Page 2 of Tracked By the Fixer

“You’re right,” I reply, her enthusiasm bolstering my resolve. “I can’t keep putting up with him. I’m going to tell him right now.”

“Good!” she says, her energy infectious. As soon as I get my phone out of my pocket, she says, “Tell him to go fuck himself.”

“I’m getting to it,” I say, scrolling through my contacts, huffing when I realize I never programmed his number into my phone, since it’s always his wife who texts me, and he’s not stupid enough to leave a digital footprint of his flirtation. “Hold on.”

I dig into my purse, pulling out his business card and flipping it over to where he scrawled his personal phone number on the back. Honestly, I should have known something was fishy when he gave it to me. He literally stopped me at the door and slipped it into my pocket with a wink.

He’s been a creep since day one.

I’m in the process of copying the digits into a message box when the mechanic knocks on the window. I curse, fumbling with my phone. Wendy rolls down the window so he can speak.

“We’re gonna need a tow,” he says apologetically. “I won’t charge you, though.”

“You’re a lifesaver,” I tell him.

“I’d be a lifesaver if I had another car to give you,” he admits, jerking his head in the direction of my out-of-commission vehicle. “I’m not sure if I’ll be able to get her running again.”

I sigh, resisting the urge to scream. Wendy seems to sense my tension and jumps in saying, “Things will work out.”

“You’re right,” he replies, straightening out. “You two are free to get out of here. I’ll give you a call when I know more about what went wrong.”

“Thanks,” I say, meaning it.

With that, he walks away, pulling out his own phone, probably to call for the tow truck. Wendy puts her own vehicle into drive and pulls away. I let my head fall back against the seat.

“You send that message?” she asks after a few minutes of driving in silence.

“Not yet. Besides, if I’m going to have to buy a new car, now might not be the best time…” I say, shaking my head. I’ve already finished entering Mr. Tomlinson’s number, but my nerves are starting to get the better of me.

“Tell him he can’t keep treating you that way,” Wendy says, and I copy down her words — even though I want this message to come from me, it’s nice to have her doing some of the legwork.

“It’s inappropriate,” I mutter, transcribing what I’m saying. “Not only does he have a wife, he has a daughter too.”

“Good!” she praises, taking a turn a little too enthusiastically. “Now, what’s going to happen if he does it again?”

“I’m going to quit,” I say, typing the threat into the message box.

“And?”

“And I’m going to tell his wife.”

“And?” Wendy pushes.

“And I’m…” I frown at the screen. “I’m not sure what else there is to say.”

“If he doesn’t stop, you’re going to kick his ass!” she says as if that should have been obvious to me.

“I don’t know aboutthat…” I admit. Then, I recall how uncomfortable he’s made me and the way the anger boiled in my gut when Mrs. Tomlinson got home. “No, you’re right. If he does it again, I’m going to kick his ass!”

As soon as I finish composing the text, I send it. If I dwell on it for too long, my self-preservation might kick in and convince me that I just need to suck it up until I get another job. He needs to be put in his place, no matter how non-confrontational I am.

“It’s done,” I say, taking a long drink of my hot chocolate.

“And how do you feel?” Wendy asks, a grin on her face.

“Good,” I reply. “Invigorated.”

“Excellent!” she says as she pulls into the parking lot of my apartment complex. “Now, keep that energy. I’m going to help you apply for jobs. I don’t think you’ll have one after he sees that.”

---