Page 5 of The Prodigal

He and I have very different definitions of debt. “Then you should know that should you act on collecting that debt, you think I owe, I will call the police. Then we’ll see whose definition they agree with.”

Fucker. He doesn’t scare me. He’s just her dumb pawn—and I’m tired.

I’m tired of her.

I’m tired of him.

I’m tired of freaking Georgia. All I want is a fresh start and a new life, where pity and vengeance don’t follow me.

A light chuckle has me gripping the phone tighter. “Okay, Eden. If this is how you want to play it. I’ll see you soon, sweetheart.” The line goes dead, and I just sit there, staring at the phone in my hand.

Argh!

I don’t hate many people, but that man, and the woman he works for, are at the top of my list. Never have I seen anyone as selfish as they both are. They are the scum of the planet, but I can’t escape them. Because as much as I hate it, these selfish assholesaremy parents.

The bell on the door startles me, and I drop the phone, spinning around to find a delivery guy with a bag of food. “This is the Midnight Gardens Motel, right?” He turns up his nose, like he hopes it isn’t.

“Yeah, but I didn’t order food.” Let’s not keep him any longer than he wants.

“No, you didn’t,” he says. “A Remington Potter did.”

Of course, it’s our resident diva. “He’s in Room 101.”

“Perfect. Thanks.” He sets the food on the counter, and before I can ask him what the hell he’s doing, he walks out and drives away, leaving me to deal with the diva’s dinner.

“Great. As if this night couldn’t get any worse,” I mumble to myself, opening the bag and finding BBQ ribs and wedge fries. Mmm. They smell expensive and filling, not like the ramen noodles I scarfed down earlier.

I eye the fries and then the window, noting the chain-smoker absent from his blessed chair. He won’t notice one fry missing, right? I mean, it’s the least he could do after going through my purse earlier and staring at me for the past hour.

The more I think about it, the more I agree with myself. Mr. Potter can share. After all, it’s for a worthy cause. I could have given him Room 102, which smells like feet and baby pee. I’ll consider it a tip.

Grabbing the bag, I take it behind the desk, where I put the phone back on the cradle and settle into my own chair for the next episode ofSeventy-Two Hours, a true crime show that I can’t seem to get enough of.

I don’t know how long I watch before the phone rings again, but this time, it’s not an outside number. It’s Room 101.

I glance down at the bag in my lap. All the ribs are there, but there’s only one fry left.

Shit.

I’ve eaten all of this hateful man’s fries, but it’s fine. It’s fine. I’m sure once I explain, he’ll be chivalrous and laugh, saying he didn’t need the carbs anyway.

I think of the scowl he wore earlier when he spoke to me… Yeah, that’s not going to happen.

I pick up the phone, and he doesn’t let me get through the usual greeting before he clips, “Did my food get delivered to the desk?”

I could lie. I could say no, but he probably wouldn’t be asking me if he didn’t already know. He likely tracked the delivery. “It did. I was just about to call you.”

He makes this scoff-like noise. “The app says it was delivered fifteen minutes ago.”

“Well,” I snap, “maybe you should have walked over here fifteen minutes ago. What do I look like? Your server?”

Just who the hell does this man think he is—the line goes dead, and I turn, just in time to see him throwing open his door and stalking across the parking lot.

Crap.

I eye the last fry and decide it’ll be too suspicious if I leave it. It’s easier to claim they left it out of his order than to say they only gave him one. He doesn’t seem like the gullible type. Well, he doesn’t seem like the forgiving type either, but I chew and swallow anyway, just as he reaches the door with that haughty frown.

“Here you go, sir,” I say tightly, trying to swallow the last bit of potato and smile.

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