Page 59 of Sinful Promises

“So, it’s walking distance?”

“Oh, sure.”

“Thanks.”

Outside again, I strangled the handle of my case and strode so fast up the bitumen my tits pounded from side to side like giant, dueling exercise balls. At the end of the driveway, I turned onto a road that had streetlights stretching as far as I could see.

Five minutes later, sweat was oozing from my armpits. Ten minutes later, I was cursing Pa Kettle and his ‘Oh sure’ like he was the devil. Fifteen minutes later, I was contemplating taking my chances with one of the many homes that lined the street and seeing if they’d let me stay for the night. Thirty minutes later, I wanted to die.

If there were no available rooms in that motel, I’d kill someone for their bed. I needed a shower, food, and about thirty hours sleep. Even then I wasn’t sure I’d feel normal.

Then again. What the fuck was normal?

I was so far from anything normal; I didn’t know who I was anymore.

Like an oasis to my nightmare, the motel appeared out of nowhere, and I just about wept at the flickering rooms available sign.

The reception at Southern Beach Motor Inn was manned by a pimply-faced teenager who was chewing a giant wad of purple gum. But when he said that there was indeed a room available, I still wanted to kiss him. Lucky for him, there was clear Perspex between us.

I hauled myself along the covered walkway, turned the key to room seven, and strode inside. It was small but clean and it was all I needed.

Confirming the door was locked and all the curtains were shut, I grabbed the information book, hoping to find a pizza-delivery service nearby.

It was my lucky night. I ordered a large supreme pizza, garlic bread, two cans of ginger beer, and a tub of double-chocolate ice cream. The lady on the phone confirmed my order would be there in twenty minutes.

I used the break to strip off and jump into the shower.

Feeling refreshed, I dressed and stared at the clock, counting down the minutes till my meal arrived.

They were right on time.

The pizza was nothing like the pizzas I’d had in Italy. The Italians made pizzas that were light on topping, usually limiting it to three or four ingredients. This pizza was loaded with meat and vegetables and lots and lots of cheese.

I missed Italy already. I fought my next thought like it was a boa constrictor around my head, but the bloody thing still squeezed out of me . . . I missed Roman. I missed him so much I could barely do anything without it reminding me of him. I wanted to dive into my brain and scrape every image of Roman out, like a memory reset.

But it could never be. Visions of him and his perfect smile and perfect hair and perfect ass were there, in my brain. He was the last vision I saw when I went to bed at night, and he was right back in my mind when I inhaled my first morning breath.

What am I going to do?

I’d eaten half the pizza before I settled back on the pillow, undid the top button of my shorts, and rang Zali.

“Hey. You’re alive.”

It was so nice to hear her voice. “Yeah, sorry I didn’t ring this morning. I went straight to the hospital.”

“Is the bitch still kicking?”

I huffed. “Yep.”

“Damn.”

For the next twenty minutes, as I drank the ginger beer and finished off the pizza, I told her all about my visit with Mother.

“She’s a piece of work. I can’t believe she admitted the orgy. I thought for sure she would have denied it.”

“I know. But her reaction was weird. And I’m pretty sure there’s something worse than that, that she doesn’t want me finding out.”

“Worse? What could be worse?”

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