The motel owner.
I look at Jericho. He looks at me.
Move. I need to move.
I scramble off the bed, looking for— What? My dignity, probably. I stumble to my feet. Try to make myself look like someone who wasn’t just dry-humping a man she came here to kill.
“Just a minute,” I call out. Voice too rough. I clear my throat. Try again. “One second.”
Jericho stands, pulls his shirt down, and runs a hand through his hair. Our eyes meet for half a second, and the awareness between us is unbearable.
I cross to the door. Breathe. Open it.
The motel owner is weathered, holding a piece of paper. “Wire transfer came through. Guy named Viktor. Five hundred dollars. Said to give it to room seven.” He hands me the receipt. “Cash is at the front desk whenever you want it.”
“Thank you.”
He nods, starts to turn, pauses. “You folks okay? Thought I heard—”
Heat floods my face. “Fine. We’re fine. Just… a nightmare.”
His expression says he doesn’t believe me but doesn’t care. “Front desk closes at ten. Get the cash before then.”
“We will.”
I close the door.
Lean against it.
Five hundred dollars. Food. Supplies. Normal things.
Except nothing is normal.
We just crossed a line we can’t uncross.
I turn around slowly.
Jericho is by the window. Not looking at me. Giving me space.
“We should get the money,” I say. Professional. Practical. Like I wasn’t just straddling him with my hand in his hair and his hand in my pants. “Get food. We haven’t eaten since—”
I don’t remember when.
“All right.”
That’s it. Just agreement.
No discussion of what just happened. No attempt to analyze or explain or make it into something it’s not.
Maybe that’s better.
Maybe if we don’t talk about it, we can pretend it didn’t happen.
Except I can still taste him. Still feel where his hands were. Still feel the thick press of his—
Cut it out!
From the careful way he’s not looking at me, I know he remembers too.
