she dragged me away and closed it to a crack, probably believing it was too rude to slam it in his face.

"I have to talk to him," she said.

I clutched the side of her head and made sure to bring her eyes to mine. "Your father?" She shuddered out a nod. "When he treats you like a criminal?"

"Barry's not bluffing. He'll. . ."

"I'll deal with the repercussions. You don't have to go if you don't want to."

She pulled away from me and went to retrieve her bag. "No, it's fine," she said when she returned. "I'll be all right. He needs to know. I haven't told him anything yet, and that's my fault." Her eyes dropped to the floor. "I'm sorry. I should have . . . already. . ."

Just as fresh tears began to fall from her eyes, Barry nudged open the door with his foot and sauntered into the doorway. Under his disapproving watch, I pulled her against me. "You're very brave, Sky," I whispered in her ear. Then I took her head in my hands again and took one last look at her. "Please come back when you're done."

She nodded a distant, foreboding yes that felt more like a goodbye forever. And then Barry tore her bag from her hands and guided her out the door with his domineering grip on her shoulder.

More words of protest almost shot from my mouth. I considered running after her too. But she had made the choice to go and it wasn't my place to force anything upon her. And I didn't want to make the moment harder than it already was.    

Skylar glanced over her shoulder just once, but her eyes never met mine. Barry stepped in front of her view to open the monstrous black door of the car. Then, with him hovering over her, she disappeared inside of it, and the door slammed shut. And meanwhile, I stood there, resentful and dumbfounded, trying to piece together what had just happened.

Dr. George Wakefield—brilliant, world-renowned cardiologist—had found out about me somehow. And he felt the need to follow and acquire his daughter from my "grubby" bed at a very emotionally inconvenient time, almost like it was planned that way.

I had to admit, I knew his type well. Like some of the other patriarchs I had come across—my own father wasn't exactly easy to please—Dr. Wakefield was the king in his own realm and demanded respect and loyalty from those he bankrolled. 

As the Lincoln Town Car and my purpose for living vanished into the night, I practically dove for the record player.

The damn lyrics. Talk about bad timing!

Oh Lord won't you buy me a Mercedes Benz.

My friends all drive Porsches, I must make amends.

Worked hard all my lifetime, no help from my friends.

So Lord, won't you buy me a Mercedes Benz.

https://youtu.be/Qev-i9-VKlY

Plunging the room into utter silence, I fell into a misery more abysmal than ever. But then I spotted something that redirected my thoughts and energy.

Skylar's car keys were still sitting on my bedside table. She could have grabbed them with the rest of her stuff and probably should have. And yet she didn't. Maybe she forgot them, but I had to consider the possibility that she left them there for a reason. If she couldn't get back here, I'd have to find her before someone else came to retrieve the Jaguar.

I wasn't going to let that happen. Her car would be hand delivered to her . . . by me. And that meant there was still hope for us.

~~~

Janis Joplin, Mercedes Benz (1971).