“You’ll outbid them too?”
“Something like that.”
The side door bangs open. Mr. Rolex strides out with two other men dressed in designer suits. One of them spots me and nudges Mr. Rolex, who’s gaze finds mine.
Tank shifts, taking a half-step to position himself between me and the door. He doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t have to. The look he levels at the three men could strip paint off a barn.
One corner of Mr. Rolex’s mouth tips up in a half-smile. He inclines his head, as if acknowledging his loss and Tank’s gain. Then he turns and leaves.
My heart is racing. Not from fear, but from the realization that I can’t remember the last time someone moved instinctively to shield me without being asked. Without expecting something in return.
It makes me uneasy. I don’t trust safety. It’s always had a price tag.
But standing here in the shadow of this mountain of a man, I realize I trusthim. And I have no idea what to do with that.
Tank pushes the door open, and snowy night air rushes in. “Where are you staying?”
“What?”
“In town. Where are you staying?”
I shouldn’t give him any more information than he already has. But those dark eyes hold mine, patient and steady, and the truth slips out.
“The Roadside Motel. Out on Highway 12.”
He scrubs a hand over his jaw. “That place is a shithole. You can’t stay there.”
“I’ve stayed in worse.”
“That’s not the reassurance you think it is.”
He studies me for a moment, a thoughtful look in his eyes. Then, as if reaching a decision, he says, “I have a cabin not far from here. That’s where you'll be staying. It’s part of the agreement.”
Right. The cohabitation placement. For a second, I’d almost forgotten what this actually was.
“I wasn’t expecting to start tonight,” I say carefully.
“The agreement says I provide you a safe place to stay.” His tone is firm but not unkind. “The cabin qualifies. The Roadside doesn’t.”
“I can take care of myself.”
“Never said you couldn’t.” He crosses his arms in what I’m already coming to recognize as his immovable object stance. “But that’s not the point. You signed up for this program because you needed a fresh start. I’m offering a safe place to sleep that doesn’t smell like mildew.”
I want to argue, to tell him to take his cabin and his protective instincts and his thousand-dollar bid and shove them where the sun doesn’t shine.
But the truth is, the motel is terrible. The lock on my door sticks, so I’m never really certain if it’s locked or not. The heater rattles and dies at random intervals. And last night, I woke up to shouting from the room next door that made me grab my keys and sit in my car until dawn.
“I want to be clear about something,” I say. “I can leave whenever I want. The contract says?—”
“You can leave anytime. No questions asked. That’s how Marlie’s Angels works.” His expression doesn’t flicker. “I’m not trying to trap you. I’m trying to give you options.”
Oh, sure, Jessie. Run from stability for years, and now you’re accepting a cabin from Grizzly Adams in Carhartt. Genius move.
“Fine. Temporarily.” My sharp words are a default defense. “I’ve got a mural commission I’m waiting to hear back on. Could be a week, could be a month. Either way, I’m not staying forever.”
“Didn’t ask you to.” His expression doesn't flicker. “Just asked you to stop sleeping in a building that should’ve been condemned in 1987.”
I nod. “Okay, then.”
