Total pages in book: 87
Estimated words: 81328 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 407(@200wpm)___ 325(@250wpm)___ 271(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 81328 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 407(@200wpm)___ 325(@250wpm)___ 271(@300wpm)
Zero fucks.
No more fucking hugs and crying on my shoulder.
Once I’m back to the club, I’ll get my rocker respect and all the pussy I long for.
“What are we going to do about my car and stuff?” she asks, looking out the window.
“For now, we leave it. It’s too risky to go back by ourselves,” I explain, but she doesn’t respond. I’m sure they trashed her shit anyway. But I’m not going to tell her that, let her dad take care of it.
The storm is getting stronger and I can’t see anything from the heavy rain. We need to pull over for the night. Hitting the GPS on the dash, it shows that we’re in Tennessee, we’ve driven farther than I thought. I hit destination and find a hotel close by, luckily it’s right off the next exit.
Turning into the right lane with the windshield wipers at full speed, we head up the off-ramp. The area’s lit up with restaurants, hotels, and stores. The stop sign wobbles back and forth from the wind, the pole holding it up about to snap at any second. Turning left, I head to a Holiday Inn, the green lights a fucking beacon of sanctuary at this point. Speeding down the road, I turn into the drive and under the awning. The rain stops flooding the windshield, the sound of the wipers squelching as they slip across the damp glass.
“I’ll go get us some rooms. Lock the door.”
She doesn’t move or respond. Getting out, I head inside, the cool wind whips around me the smell of rain and wet concrete heavy in the air. Going inside, I go toward the front desk where a short man wearing a white button-up shirt and black top coat greets me with a fake smile. Raising my hat, I run my hand through my hair and put it back on, my boots leaving muddy prints behind me as I head across the shiny floor, the smell of chlorine from the indoor pool making my nose burn.
“How can I help you?” the short man asks, placing his hands together like a little prayer boy. His dark short hair is combed over, his eyebrows slick like he put gel on them, and face void of any facial hair.
“I need two rooms.” Pulling out my wallet from my back pocket, I notice him make a sour face.
“Oooh,” he says in an alarming tone.
“What?” My eyes searching his face for an explanation.
“Nashville is booked because of the Miranda Lambert concert. But, I did have one cancelation, so you’re in luck if you don’t mind the extra costs.”
“Extra costs? What do you mean?”
“I have a suite with one king bed. There’s an amazing jacuzzi, and view as well.” He pitches the room like it’s a vacation package to the Bahamas. Resting my elbows on the counter, I drop my head into my hands. Not only do Delilah and I have to share a room, but it’s also a fucking suite with a jacuzzi. Suites are for single men with money or passionate couples. Jesus Christ, this just keeps getting better and better.
“Great…” I deadpan, hoping Shadow doesn’t get wind of this. “We’ll take it.” It’s that or sleep in the truck.
“Fantastic choice,” he cheers, grabbing a clipboard to the side of the counter.
“I need your license plate number and how will you be paying?”
“Cash.”
“One night is two-hundred and twenty-one dollars.” His fat cheeks pull into a grin.
Lifting my chin in a non-smiling manner, I hand the money over. There’s nothing to be fucking cheery about. It’s storming, Delilah is beat up, and I have to share a room with her and try to pretend that I don’t want to fuck her in that goddamn jacuzzi this dip shit was just going on about.
I give a bullshit license plate number, knowing to not leave a trace of where I’ve been. I don’t even give my name on the form. I put Gerald.
The guy takes it and places the clipboard to the side of him. See, he doesn’t even look at it or go to the window to double check my plates match what I wrote. He doesn’t ask for any proof of who I am, he just hands over a key card. You want to know why? Because I paid in cash.
If there’s no digital proof of me being here, he can pocket the money.
Back outside, I climb in the truck and hand Delilah the key card. “Second floor, room 21B.”
Sitting up, she tucks her hair behind her ear and takes the card.
“Go in, I’ll park and meet you inside.”
Her eyes slide up my hand, my arm, and to my eyes. Her lips part as if she wants to say something, something sensual but she purses her lips and defies her mind before reaching for the handle on the door and gets out. She limps, and my stomach knots again. I should carry her to the room. Wait, no. That’s too much. Right? Yeah, definitely over the top.