Another hour. We’re getting close to the main highway and the interchange that will take Harold to Atlanta. The sunlight shifts from daytime to evening.
If I catch him—when I catch him—I plan to be ready, so as we drive, I quietly, carefully use my toe to unsnap the leather loop and slide the handcuffs out of Harold’s belt. Millimeter by millimeter and silently, I drag them closer to me along the floor mat at my feet.
The dot moves closer to Atlanta. We’re catching up.
But then in my palm, my phone flickers… and goes dead.
At dusk, we enter the very last town before Atlanta. I’m flying blind here, and just hoping against hope that he’ll have stopped for the night. He didn’t get any more sleep than I did. He’s got to be as exhausted I as I am.
I wince a little. There I go again. Caring. About a guy who just robbed me.
I took a personality tests once, and though I was all over the board with everything else—extrovert and introvert, secretive and prone to over-sharing, honest and furtive—there was one thing that was clear as a bell: Nurturer. That’s me, it seems. So theoretically it makes sense that I care. But it’s still completely insane.
I rub my face and peer out of the windshield. Then I see it. A white BMW, in a motel parking lot.
The Beemer is missing the Yale sticker and has different plates. But that’s my car, alright. Complete with a little smudge of red paint from a tiny accident I had last week.
“Harold,” I say, pointing. “The eagle has landed.” He grins and pulls off to the side of the road. “Why, Helen, it’s been a real pleasure!” he says. “I was awful glad for the company.”
His smile is totally contagious, as if I wasn’t feeling happy enough already. “Thank you. So much. Can I pay you, for the gas?”
“No, ma’am! Just take care of yourself.”
“You were a real lifesaver,” I say. I lean in and give him a friendly kiss on his bristly, big cheek. He smells like Ivory soap. I open the door and get out. I palm the cuffs in the grocery bag from the gas station convenience store, keeping them tight in my fist so they don’t rattle. In their place, I leave the knife.
“Take care now!” he says.
“You too,” I say, and I slam the door.
As he putters off, I’m alone with the fireflies. I feel like the hunting knife was a reasonably fair trade for the cuffs. I didn’t rob him; I just traded. God. I’m starting to sound like my father. But anyway, when I get settled wherever it is I’m going, I’ll track down Harold R. at Forest Lake Mall and send him a brand new pair of cuffs. And a case of tulip bulbs.
I trot across the street. I get ready for battle. Vince might be a pro, but right now, I’m feeling anything but amateur.
The motel was obviously a former Super 8 that came under new management, who just added a “1” to the sign, making it a Super 18, infringing on probably every copyright law ever written. It’s a sad, big, metallic place with peeling paint and a “NO ACAN Y” sign. It’s got a sadly spinning toy windmill out in front of the reception door in the flowerbed with some dead pansies.
Steeling myself, I look both ways and cross the little county highway. The Beemer is parked in front of room 19, but I can’t imagine Vince would be stupid enough to park in front of his own room. I take the cuffs from the bag and pin them between my arm and my body as I walk inside the reception area. It’s empty, and this one, unlike the bear-themed motel, is an awful lot like the waiting area at Jiffy Lube. Grim, too bright, and smells like slightly too-sweet potpourri. There’s a vending machine in other corner completely empty but for a single pack of Nutter Butters hanging from one of the dispensers.
On the check-in desk, next to an automatic doorbell with a Post-it note that reads, “PRESS REPEATEDLY FOR SERVICE,” is the sign-in book. Who knew that motor inns were so predictable? I listen for signs of life and hear nobody in the back room, so I take my chance and open up the guest book on the desk. My heart is pounding and I’m shaking a little. What a rush! Inside, under today’s date, which is on the front page, I see a woman’s handwriting followed by a shaky old person’s handwriting. But then in firm dark letters at the bottom of the list is the name Michael C. Escher.
Room 22.
Michael C. Escher? I’m halfway surprised he didn’t write, “I’M RIGHT HERE, PEACHES,” in great big letters.
Gently, I close the check-in book and back out of Jiffy Lube. Leaving the office, I walk quietly up the covered stairs and down the portico. I hear assorted motel noises. An old man hacking, voice from televisions, and what is either a couple having very kinky sex or some very weird game of charades. A moth bangs into a fluorescent light above me, and out in the woods, the cicadas screech.
Before I pass the window of room 22, I stop and listen, making sure I’m still hidden by the cinderblock wall. The television is on, I can hear it just a little and see it flickering through the sheer drapes. Slowly, I edge my face along the cinderblocks, my nose almost touching the painted bricks, and bring my left eye past the sheers. There he is, sprawled out like the king of the universe, hands behind his head on the pillows, one leg crossed over the other, watching television.
I hate him. I hate him so much, it hurts.
Ass. Ass. Ass!
I crouch down and sneak underneath the big picture window. In front of the room door, I take the cuffs in my hand and loop them around my fist like I’ve seen gangsters do with brass knuckles. I know my knuckles would sound just like they are—little knuckles. But the rapping of the edge of the cuff on the door, that sounds like business. I give three good cuff-knocks and step aside from the peephole.
The volume on the television goes down.
“Who is it?” he says.
My heart is pounding so hard, it’s making my eyeballs wobble. I tuck my chin into my throat and try to mimic my dad’s voice. “Management, Mr. Escher.”
The door opens an inch, and I can see the chain across it. I see the edge of his body, the muscles of his abs under his T-shirt.
“Yeah?” he says.
“Plumbing problem,” I answer. I’m still too far too the side for him to see me. “Could turn into a real mess.” The door closes, and I hear the chain slide away. In my ears, I hear a high-pitched squeal—like a malfunctioning microphone.
The door creaks open. And there we are, face to face.
His mouth drops open. “What the fuck are you doing here?”
“What do you think!” I pull out the cuffs, grab his arm, and lock one around his right wrist.
He yanks his arm away, and the cuffs fly out of my reach. “What the fuck are you doing?”
“You robbed me! Citizen’s arrest! You have the right to remain silent…” I growl and shove him on the chest. He steps back further into the room and lifts his cuffed hand high into the air above my head. Now he’s got this shit-eating grin on his face that infuriates me. I leap up for his hand, but he’s just too freaking tall.
“Anything you say can…” I say, and leap up again. My flats slap on the ground as I land. “… And will be used…” I jump higher, scrambling for his wrist.
This is the world’s most infuriating game of keep away. Ever. And he’s winning. By sheer height. And now he’s laughing at me a little.
I’m going to strangle him. I am. “I hate you, Vince Whatever Your Name Is…” Jumping up on the bed, I manage to snag the cuff from the air. I grip it tight.
“Fuck. You’re a piece of work,” he says. He wraps his free arm around me and lifts me off the bed. His bicep is huge against my back, his hand enormous on my waist. He takes the breath right out of my lungs. “You know you don’t fucking hate me,” he says. My breasts compress against his body, and he thrusts his hips into mine.
“I do hate you. So much,” I say.
But God, he smells so good. He looks so good.
I hate…how much I want him.
It’s then that he flashes those dimples. Those dimples, they paralyze me. “Missed you, Peaches,” he growls.
>
That’s when I feel a cold pressure on my wrist.
Click.
It can’t be.
I look down.
“Welcome home,” he laughs.
He’s cuffed himself.
To me.
Ass!
10
I wish I could say that I was as calm as a stone-cold motherfucker when I saw her at the door. I wish I could say I was pissed off that here she was, fucking up my plans again. I wish I could say that in the last six hours I managed to forget her. And her honey eyes. And her fucking moans. But I didn’t. I haven’t even fucking showered because I couldn’t bring myself to wash her off me.
Fortunately, I don’t have to.
Because now she’s stuck with me for real.
I kick the door shut with my boot.
She yanks my arm, grits her teeth, and roars like a tiny lion as she tries to free her hand from the cuff. “I hate you! I do!” She hunches down over the cuff and tries to drive her fingers into the gap by her wrist bone, like she’ll be able to just pull the cuff apart. She probably looks exactly like that when she’s trying to open a jar of pickles.
I just calmly walk over to the bed and sit down. She’s got no choice but to follow me. The Chihuahua has to stick with the Rottweiler if they’re chained together. Simple physics.
Thank God for simple fucking physics.
I watch her try to contort her hand through the cuff. “That won’t work.” I turn up the volume on Wheel of Fortune. “Believe me. Tried it once outside Trenton.” I stretch out on the bed. “You’re not a natural-born criminal.”
The puzzle reveals itself on the screen. “I GOT YOU BABE.”
“Neither are you, car thief!” she hisses. I put one hand behind my head on the pillows. The other hand is stretched out into the air. She grunts and sits down on the other double bed, our hands dangling together in front of the bedside table. Her shorts are a mess. She’s a mess. Hair everywhere. Sunburnt. Cute as ever. I pretend to pay no attention. One of the contestants lands on $1000.
“You led me right to you, you know that?” she says, all triumphant. “Right. To. You!”
Then it hits me what she’s talking about and I turn to face her. “Wait, you use one of those parking apps? You and all the old ladies with Alzheimer’s?”
She growls and actually shows me all of her teeth without opening her mouth. She’s like a little zoo right now. I think there’s some kind of monkey that makes that face. Saw a documentary on film night when I was in jail. She stands up again and yanks my arm hard.
“Jesus. You’re going to dislocate your shoulder,” I say, just to goad her.
“I’ll dislocate your shoulder! Asshole!”
I stand up from the bed. I take a step towards her and she steps away, towards the television.
I edge closer to her and she backs up. “Don’t you dare pull that shit on me,” she says, waving a finger in my face. “I’m wise to you, Casanova.”
“Now we’re talking,” I say through a laugh. “Casanova, huh?” She collides with the plastic waste bin but keeps moving away from me.
“Yeah. Casafreakingnova.”
“Don’t tell me you didn’t love it.”
“You robbed me, you asshole!”
“Casanova wasn’t a robber, beautiful,” I say. I back her right up against the wall. “He was a lover. Just like me.”
She straightens her neck as if to get farther away from me. It has the secondary effect of really doing awesome things to her cleavage. The light over here is dim and unflattering from a high-efficiency bulb in the lamp, but she’s still damned beautiful.
“I know I’m an asshole,” I say. I bring my face closer to hers. She gives me a sassy cheek. So into her ear, I say, “That’s my fucking jam.”
Her words come out slow, still angry, and pointed at the door. “I don’t like your jam.”
I can smell her sweat. I fucking love that smell. I’m the one who made her sweaty, I’m the one who got her sunburnt. I’m the one who’s gotten her so wound up. Which is so fucking hot.
I run my nose down her cheek. “I think you do like my jam.”
Using my cuffed hand, I pin her wrist to the wall with a thump. She gives me the other cheek. As she turns her face, my lips brush hers. “Don’t you dare touch me,” she says.
“If you’re gonna say it, say it like you mean it.”
She swallows. I hear her breath get caught in her throat.
With my thumb, I trace her lifeline on her palm. Her fingers relax just a little.
“I do mean it.”
“I don’t think you do.”
I can see her heartbeat in her neck. I lean down and put my tongue to her pulse. Her skin is salty and sweaty. I suck hard on her neck, but not hard enough to leave a mark.
A moan escapes before she can stop it. “I should hate you right now,” she says.
I pull away. “If you were done with me, you’d have called the cops already.”
Her head thunks against the wall. I get my boots right to the edges of her little flats. Her feet are tiny and adorable, but I see angry red marks where the flats have given her blisters.
“Let me massage those pretty feet.”
“That’s your fault, you know. I had to walk miles.”
“That’s what I’m saying.” I bring my free hand down along her rib cage.
There’s just a hint of a smile in the corner of her mouth. She hasn’t looked right at me yet. The wicked won’t be forgiven so fast. Her ponytail flattens out behind her head, and one strand of her hair gets caught on a seam in the wallpaper. She blinks. She is pissed. But I don’t blame her.
“Lucy,” I whisper. “I’m sorry. I am. I felt fucking miserable all day.”
“You felt miserable!” she says to the Emergency Fire Procedure posting next to her face. She’s losing the anger. I watch her cheeks rise in a bigger smile. “I’m still sticky. I met a neo-Nazi and was assaulted by a horse fly the size of a bird. That is miserable.”
“Let me clean you up.” I bring my tongue all the way up her neck on the other side and press my cock into her through my jeans. “Let me show you how sorry I am.”
“Earn it,” she says, closing her eyes. “Earn my forgiveness.”
With my free hand, I take a bobby pin from her hair. Now she looks straight at me.
“Last night was fucking spectacular,” I say. My voice, it sounds like I just got up. “Best sex I’ve ever had.”
“I’ll bet you say that to all the women you rob,” she says, nibbling on her lip. “All the hundreds and hundreds. I think I’ve seen your face at the post office, on a wanted poster.”
“Fuck you,” I say, and touch my tongue to her ear.
“Fuck you right back,” she snaps. And finally, fucking finally, gives me that smile of hers.
I turn the bobby pin over in my fingers. “Who says I didn’t want you to find me?” I ask. “Who said I didn’t let you find me?”
With wide eyes, she searches my face to see if I’m lying. “You’re joking.”
I lower my head and rough up the soft skin of her throat with my stubble. “Where’d you get the cuffs?” I ask.
Her breathing quivers on the inhale. I’m making progress. But then she says, “Your parole officer.”
I almost choke on that one. “You’re pretty nasty, you know that?”
“And you’re Mr. Manners.”
I have to kiss her. I can’t stand it. So I chance it. Even though it’s hot as shit outside, the inside of her mouth is like a cold glass of water. At first, she doesn’t let me in very far. But when I press my tongue between her teeth and drive my body against hers harder, she gives up. Gives in. Into my mouth, she whimpers. God yes, that whimper. I’ll take a double whimper and an extra shot of Oh Vince.
With the uncuffed hand, I take the bobby pin between two fingers and drag it up her stomach under her shirt. Up and down, down and up. All the time, she’s watching and almost trembling, I move her shirt up
a little higher, and she helps—holding it up with her chin pressed against her chest.
“Going to unlock us?” she says, glancing at the bobby pin. Her mascara is a little smudged, and there are creases in her eye shadow.
I open the end of the bobby pin around my finger. I take her right nipple from her bra and suck on it. Then I let the open end of the pin hover over her breast. “I’ve got something else in mind.”
On the bed now, she squirms as I pinch her nipple in the bobby pin. I lick her rippled, pinched skin, and she hisses. “Yes, please,” she says, almost in a whisper.
I position my leg between her shorts. I can smell her wetness. “I need to taste you.”
Her head shifts against the pillows, finding its way to the depression where my head was five minutes ago. “I’m filthy.”
“That’s exactly how I want you.”
She smiles and laughs a little at the ceiling. “I’ll bet I’ve still got some of your cum inside me, you know.”
Awww fuck. I bear down on her pinched nipple with my teeth. Her hand thumps my chest.
I let go immediately. “Too much?” My chin brushes the underside of her breast.
“God no,” she gasps and pulls me in again, holding me close by the back of my neck.
The ways she touches me, it’s just like she looks at me. She grips me hard, a little nasty, but she moves her hands carefully. Warmly. Like right now, I’m torturing her a little, but she’s fucking caressing my hair so sweetly it makes me ache. So fucking caring, it gets me right where it hurts. Right where nobody’s ever gotten me before.
I pull my mouth away, and her rib cage comes right up off the bed as her body begs me for more.
So I take another bobby pin from her hair, and her big eyes follow it in front of her face. I grind my pelvis into hers, and the cheap mattress springs back at me under my knee.
I tighten up her other nipple with kisses, licks, and soft streams of air, and then, gripping her breast in my hand, holding her nipple steady between thumb and forefinger, I clamp her with the second pin. She inhales hard and fast, and then drives her hips into mine.
Confessed Page 9
