Page 19 of Lovers Fate

My gaze drops to his hand. “Hold that thought.” I turn around, knowing he’s going to check out my ass, and I ignore thesmirks from his other two friends as I walk past them to the exit. “I’ll be sure to ask Simon what he thinks when you show him.”

“I’ll make sure he watches when I take you from behind,” Zack spits, making me want to throw up. “I’m not a faggot.”

“Could’ve fooled me, Zack,” I shoot back. “And I don’t believe people use that word anymore. And it’s okay to be gay. I heard for a guy, it feels good.” I glance at his two friends and then back. “As for me, I don’t play with little boys.” I scrunch my nose before walking out. “It’s not my thing.”

Prick.They should make room in the psych unit for assholes like him.

I take the stairs, not trusting the elevator. It looks like a death trap.

I stand on the landing, prepared to take the next step. I glance toward the office and watch Zack, through the window, pull Simon’s hair from the back of his head and shove his other hand in Simon’s jean pocket, pulling out the one-hundred-dollar bill and stuffing it in his own front pocket of his jeans.

“It’s not my problem,” I mutter to myself.

Drawing attention to myself by calling the cops from my room is not a smart move. Anyway, it’s not like they would believe me once the cops ran my name and figured out who I was. I have a record and history in this town.

Simon needs to stick up for himself.

I slide the key into the lock. The dank smell of mold hits me when the door swings open. It must be from the stained carpet. It looks more black than green.

The threadbare mustard-colored comforter greets me uninvitingly. The water stains on the ceiling are most likely the cause of the peeling wallpaper. When I close the door, mummified bugs reside in the top corner where the wall meets the ceiling.

I walk over and turn on the air conditioner mounted on the wall under the window. It makes a clanking noise, and then the little yellow plastic string tied to the vent blows out like a kite. I pull the curtains closed as much as possible, making sure it covers the window from all angles, ignoring the cigarette burn on one of the panels.

White noise greets me when I turn on the TV. I slap the box on the side and change the channel, but it’s nothing but static. Great, no cable. I don’t even see a flicker of a channel when I turn the knob.

“Useless,” I mutter, tossing the key on the old dresser.

Why bother leaving the TV in the room? I walk over to the bathroom, and it’s just like the rest of the place. Shitty. It looks like the bathroom you would find in the Bates motel. There is mold growing between the tiles. Green paint adorns the walls, while the brown toilet seat complements the white toilet’s wood finish. The floors are yellow with black grout lines. It’s outdated and in need of a thorough cleaning with bleach.

I’ve showered in worse places. The psych wards aren’t any better, but at least here, no one will watch me while I shower. A bath is not an option. Small flies with decapitated wings cling to the tub’s bottom. I could tell the water hasn’t been turned on in a while because the showerhead is caked in soap scum. It’s so thick, I’m not sure water can pass through the tiny holes.

I look around for a complimentary bar of soap, but all I find is a shabby piece of fabric resembling a towel. On second thought, I’m not sure the threadbare piece of fabric could be called a towel—more like a hand towel.

I turn around, walk to the nightstand, and pick up the 1970s-looking phone, hoping there’s a dial tone. When there’s none, I slam it back on the cradle, almost breaking it.

“Credit card, my ass,” I mumble.

I’m badly in need of a shower, and I hope Simon keeps complimentary soap and a spare towel at the front desk.

I grab the room key, and I’m about to head out when I hear a loud thump coming from the wall. I stare at the shabby picture frame with trees and a large cowboy boot like it’s committed a crime. Another thump causes it to rattle, followed by moans, and then another thump in rapid succession.

I open the door and slam it behind me. “You have to be fucking kidding me?”

I look left at the offending door to the next room, but a shadow at the end of the staircase on the far side of the hallway causes me to freeze. My stomach drops and my lungs seize. A man is wearing a black hoodie near the stairs. I blink, making sure I’m not seeing shit, but it’s a man. It’s impossible for a woman to be that tall and have shoulders that wide. The black hood covers his head, obscuring his face.

He doesn’t move.

The fluorescent light above starts to flicker like a strobe light, causing shadows to move across the walls. Every flicker of light, accompanied by the zapping sound of flies hitting the exposed bulb, causes my heart to race.

I’m afraid to look away and run in the opposite direction. What if he runs after me? If I go back inside my room, there is no guarantee he wouldn’t kick the door in if he wanted to. The man is huge. Whoever is in the room next to mine is too preoccupied to hear me knock on the door. I can still hear the occasional thud coming from the wall.

I take a slow step backward in the opposite direction, never breaking eye contact with the man standing in the shadows watching me. Studying me like a predator. My mouth is dry, making it difficult to swallow.

If I scream, he’ll rush me. The man in front of me is massive. You could tell he is fit by the way the black hoodie fits on hisbroad frame—tight on his chest and shoulders and loose at the waist.

I take another slow step. The parking lot is empty below. There are no cars in any of the spaces. There is no one nearby to call for assistance. Simon, the individual at the front desk, is situated at a considerable distance from me, and even if he were able to hear me, what would be his actions? Simon can’t help me. Zack and his friends are long gone.

He takes a step forward. He moves robotically, as if he is deep in thought.

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