Marry Me for Money by Mia Kayla Page B

come here to do damage. I was sure of it.
    I gave him my meanest face and mustered all I had inside as I said, “What do you want?” My voice was firm and powerful, opposite of what I was truly feeling—ultimate fear.
    “You’re gonna let me in, and I’m gonna tell you what I want.”
    My heartbeat resonated in my ears. Haven’t I seen this scenario in movies? This was the part where the serial killer cut up his victim before putting her in the fridge or scattering the body all over the city. “No way. You’re not coming in here.”
    Mr. Goatee pushed at the door, the chain now taut. “Don’t tempt me to use force.”
    “Stop,” I said, my voice wavering. I used my foot to prevent the door from opening farther. “Tell me what you want.”
    “Open the damn door, woman!”
    Mr. Goatee shoved the door, and I jumped back.
    He shifted toward me and I flinched. “I’m here to collect a debt.”
    Shit. The mob.
    My clammy hands pushed at the door with all my might, but Mr. Goatee placed his steel-toed boot in the crack to stop it.
    “You’re pissing me off, lady,” he said, his eyes hard. “Give me the car, and I’ll leave you alone.”
    I took in his words and took a step back. “What car?” I asked, peering up at him and noting all the tattoos that lined his neck.
    “The Chevy. You haven’t paid on it in six months,” he said, leaning toward me.
    “Wait a minute,” I said, realization setting in. I placed my palm against my forehead. “Shit,” I muttered.
    “You bought a car six months ago, brand new, and you haven’t paid on it.”
    “Hold on.” I left the door and snatched my mace out of my laptop bag.
    Unchaining the door, I stepped to the side and let him in. I held the mace in full view and tilted my head back to take in all of the six-foot, large and in charge, scary guy. If he hurt me, I’d mace him in the face and scream till my lungs fell out. It wouldn’t even matter anyway because I was sure Mr. Goatee could break my neck in one swift move, if he wanted to.
    “Where are the keys to the car?” he pressed, stepping closer.
    “I don’t have them. It was never my car. I cosigned with my mom—I mean, Jamie,” I stuttered. “I don’t have the car. It’s back in Bowlesville.”
    “Don’t lie to me,” he said, aggressively inching forward.
    I backed away until I felt the wall against me, until I couldn’t move any further, stuck in between the slab of concrete behind me and the massive male in front of me. “Stop. Don’t move an inch, or I swear to God, I’ll mace this whole can into your face,” I hated how everything came down to this whenever Jamie brought me into her drama.
    “I told you, I swear, I don’t have it. Do you think I need a car in downtown Chicago? I walk everywhere. I work four blocks away. I have no need for a car here. I cosigned with my deadbeat mom because she didn’t have good credit to get a car on her own,” I said, my voice firm and shoulders tense. “Now, leave. Look for that car in Bowlesville, and I hope you get it.”
    His eyes narrowed, studying me. I steadied myself against the door as I tried to calm my already shot nerves.
    “If you’re lying, I’ll be back,” he said as he peered down at me.
    My eyes locked with his. I didn’t break eye contact so he knew I was telling the truth. “You won’t because I’m not.”
    When he left, my legs gave out underneath me. I slumped against the door, slid to the floor, and released the breath that I’d been holding. I felt tired all of a sudden, the rush of adrenaline no longer present.
    “Crap. My spaghetti.” I got up and jolted to the stove.
    My sauce was burned. My eyes focused on the dark crusted sauce at the bottom of my pan and at that moment, I wanted to cry. I flipped off the stove and placed both hands at the edge of the counter, head hanging low.
    Why is my drama from Bowlesville leaking into my new life in Chicago?
    I stood there for a minute before grabbing my cell phone. I