I survived.
I survived.
I fucking survived.
CHAPTER THIRTY
AMIRA
Sunday
March 28, 2021
We arrive in Las Vegas around midnight, our bodies exhausted from the twelve-hour drive, whereas our minds are hyperactive, unable to stay quiet longer than a minute.
At least that’s how I feel.
Roman has barely said a word the entire ride, choosing to process our day in silence.
“Why don’t you stay here? I’ll go check us in this time,” I say, my throat throbbing in pain with every word I rasp out. I can still smell the fresh river water stuck in my nasal cavity as it drips down my trachea with every swallow.
“No, angel, I—”
“I got it,” I say with newfound confidence, snagging his wallet from the cupholder and swiftly exiting the car. I wouldn’t put it past Roman to spring from his seat and race to the front before me, so I tuck the wallet into my abdomen and dash to the entrance, skidding to a stop once I reach the marbled counter of The Desert Lodge.
“Hi. One room, please, for a single stay,” I say, sliding over three twenty-dollar bills to the twenty-something male concierge while he checks the availability.
“Okay, miss…”
“Marcello,” I say quickly, claiming Roman’s name as my own.
“Okay, Miss Marcello, room thirty-five A. Just pull your vehicle around the left-hand side, and you’ll find your room at the very end.”
“Thank you,” I reply, taking my five-dollar change and room keycard.
I blow out a harsh breath once I exit the building, speed-walking to the car with my heart racing in my chest.
“How was it?” Roman asks, knowing strangers and public places make me anxious.
I think on my answer for a moment before looking into his red-rimmed hazel eyes and saying, “Good. I wasn’t even nervous.”
And this time, it’s not a lie. I wasn’t scared to talk to that man. I didn’t see animalistic hunger in his eyes as he ran his gaze over my sweater-covered body, and his touch didn’t burn when his fingers grazed mine when we exchanged money.
I survived.
“That’s good, angel. I’m so proud of you,” he says, leaning over the center console to drop a kiss on my lips before pulling out of the parking spot and following my directions to the side.
Just as the attendant directed, our room is located at the very end of the building, on the first story beside a lamppost and overgrown thornbush.
Roman retrieves our luggage from the back while I get the door open. A gust of citrusy wind blows across my face as I hold the entry wide for Roman to slip through.
The room is painted a gentle eggshell cream, decorated with pastel yellow vases filled with dying lavender and dusty rose bed sheets. The thick mahogany bed frame is sturdy, barely making a sound as I throw myself down and snuggle into the end corner.
“Go wash up, angel, but maybe no shower tonight. Stay off of that ankle as much as possible,” Roman says, dropping down beside me, rubbing the balls of his hands into his leaden lids, trying to erase the exhaustion from his eyes.
I want to stay by his side a bit longer and relax my aching muscles, but I can smell myself with every inhale, a combination of sea salt and moss jumbled with two-day-old sweat. It’s not pleasant.
I groan once my soles press into the beige wool carpet, sharp twinges of pain shooting up my calves with each step I take to the bathroom.
