by Abbie Roads
He pulled in, cut the engine, and twisted in his seat, trying to see her face. “What’s wrong?”
She shook her head in short, little Parkinsonian movements and angled off the bike.
Lathan set the kickstand and stood. She continued to shake her head. A sulfur-like scent oozed from her pores. Disbelief. Shock.
He wanted to say something to ease her, but nothing came to mind. He wanted to hold her—knew that would help—but she didn’t seek him out like she normally did, so he just stood there like a big dumbo and stared at her.
“You must think I’m a total… God, I don’t even have a word for how pathetic I must seem.”
“You’re not pathetic. You’ve been through shit with Junior two days in a row. You’re dealing.”
“This is dealing?”
He couldn’t hear the sarcasm in her words, but he witnessed its journey across her face.
“You want to talk about it?” He wasn’t sure he wanted her to. The leash he kept on his impulse to kill Junior might snap.
“Ever have one of those moments—you know, the ding-ding-ding, we-have-a-winner moments—when you see something that has been right in front of you your whole life, but you were too naive, blind, or stupid to see it? And it changes everything. And nothing. All at once.”
“Yeah.” She’d just described the moment when he’d gotten the results back from his DNA test, when he’d been told the olfactory region of his brain was enlarged, when he’d been informed that his sense of smell was more sensitive than the equipment they used to measure olfaction. “I know exactly what you mean.”
Her brows bounced up a little. “Really?”
He nodded. He could see her curiosity taking over whatever had pained her a moment ago. Part of him was relieved, part scared. He didn’t want her to ask about his ding-ding-ding moment. He didn’t want to tell her, and he didn’t want to lie. Time for a distraction. “So where do you want me to take you?” Say you want to come back home with me.
A pretty rose of color bloomed on each of her cheeks. “You know Morty’s Motor Lodge off 70, near Sweet Buns and Eats?”
“Yeah.”
“Take me there.”
“Why do you want to go there? Only druggies and whores live there.” Whores.
No.
She couldn’t be a whore.
His gut plummeted into his boots. He shook his head to dislodge the idea that she’d take money for sex, but the evidence stood in front of him partially covered by his jacket. Those tiny shorts, the hooker sexy shoes she wore on her feet. Hooker sexy. Fuck.
“You’re a…” He couldn’t force the word whore from his lips. “You use your body for money?”
The roses on her cheeks turned cherry-bomb red and spread to her entire face. Burning cinnamon rolled off her.
She glanced down at herself. “It’s none of your damned business how I earn my money.”
“You don’t have to live like that. There are other options.”
She lifted her chin high in the air. “I’m not ashamed of what I do. I work hard for my money. Never mind the ride. I’ll walk.” She stomped away from him.
She was a whore. He let her go. Watched her walk away.
An ugly urge bubbled up from deep inside him. He wanted to hunt down, eviscerate, and then kill every man she’d ever fucked.
The rage died a sudden violent death. He shouldn’t be acting jealous. He should be embarrassed. She hadn’t offered her services to him. Obviously, she couldn’t tell by the way he lived that he had money. Lots of it. He could probably afford to pay her for a decade of her time. The FBI compensated him very well for his unique ability. Money just meant very little to him. Privacy mattered more than currency.
He watched her as she walked across the parking lot toward the road. Her skyscraper legs and those hooker sexy shoes sent a clear message to every dick.
He ran to catch up with her. “Let me give you a ride.”
She acted like she didn’t hear him and kept walking.
“Honey, you’ve got two choices here. Either you’re riding with me to Morty’s, or I’m walking with you.” Morty’s wasn’t far, maybe a half mile, but a lot could happen to her in a half mile.
She reached down, barely breaking her stride, and pulled off her heels—going barefoot. Barefoot. In November.
He stayed with her until they reached the flickering Morty’s Motor Lodge sign.
Low slung and L-shaped, the motel looked like something from a cheap horror flick. The paint on the concrete walls was so drab it had lost its ability to even be considered a color. Each room had a different style of door, like the owner shopped flea markets and garage sales. In the middle of each door, someone with an obvious case of dyslexia had painted a drippy number. The three, five, and seven were backward.
She stopped. The scent of her anger had burned out her during their walk. “It meant a lot to me that you helped me deal with Junior, but you’ve got to grow eyes in the back of your head. Junior’s dad is the new sheriff, and he’s as big an asshole as his son.”
“If Junior gives you any more trouble, let me know.” He wanted her to ask him for his number, but she didn’t. He was thinking like a pizza-faced teenager. “Gill will probably have more questions for you. Will you be here?” He gestured toward the motel.
“For a few weeks.” She twisted her lips up in a smile that was so obviously fake it looked like a grimace. “See you around, Lathan.”
Before he found words to say in response, she walked down the row of dilapidated rooms to the short arm of the L, unlocked number nine, entered the room, and exited his life.
Chapter 5
Each step closer to the motel room felt like she was walking against a strong current. Her brain screamed its resistance to returning to the life of working at Sweet Buns and living at Morty’s.
She entered the motel room. The door swung inward and crashed against the wall like it always did. On the bright side: the room was empty and its double beds were made with fresh sheets and comforters from Morty’s stock of overused, out-of-style, and under-washed linens. Brittany had even plugged in one of those glow-in-the-dark air fresheners. Evanee suspected Brittany was afraid of the dark, but she never mentioned it.
The room looked like it always had, but today Evanee couldn’t tolerate its ugliness. She wanted the light, airy, open atmosphere of Lathan’s home. The sense of safety and security she felt there with him. She’d even take Gill interrogating her over one more moment in this decrepit space.
She left the room, locked the door behind her, and went over to Sweet Buns.
The moment she walked through the back door, Ernie looked up from the grill. The angry planes of his face softened for a moment, but then were replaced with an expression that rivaled Freddy Krueger’s for scare value.
“Where the hell have you been?” He shouted the words. The entire diner went silent. He threw his spatula at the grill with the force of a baseball pitcher. The clang, bang of it rang out like a death knell.
Oh, shit. She was so fired. She might even end up being the dead body he stashed in his freezer.
“Ivy! Get back here and watch the grill!” Ernie tore off his apron, threw it on the floor, and stalked toward Evanee.
This was bad. Beyond bad. Ernie never left the grill. Never. She backed into the door, pushed it open, managed to get one step, just as he reached her.
Should she run? Yell for help?
Slowly, as if giving her time to react, he reached up and tipped her chin to the side. His fingers were gentle, light against her skin. “Who hurt you?” His voice was soft kindness floating over her. She didn’t know his vocal cords had that kind of range.
Absurdly, she wanted to tell him everything about Junior. Miserable memories lined up, each one attached to one name—Junior. She opened her mouth, not sure where to begin, bu
t then noticed Ernie’s gaze was locked on her eyebrow. He only saw her eyebrow—that was it. Had no idea about all the hurt hidden underneath her skin.
She stuffed the lid back down on the garbage can of her life. Waited a second to make certain the lid would hold, and then spoke. “I hit my face.” At his look of disbelief, she elaborated. “On a toilet. I was sick. Vomiting. And kinda passed out for a moment.”
He stepped closer, examined her brow, tilting her chin at odd angles under the light of the back door.
She hadn’t even thought to look in the mirror. “It probably looks worse than it is.”
“What happened? Where were you? Your car was gone, but when I talked to Brittany, she said your wallet was still in the room.”
“You talked to Brittany?”
“Shirl and Ivy were worried about you.”
She knew he’d been worried about her and didn’t want to admit it.
She didn’t tell him everything. She left out the part about Junior attacking her, and the part about her dreaming up an eyeball, and the part where Ken Doll interrogated her.
Ernie’s face hardened more with each of her words. The softer, sweeter Ernie disappeared. Freddy Krueger Ernie returned.
“What the fuck are you thinking? Going home with a guy you just met.”
Technically, Ernie had a point. But Lathan had never felt like a stranger. “He was nice. Kind. Took care of me when I was sick.” She missed Lathan. She pictured him—his freckles, his tattoo, looking at her in that way only he did.
“He don’t own a phone?” Ernie’s volume had risen back to normal.
“I was sick. I forgot. I’m sorry. Really sorry. It will never happen again. I swear.”
He stared at her face, and she could tell he was ascertaining whether she was telling the truth. “You still want your job?”
“I do.”
“You’re on second shift from now on.” In the world of Sweet Buns, that was a demotion. Second shift was not only a sucky time of day to work, but the supper truckers were the creepiest of the creepers. “Get in there and relieve Ivy. She’s been on her feet ten hours. You find a way to make that up to her.”
“Thanks, Ernie.”
“Evan.” The anger in his voice was gone. He turned and walked inside. Over his shoulder he said, “If you’re in trouble, call me. Don’t go with a stranger.”
“I don’t own a phone,” she whispered to his retreating back.
* * *
Evanee walked out the back door of Sweet Buns. Even though it was midnight, the rumbling semis continued to beat a cadence that picked at her nerves. Another annoyance among the multitude of things she couldn’t control, couldn’t act on, or couldn’t let herself think about—yet.
She did her owl impression, craning her neck in all directions to make sure no one was lurking around, and then jogged across the parking lot to Morty’s. No way was she going to allow Junior to ambush her. Being back on his radar put him back on hers.
She unlocked and opened their room door. Like normal, it slammed against the wall.
Apricot light from the parking lot illuminated Brit asleep in her bed.
“Sorry, Brit,” Evanee whispered and shut the door. Blackness closed around her. Their room was never dark. “Brit? Are you okay?” Her heart twitched like a rabbit’s nose searching for the scent of a predator, finding it just as the hawk’s talons pierced its flesh.
“She won’t bother us.” Junior’s voice came from right next to her.
Evanee’s breath hitched in her throat. An odd hiccupping noise squeaked from her mouth. She careened forward into the room, away from Junior.
“Whajadoter.” The words fell out of her mouth too fast to make sense. “What. Did. You. Do. To. Her?”
No answer.
She spoke around her gritted teeth. “What did you do to her?”
No sound, except for the semis outside.
“Answer me!” she shouted. But he didn’t answer. His silence an answer all its own. “Did you kill her?” She gagged on the question, already knowing the answer.
He’d killed Brittany.
Poor Brittany. All she ever wanted was the same thing Evanee did. To get ahead enough to leave Sundew, to move somewhere new where she didn’t have to live like a roach, where she didn’t have a past, where she’d be anonymous. “Why? She never did anything to you.”
“She was your friend.” His tone was flat, emotionless.
He had killed Brittany because they were friends. Maybe Evanee should feel guilty about that, but the only emotion she had was anger. He wouldn’t get away with it. She wouldn’t let him.
Step One: Draw him away from the door.
Step Two: Escape.
Step Three: Talk to the police, but they’d just sweep everything under the rug. Maybe the media would be the better option. No matter what, she’d get justice for Brit. Only after justice had been handed to Junior would she allow herself to break down and feel guilty for causing Junior to take Brit’s life—because in the end, it was her fault.
“I’m calling the police.” She hoped her threat would draw him away from the door. She lunged across the dark room, her arms in front of her, blindly searching for the phone that always sat on the nightstand between their beds.
Her knee cracked into the stand. She pitched forward, smacked the lamp. It clattered to the side, then fell to the floor. She swept her fingers over the nightstand.
Nothing was there.
Nothing.
Ice slid down her spine. He’d taken it. Of course, he had.
Sch. Sch. Sch. Fabric rustling. Right behind her. Junior’s breath chuffed moist and hot against the back of her neck. It reminded her of a lion licking the gazelle before ripping its throat out.
At least he wasn’t guarding the door anymore. Time for Step Two.
His arms closed around her, fastening her hands to her sides. She startled, but didn’t fight him. A better opportunity would present itself. She just had to find it. And not let herself get scared.
Concentrate. Think. Don’t let fear dictate your fate. Shut down your emotions—for now. There’d be plenty of time to freak after she got away from him.
He shifted so his mouth was at her ear. “I owe you an explanation.” He spoke softly, almost whispering. “For everything.”
For everything. Uh-huh. Like an explanation could magically take away all the years of pain and hurt and perversion. She curled her lips inward and bit down to keep from smart-assing back at him.
“You saw the picture in my box. But I don’t think you understand.”
“It was Mom and Rob’s wedding photo. What more is there to understand?” Her tone was too high.
“Darlin’, you should talk to your mom before it’s too late. She can explain better than I can. All I know is she owed a debt, not of money, but of life to my dad. She paid that debt by marrying him and giving you to me.”
“What’s that mean—she owed a debt of life?” Part of her was trying to assimilate all the information into something that wasn’t malicious and sick.
“That’s between your mom and my dad. Dad’s primary rule was that you were never to know, but Mom says we’re adults now and can make our own rules.”
He’d actually talked to Mom about them? Like they were a couple or something? Sick. Fucking sick.
He delicately kissed her ear. “That photo is more than their wedding photo. It’s our wedding photo too.” Junior’s words hung in the air.
Bile sloshed the sides of her stomach, and her mind ripped wide open. Memories, terrible ones she’d never wanted to remember, flashed into existence again. Memories of begging, crying, screaming for Mom when Junior was hurting her. And Mom never once intervened. Never once admitted anything was wrong. Never allowed Evanee to talk about it.
Her insides spasmed. Her bladde
r burned with the need to release.
“You are mine. No one else’s. And I’m done waiting for you.”
Stop! She silently screamed to the memories. Later they could take over and ravage her as badly as Junior had in the past, but not now.
Focus. Concentrate. Escape. She had to escape.
He nuzzled her neck. “We can start over. I can be tender. I can be loving. Mom says that’s what you want.”
Mom said to be tender? What the fuck planet was her mother living on? Did either of them really think that simply offering to be nice would melt her into a warm, pliant puddle?
No. No. No. Junior be kind? To her? Impossible.
Another of his mind games. But deep down in the darkest corner of her soul, she knew he’d at least told one truth. She had been sacrificed to him.
His mouth moved over her neck, then began sucking her skin. Maybe if she could uncoil some of the tension in her muscles, he might think she was into it and maybe he’d let his guard down. And maybe that would give her an opportunity to escape.
He kept one arm around her, still pinning both her arms at her sides, but moved his hand up to cup her breast.
Tension gripped all of her muscles. She waited, expecting the pinching, grabbing, pulling, but his touch was tender, almost reverent.
“Relax,” he whispered against her skin.
“I’m trying,” she snapped, then changed her tone. “This is new to me.”
“This time will be different.”
No, it wouldn’t. It was going to end like it always did. Either she’d fight him off until she escaped. Or he’d hurt her.
She endured his touch. Kept her mind away from the sensation of it and instead became vigilant about her surroundings. The rumble of semis outside—one had just pulled out of the lot. She closed her eyes and visualized her room and their position in it—standing between the beds. Sweat filmed her skin.
His hand moved away from her breast, trailed down her stomach, pushed into her shorts.
An idea bolted into her awareness. If she timed this just right, she’d be out the door in less than ten seconds. Her heart convulsed like it was being repeatedly electrocuted.
