Page 50 of Female Fantasy
He snorts. “I doubt I’ll be able to sleep after a night like this.”
“Tough shit. You’ll need the energy. You’re no good to me grumpy.”
“I’m always grumpy,” he mutters, the corners of his lips tugging upward.
My heart does that twisting thing again.
We grab our bags and begin the trek over to the motel, walking on the side of the highway like two nomadic travelers in a coming-of-age film. Every once in a while, I’m startled by the sound of brakes behind me, convinced that Clarisse and Thomas have found us. That we’ll be forced into the trunk of a brand-new car and shuttled somewhere no one will ever find our bodies. But it’s always just a passing delivery truck or late-night road-tripper.
“Here, switch places with me.”
Nico moves past me so that he’s walking on my left side instead of my right, closer to the road. Keeping a lookout.
Ensuring that, if push comes to shove, he’ll take the brunt of a hit.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
“Don’t worry about it,” he says.
I didn’t realize Nico fancied himself a gentleman.
All at once, every hair on my body stands up straight.
Because this?
This is something Ryke would do.
“You don’t have to do that, you know,” I tell him. “I can take care of myself.”
“I know,” he says quietly. “But just because you can doesn’t mean you should have to.”
The Lonely Hearts Motel stands proudly near exit 17 on I-95, its bubblegum-pink paint chipped all over. The motel is two stories tall, stretching along the highway. Its railings are slanted, nails hanging loose, a single storm away from falling over. There’s a latched gate leading to a pool out back, which is littered with cigarette butts and crumbling leaves. The neon sign features an ace of hearts playing card and two flamingos kissing, leaning on one another for support.
We step inside and ring the bell.
A woman in her late thirties comes rushing out of the back, her eyes red from working the night shift and crusted with melted mascara. There’s a plastic fork stuck in her messy bun and a crease on her left cheek. She’s speaking loudly on the phone in Mandarin.
“Hello, ma’am,” Nico says.
Her eyes flit over to his before she returns to her call, flat-out ignoring him.
Nico sighs, exasperated.
“Can you please hang up the phone and help us?” I ask in near-perfect Mandarin.
Behind me, I hear the sound of Nico choking on his own spit.
I smirk. I knew all those lessons would come in handy one day.
The woman’s pierced brow flies up, but she clicks a button and places her cell on the counter. Then she takes in ourdisheveled appearance and the matching red marks on our wrists and grins, unfazed.
“Long night?” She tucks a curl behind her ear.
“Something like that,” I grumble. “We need two rooms, please.”
“Two? That a kink of yours or something?”
Nico starts coughing.
