The sun creeps through the curtains, golden and cruel. It makes me nauseous. I drop my face into my hands and try to breathe around the knot in my throat. It doesn't work. I don’t know how long I sit there, frozen in place, but eventually, the ache in my chest spreads, until all I feel is numbness.
He left me. He took the money.
And I’m all alone.
Chapter Thirty-Four
MARLOWE
Iyank the sheet off the bed, wrap it around myself, and stumble to the door. Scrapes slice into my heels as I run barefoot across the cracked pavement to the room next door. Maybe he’s in Bridger’s room?
He’s not there. The only person inside is the maid, vacuuming. When I step inside, she looks up, startled, and turns off the machine.
“I’m sorry,” I begin, then falter. “Um…the people that stayed here…did they leave?”
“Very early this morning,” she responds, pulling at the hem of her shirt. “Before sunrise.”
“Okay, thanks,” I say, backing out of the room. My mind races, trying to piece together what the hell could have happened. Did they need to rush him to the hospital? Why would he just leave? He told me he was okay, that he wasn’t leaving. I can’t catch my breath. I reach my room, push the door open, and stop short.
There’s something on the nightstand.
I move closer, the bedsheet slipping off my shoulders, and see a neat stack of cash. I pick it up with trembling hands, andcount it out. Five thousand dollars. The money slips from my grip and scatters across the rug.
Five thousand. That’s it. A consolation prize. A payoff. He didn’t even have the nerve to say goodbye. I sit down hard on the edge of the bed, the ache in my chest swelling, choking me.
He left. He actually fucking left.
He took the money and left me here all by myself. Now I have to deal with Joel and Vick and Taylor all on my own. I thought something changed between us last night. The way he touched me, the way he kissed me, it wasn’t just sex. It was something more, at least, I thought it was.
I press my hand to my mouth to hold back a sob, but it rips out of me anyway. I can’t stop the tears now, hot and bitter, spilling down my cheeks. I thought maybe after everything, after the pain and the chaos and the fear, maybe I wasn’t just someone to use and discard. But of course, I was wrong.
After everything that’s happened to me, after everyone who’s used me and let me down, how could I not have known this was how it was going to end up? How could I have been so stupid to think he’d actually want something more from me? That I meant something? I should have known better.
I wrap my arms around myself, the sheet slipping from my shoulders, and I curl up on the bed, sobbing. I feel so small, so stupid, so fucking used, and I replay every second of last night over in my mind. His hands on me, his lips, the way he whispered my name like it meant something. All of it a lie.
He just took what he wanted.
I wipe at my tears hard enough to make my cheeks burn, forcing myself to swallow the sobs. Fury builds in my chest, pushing out the hurt, hardening into something I can actually use.
He didn’t make any promises to me. He never said he was going to stick around. I’m the one who let myself believe it. It’sfine. I’ll deal with it all. I always do. I take a deep breath and start gathering my clothes scattered around the room. They’re stained, stiff with dried blood, and the sight of them makes my stomach turn. I can’t just walk around wearing a cocktail dress straight out of a slasher movie.
I ball up the fabric in my hands and carry it into the bathroom. Plugging the sink, I fill it with scalding hot water and a squirt of hand soap. I scrub the fabric, watching the water turn pink, but most of the stains don’t budge. Great. I’ll need new clothes. Hopefully there’s a boutique close by.
I step into the shower, twisting the knobs, and let the rising steam wrap around me. I scrub at my skin, hard and relentless, trying to erase the grime and the memory of his hands on me. I force myself to think of anything else: recipes for new pastries, the stupid leaky pipe in the apartment that makes it so hot, how I’m going to have to hire someone to fix it.
But the way Damian touched me, the way he looked at me, it’s tattooed onto my brain. I dig my nails into my scalp, forcing myself to focus on the burn of the hot water instead. I don’t need this misery. I have a bakery to open. I have to deal with Vick. And if Joel and Taylor come after me, I’ll figure it out. Maybe I’ll hire a bodyguard.
How the hell will I be able to afford that? Maybe I’ll just go to the police. Tell them everything. Put my father in jail where he belongs.
The thought makes me pause, standing under the stream of water, gripping the soap bar so tight it almost slips from my hand. Could I actually do that? Could I finally be done with him?
Yes, I can. Then maybe I’d be able to breathe for the first time in my life.
I scrub at my skin one more time, as if that will help me find the answer.
I pull my still-wet dress back on, grimacing at the uncomfortable, chafing fabric. It scrapes against my skin as I step out into the heat, the dry air turning the wet bloody spots into stiff, uncomfortable patches. My feet ache in the heels.
I head toward the motel office, squinting against the sun. The place is old and run-down, just like the room, but at least the air conditioning is blasting when I step inside.
