“Driver says we’re in Elmira,” he says, as if in answer to my unspoken question.
“Elmira? Where the fuck is Elmira?” I’d heard the pair of them talking during the drive, but I’m half ashamed to admit that I’d been out of it most of the way. Nodding in and out of sleep. Exhaustion keeps threatening to overwhelm me. I hate feeling this weak.
“New York State,” he says, then sets off across the road. I half consider going in the opposite direction, then think better of it because…where the hell would I go?
The small town we’ve ended up in is grimy and has an air of forlorn neglect. The kind of place where the mayor probably runs the local diner and also officiates over weddings. I scamper to catch up, boots thumping on tar. The guy’s spotted a shabby hotel and seems intent on heading to it. I’m not sure how comfortable I am with this idea, but my options are limited.
He’s already at the front desk when I catch up. I’m in time to hear him asking to use the phone. The simpering woman behind the counter nods eagerly, batting fake lashes at him.
Stupid bitch.
A brief exchange on the phone makes it apparent that he’s expecting help to arrive by morning, and then he’s booking a couple of rooms.
“You don’t need to pay for a room for me,” I snap.
“You carrying any cash you haven’t told me about?” He slants an icy look at me.
“No, but I—” Shit.
“We’re a long-assed way from home,” he says. His home, he means. Mine’s not even on this goddamn continent. “It’s getting late. My guys won’t be here for hours. I doubt your ride will be along sooner…if you have one. Do you have someone you can call?”
Goddammit, my father’s number is saved on the phone that’s probably in some Russki fucker’s back pocket as we speak. I don’t know it by heart. I barely phone speak to him once a year for Christmas. All other communications come via my aunt.
Who doesn’t know their father’s own number, numbskull?
“I… No,” I finally say. Trying to reach my aunt will just leave her frantic – I can figure this out. “But you don’t need to get me a goddamn room. I don’t owe you fucking anything.”
“You mean aside from 50k?” he says drily. I set my jaw. “Suit yourself. I’m sure there’s a park bench nearby.” My jaw tightens further. No damn way he’s winning this round.
“Sounds peachy.” I turn away, realizing the chick at the counter is watching us with curiosity. In the light of the hotel foyer, I’m getting a clearer look at my “hero.” He’s not truly pretty. More like jaw-droppingly gorgeous. But older than I’d realized before. Not ancient old; more like “uncle” old. Definitely not old enough to be threatening to fucking spank me.
Wanker.
Probably gets his jollies threatening girls. Maybe some get off on it.
Not me. Not this time, anyhow.
I fold my arms over my chest and turn my back on them. The woman at the counter is giggling like some kind of fucking idiot as he asks her where to get a bite to eat around here. My stomach growls at the mere suggestion.
Shut up!
“Right,” he says at last. “Betty says there’s a bar round the block. We can pick up a fresh set of clothes at the convenience store across the road.”
“I told you, I don’t have cash!” Dickwad. “And I don’t need clothes.”
His eyebrow lifts. “You stink, Buttercup.”
I try not to glance down. My shirt is torn from the motherfuckers back at the warehouse. My jeans are deliberately ripped, but I know the things are soaked in something indescribable. Some of it might be my own. I have a feeling I peed myself while I was out like a light. Okay, so I stink. Sue me. I’ve been locked in a cell for days.
“Well, thanks, Prince Charming. You’re fresh as a daisy yourself.”
“Whatever,” he snaps. “I’m getting clean clothes. Come. Don’t come. I don’t care, either way.” He’s almost out the door before he finishes.
“See you later, Sir,” the receptionist calls brightly. I try not to scamper as I follow him.
Twenty minutes later, he’s shoving open the door of a bar down the road. Kind of a pub-style joint. I should be getting away from him, but the scent of the grill has me drooling on myself. I’m so hungry, I don’t even care that the only outfit I’d managed to find had been a flimsy floral sundress that’s at least a size too small. The hem grazes my knees, leaving my legs bare above my Docs, and my tits are hanging out.
Whatever. It’s clean. And I won’t admit it, but he’d been right. My old clothes stank so badly that I hadn’t objected when he’d tossed them in the trash as we left the dingy store. I tug at the hem now, though, wishing I’d had the nerve to add a new pair ofknickers to the bill. If I lean forward, I’m going to be putting my bare beaver on display.
