by Dori Lavelle
Despite most of my body being covered by trash bags, if he looks closely he’ll see me, especially since I’m trembling with fear. Luckily he retches and lets the lid fall back into place. I send up a silent prayer of thanks.
He steps away from the dumpster and I hear him open the kitchen door. At least, I think it’s him. To be on the safe side, I stay put. Good thing my nose has somewhat adjusted.
Perhaps I’m alone again, but if I climb out of the dumpster and over the wall now, there’s no guarantee Damien won’t be waiting on the other side. As I allow the time to pass, I think about what I’m sitting in, and my stomach turns. My mouth fills with saliva, and before I can do anything to stop it, I turn my head to the side and throw up. The bitter and sour taste makes my eyes water, but I blink away the tears.
Disgusting smells have nothing on Damien Steel. I’ll remain hidden as long as it takes me to feel safe enough to climb out.
Several times, a kitchen staff member enters the yard and dumps more garbage into my dumpster. I don’t make a sound as new piles of food bury my body. Half an hour later, I hear multiple voices, then movement around my dumpster. Something scrapes the ground, and I know it’s the chair being moved. They must have come out for a smoke. They don’t say much, but I feel their presence and hear their sighs of exhaustion.
Finally, the people leave the yard. As the kitchen door opens, I don’t hear any loud sounds spilling out like before. Perhaps the dinner rush is over. Damien could even have left the restaurant by now. I imagine the presence of the big boss would naturally keep people on their toes.
I wonder whether Damien and Adrian are combing the entire hotel for me now. After working so hard to keep me imprisoned, there’s no way he’ll give up easily. He’s fueled by obsession. Despite being far from safe, I allow a tiny smile to creep across my face.
I wait for at least another hour. Inertia starts to set in. My eyes grow heavy and my body aches with every small movement. I have to do something soon. Although I feel safer in the dumpster than out there in the open, I can’t remain in here the entire night. Whoever comes to empty the dumpsters will surely discover me.
Damien could have instructed the hotel staff to keep their eyes open and alert him if they see me. The safest option would be to distance myself from Hotel Sierra, from Damien’s property. Despite the desire to get moving, I decide to wait a little longer, maybe another hour, to give the kitchen staff ample time to finish up with dinner and for Damien to leave.
I fall asleep without planning to and am jerked awake by something warm and sticky being poured into my dumpster. The person leaves the lid open and returns to the kitchen. I point my nose up at the starry sky and inhale deeply of the fresh air. After a few more minutes, I push my cramped legs out and rise.
I gather as much garbage as I can underneath my feet, creating a small mountain that will enable me to reach the rim. Without the chair waiting for me on the other side, I might have to throw myself out of the dumpster, but a little fall won’t do me much harm.
I pause. There are no more sounds coming from the kitchen.
Pulling myself over the rim, I’m surprised to find the chair I thought had been moved still in the place where I left it. Luck is on my side tonight; I won’t blow it. I make it to the ground and take a quick glance through the kitchen window. There are only two people in there now. The one with the chef’s hat is wiping down the counter, back turned away from the window. The other one is standing in front of an open fridge, jotting something on a clipboard.
Wasting no time, I hurry back to the wall. My clothes, skin, and hair are all damp, sticky, and smelly. With the help of the chair, I scramble on top of a closed dumpster, praying it won’t tip over. Once or twice, I slip in the slime covering my feet, but I catch myself in time.
I stretch my upper body over the wall and look down at the other side. My eyes scan the empty street. Several cars are parked on the curb, none of them expensive. They can’t belong to Damien. But of course, I might be mistaken; he could be hiding inside any of them.
What other choice do I have? I have to get moving before I get caught.
I make it onto the top of the wall without catching the attention of the remaining staff. My fall to the ground is hard, and I hit the pavement with my shoulder and hip at a painful angle. I’m glad I was careful to keep my head raised—a concussion is the last thing I need right now.
Ignoring the pain in my joints, I pull myself up to my feet. Grabbing my shoulder, I limp away as fast as I can. Soon the pain becomes a part of me, and I start to run, glancing behind me several times.
I come across a homeless man slumped next to a closed café. He gives me a suspicious look. I must look a sight with my dirty clothes and disheveled hair. Little does he know I’m just as homeless as he is.
I consider giving him my rings as a gift, since I no longer have a use for them and never wanted them in the first place. But it would be foolish. If I want to get out of this town, this country, I’ll need money. And these rings are valuable.
I move on, running faster. Several cars drive by, but I’m too terrified to hail one and ask for help. Damien could be anywhere.
I turn a corner onto another street, which leads me down a dark, narrow alley. The fear of someone attacking me freezes my blood, but being held prisoner by Damien for the rest of my life wins out. Who knows what he’ll do if he gets me back? He threatened to kill me once already.
I stay away from busy streets and from nighttime passersby. I stick to the shadows—alleys, and sidewalks with broken or dying street lamps. Some of the people I come across try to talk to me, at times begging for money. Others barely acknowledge me. Some even recoil. I’m a skunk, keeping enemies away with my stench.
After a while, I spot a beaten-up pickup truck with peeling paint parked at a gas station. The man I suspect to be the owner is inside the gas station store, flipping open his wallet.
I hesitate a moment before hunching over and hurrying toward the truck. Pushing my fear to the back of my mind, I climb into the open back and cover myself with a faded gray blanket that smells of stinky feet. Though, the smell could just as well be coming from me.
I wedge myself into a corner of the truck bed and curl myself up as tightly as possible, the way I did in the dumpster. I need this man to drive me somewhere far away. Damien will expect me to be on foot.
I count the seconds, waiting for the driver to return. At last, I hear heavy boots hitting the ground. Something hard is thrown into the back, hitting me on the ankle, the one with the bracelet. I grit my teeth to stave off the pain and prevent myself from crying out. A few loud heartbeats later, the driver’s door slams shut.
The engine sputters before roaring to life. Then the truck rumbles under me, jerks, and starts moving. I laugh silently as tears of relief leak from the corners of my eyes.
Chapter Twenty-Three
I place a hand on my abdomen and suck in a breath.
We’ve been on the road for at least fifteen minutes—a good thing, as it puts more distance between me and the Hotel. If only I didn’t need to urinate so desperately. My bladder is protesting and the truck shows no signs of coming to a stop. Doesn’t this town have any traffic lights?
When the truck comes to a halt, I almost cry out with relief. I’m so ready to get out.
We must be near the sea, because I can hear the sound of waves crashing.
Careful not to be seen in the rearview mirror, I lift my head a few inches, expecting to find cars lined up at a traffic light. My heart drops.
The few cars behind us are parked on the curb in front of one-story brick houses with carpets of manicured lawns in front. This is no temporary stop.
Faced with worse problems, I ignore my bladder. I’d banked on getting off the truck before the driver made it to his final destination.
I haul the blanket over my head, leaving a small opening for my eyes. To my horror, the lights in the house we’re parked in front of go on, and the door open
s. A pregnant woman appears in the doorway. Next to her stands a boy of about two or three.
The driver’s door squeaks open and I shrink lower into the bed of the truck.
My eyes are wide open under the blanket, my heartbeats counting the seconds before something happens. Maybe he’ll go straight into the house without coming around to the back of the truck. That would give me plenty of time to clear out. My mind is too much of a mess for me to consider an alternative.
The driver shouts something in Spanish and the woman in the doorway responds with laughter. I squeeze my eyes tight when his footsteps move to the back of the truck.
There’s a commotion near my feet; he must be reaching for whatever object he threw into the truck at the gas station, the one that struck my ankle. The space around me empties as he removes more things from around me. I feel a quick tug, and then my safety blanket is yanked clean from my body.
For the first time since we started our drive together, our eyes meet. He’s somewhere in his late twenties, with a goatee and a bushy ponytail. The expression on his face rapidly transforms from shock to confusion.
I raise a hand to show him I mean no harm. I want to say something, to explain, but fear won’t let go of my throat, making it difficult to get any words out.
“¿Quién eres?” he asks. Despite my limited Spanish, I understand the question.
I swallow hard to open up my throat. “My name is Ivy. Ivy Hollifield. I—”
“What you want?” he asks in English.
“A ride… that’s all. I just needed a ride. My husband is after me. He’s dangerous.” Maybe this man and his family can offer me shelter. “I need help.”
The man lowers his gaze to my other hand, the one stretched out next to my body. My fingers are wrapped around the knife I stole from the hotel. One half of the blade is covered by the dish towel, and the exposed area is glinting in the light of the moon and streetlamps. I cover it up but it’s too late.
“Fuera de aquí!” His voice is edged with ice. I don’t understand the words, but his body language conveys his meaning perfectly. He’s not going to give me a chance to explain. He must believe I’m some kind of criminal. I don’t blame him.
I scramble to my feet, and without giving him a chance to do or say anything else, I climb over the edge of the truck bed.
“I’m sorry.” My voice is smothered in tears. Then I scamper off into the night.
As I weave my way through the streets of an unknown town late at night, a pebble digs into the sole of my foot. It’s not the first. I wince but continue walking. I wish I hadn’t forgotten my shoes in the dumpster. Then again, how far would stilettos have been able to get me?
I have no idea where I’m going, or what awaits me at the next corner. But I can’t stop now. I need to find a place to hide, to rest.
I run my hands up and down my arms, creating friction to warm my skin. The balmy air has cooled. I crave a hot shower more than anything.
After walking down the deserted street past several closed shops, I spot a liquor store. A muscular woman with pigtails is squeezed into the doorway, smoking a cigarette. The smoke curls around her face. She blows out another puff of smoke, and to my surprise, gives me a small wave.
Talking to a stranger is risky, but I need help, unless I plan on spending the entire night walking.
“Hello.” I take a few timid steps toward her. “Do you speak English?”
She gives me a toothless grin. “Inglés... un poco.” She tosses her cigarette onto the ground and crushes it with the tip of her snakeskin boot. She’s a strange-looking woman, no older than thirty, with big muscles and pink ribbons in her hair. Her nails are also painted bright pink. But who am I to judge?
“Can you help me, please?”
“I help you.” She doesn’t take a step back, isn’t repulsed by my smell. She stretches out a hand and I shake it, tears flooding my throat. She might just be bored and in need of someone to talk to, but her small gesture of kindness means everything to me.
“Is there a motel around here?” I take my time with each word to ensure she catches everything I’m saying.
“Motel?” The woman places a finger on her pink lips.
“Yes, a motel.” I bring my palms together and press the side of my head against my hands. “For sleeping.”
“Aaaah.” Understanding dawns in her eyes. “Motel. Yes, yes. I know motel.”
Given the language barrier, it takes about ten minutes for her to explain to me where the motel is located, and I’m still confused.
A simple solution crosses my mind. “A map. Do you have one?”
She blinks at me.
“Mapa?” I’m not sure I’m making sense, but her eyes brighten, and she nods and holds up a hand. She disappears into her shop and returns with a folded map.
Things are smooth after that. She invites me into her shop and finds a pen. I watch over her broad shoulders as she draws circles and lines on the map.
I also ask her where the police station is, and she circles that too.
The distance between the liquor store and the police station seems shorter, so I decide to try and get a bed for the night first. If I do, I’ll go to the police station in the morning. All I can think of now is getting a shower and some sleep.
I thank the woman for her help. Before we part ways, she lets me use her bathroom and gives me a can of soda for the road. She tells me her name is Marissa. I tell her mine and say goodbye.
The motel is closer than I thought, no more than fifteen minutes from Marissa’s store.
When I finally reach the front door, my body collapses against it, pushing it open.
Chapter Twenty-Four
The lobby is dark and musty, decorated with dusty fake plants in the corners.
Someone is reading a newspaper behind the counter, which has a cross engraved into the blond wood.
As I approach, the paper lowers to reveal a thin, unsmiling face. I guess him to be no older than twenty-five. Round, dark eyes narrow to slits as they take me in.
My stomach clenches as I wait to be turned away.
“¿Qué desea usted?” he asks in a rough voice, his lips pinched.
“I’m sorry, I don’t speak Spanish.” I lean against the counter, feigning confidence I don’t have. “Do you speak English?”
“What do you want?” Despite the thick accent infused with irritation, his English seems good.
“I need a room. Do you have a vacancy?”
His gaze travels from my dirty, stringy hair, over my filthy clothes, then down to my bare feet before returning to my face. “You smell bad.”
“I know.” I’m beyond feeling offended. “I had a rough night. Please, I need a room for the night.”
“Do you have money?” His tone tells me he doesn’t believe I do.
I bite my bottom lip, but release it when I taste a mixture of sweet and sour. All kinds of rotten food must be sticking to my lips, along with my dried-up vomit.
I decide to be honest again. “No.” I tighten my hands around my can of soda, my sole possession at the moment. The sound of metal against the can draws my attention.
I lower my gaze to my fingers and look back at the man, smiling. “I have this.”
Placing the can on the counter next to a stack of folded newspapers, I remove the wedding band Damien gave me a few days ago, drawing it away from the diamond ring now caked with dirt.
I use my thumb to wipe some of the dirt from the band and hold it up to the man.
“If you give me a room, you can have this.” I refrain from telling him about my psychopathic husband. I don’t want him thinking I might bring trouble. Right now, I’m just a homeless woman in need of a place to stay.
The man attempts to take the ring, but I move it out of his reach. I won’t risk letting him take it only to kick me out of his motel with nothing.
“Can I have the room? I’m sure this ring is worth more than a night here. Maybe thousands.”
I
have no idea of the ring’s true value, but I find it hard to believe that Damien would give me a cheap wedding band. In the morning, I’ll find a way to sell the diamond ring for money, hopefully enough to get me out of town.
Licking his bottom lip, he narrows his eyes at the dirty diamond ring, points at it with a thick finger. “Give me that one.”
“No.” I start to put the wedding band back on my finger, to scare him into thinking I’m about to walk away.
“Fine, fine,” he grunts. “Give it to me.”
“Give me a key.” I stretch out my hand, my chin raised in confidence.
He rises from his chair, clears his throat, and reaches into a drawer. He pulls out a key and places it in my palm. “Room number ten.” The moment I wrap my fingers around the rusty key, he holds out his hand. “Payment please.”
I hesitate. “Actually, this ring could be worth a couple thousand dollars at least. It’s worth more than one night.”
His shoulders slump forward slightly. “How long?”
“I’ll know tomorrow. I need you to promise that I can keep the key for as long as I need the room. Two days, maybe three.” I don’t want to spend more than one more night in this town, but I still have no idea what tomorrow will bring.
“Give me the ring. You can stay two nights.” He holds up two fingers.
I’m in no position to argue further, so I take the deal. If I have my way, I’ll be long gone before two days are up.
The man takes me to room number ten and orders me to leave it as clean as I found it. Before he goes back to the lobby, I ask him a few questions about how to get to the nearest big town. He tells me it’s Guadalajara, and there’s a train that goes there once a day. I thank him and he grins at me, happy to have gotten his hands on my ring.
He thinks he got the better deal. In my opinion, we both got something of worth.
Chapter Twenty-Five
The room is simple, with a single bed, a stained rug, a lamp, and a small desk with one chair pushed under it. Apart from an old clock on the wall above the desk, there isn’t much else—no plants, pictures, or even a curtain at the window. But it’s my safe haven for now.
