Page 35 of Overdose
I reach for my soda can on the nightstand.
Empty.
I shake it, like maybe it’s lying to me, but no. Just a faint fizz and a mocking rattle. My stomach growls like it wants to fight me. It’s past two a.m.—too late for DashDrop. Which means I have to do the unthinkable: leave the room. Interact with air. Move.
Groaning, I sit up, pushing off the thin blanket. The AC unit kicks and sputters like it’s coughing up its last breath. I dig through my duffel and throw on a cropped black tank top—tight, ribbed, no bra—and a pair of sweatpant shorts, rolled at the waist to show a little more thigh than necessary. Not for anyone. Just because it makes me feel less like a corpse.
My hair hangs around my face in beachy waves that toe the line between perfect and chaos—purple streaks tangled in pink, like cotton candy left in a hurricane. I slide my feet into the cheap black flip-flops I grabbed from a gas station when I first got into town. One of the toe posts is about to snap, but they’ve held out this long. Good enough for a midnight soda run.
I grab my wallet and keycard off the table, then tug open the door, stepping out into the muggy night. The motel lot is quiet, the air thick with the scent of salt and stale smoke. Fluorescent lights buzz overhead, casting everything in a sickly glow. I head toward the vending machines outside the main office, where a rotting wooden picnic table sits off to the side—the unofficial smoking lounge for the working girls when they’re not scoping out a John.
I fish a couple of bills from my wallet, smoothing one against the machine. It eats it without complaint. I punch in the code for a Coke, listening to the clunk and rattle of gears before the can drops into the tray.
That’s when I hear voices.
Low. Male. Serious.
I glance toward the parking lot and freeze.
Dagger.
Standing near the picnic table, mid-conversation with two guys I don’t recognize, he looks exactly how I remember him only sharper, darker. Like the night’s wrapped around him, coiled tight.
He’s in a black leather jacket that clings to broad shoulders, worn but expensive-looking, paired with a hoodie pulled up just enough to cast his face in shadow. Ripped black jeans hang low on his hips, and the stitching on his thigh spells something in jagged, gothic lettering I can’t quite make out. Combat boots laced tight, splattered in something that might be mud… or might be blood. And his hands—those inked-up fingers twitch like they’ve been itching for violence all night.
The second he sees me, the whole energy shifts. One flick of his gaze, and the other two melt into the shadows like they were never really there. He says something under his breath to them—low and clipped—then jerks his chin. They scatter like they know better than to argue.
Then he starts toward me.
God. That walk. Confident, cocky, slow like he’s got all the time in the world and he already knows I’ll give it to him.
I blink and suddenly I’m back there.
Up against a brick wall. His mouth on mine. His fingers tangled in my hair. That kiss, brutal and breathless, like he wanted to punish me with it. Like he could fuck me apart with just his tongue and the weight of his body pressing me into cold stone.
I can still feel the scrape of the wall against my back. Still hear the low growl in his throat when I whimpered.
Now he’s walking toward me like he’s ready to prove it again, and I’m not sure if I want to run… or beg for a repeat.
Every nerve in my body lights up. My skin prickles, heart tight. His eyes are locked on mine like he already owns the rest of me.
“Well, well,” he says, voice low and full of that maddening swagger. “Look who crawled out of her cave.”
I cock a brow, roll my eyes. “What? Vending machines your new office now?”
My gaze flicks over him, uninvited but automatic. Same lethal calm, same smug mouth. But there’s a bruise along his jaw now—dark, swollen, ugly. Like someone clocked him good.
“Here for information,” he says.
“On how to be less of a dick?” I pop the vending machine glass open, grab my Coke. “Because judging by the shiner, I’m guessing one of your junkies already gave you some feedback.”
His grin is lazy, unbothered. Doesn't answer. Just lets the tension sit there between us, thick as the humidity curling around my ankles.
“You could’ve picked a better place to crash,” he says, voice dipping. “This spot’s a goddamn dive.”
I glance around at the flickering overhead light, the busted security cam swinging on one sad wire, the peeling stucco walls stained with god-knows-what. The whole place looks like it spawned straight out of a cutscene inGrand Theft Auto: Hooker Edition.
“What, you got beef with the ambiance?” I deadpan. “Or is it just the hookers?”
