her toffee-cream skin, eyes outlined with black liner and
garish green shadow, sleek, dark ringlets left free about
her shoulders. Her skirt so short it barely covered her ass.
Not her usual look, but she was nothing if not adaptable.
At the far end of the lot a neon yellow sign declared
there were vacancies, and below that, spelled out in
black: $10.00 ALL NIGHT.
44
SINS OF THE HEART
A bargain.
Her gaze pierced the shadows. Nothing stirred. Not
even the breeze.
Stepping into the room, she reached back and eased
the door shut behind her. The air smelled of stale
tobacco, lavender air freshener and…a faint whiff of
piss. The door to the toilet was wide-open, and if she
had to guess, she’d say that Frank Marin hadn’t flushed.
For an instant, the smells triggered an arctic blast of
crappy memories. How many run-down motel rooms
had been her home for the first five years of her life?
There was a dresser by the window, a single night
table with a shadeless lamp, and a double bed shoved
up against the wall. A snoring lump lay beneath the
thin, threadbare sheet, but there was no sign of the kid.
Damn it to fucking hell.
Crossing to the bed, Roxy closed her fingers around
Marin’s throat, pressing hard enough to cut off his air.
Rise ’n’ shine, sunshine.He came awake with a lurch
and a choked caw, his hands flying up to claw at her
wrist. She felt it then, a low-level psychic buzz. So
