Up in my room,I shove what I need into my bag. The kitten wriggles, head poking through my bra strap.
“Yeah, you’re coming,” I mutter. “I’m not leaving you with them.”
Even if part of me knows they’d take care of him. That’s not the point. He’s mine. He was always meant to be mine, something that belonged to me in this crappy world.
I’m not giving him up.
I move fast, out the door and to the SUV they parked out in the shed, refusing to let myself think through this potentially stupid plan any further.
I’m far enough away from the house that I don’t worry about the sound when I turn the engine over and pull quietly down the driveway. Halfway down, I turn on the headlights.
And then I just drive.
A half hour later, the roads away from the house are still dark and open. Too open. It bothers me to bolt like this with no concrete goodbyes. No closure. No looking back.
There’s nothing waiting for me on the edge of town. I barely make it farther than thirty minutes before my eyes blur, and I can’t see the road. The lines change and twist around on each other like yellow flecked serpents.
Homer meows from the passenger seat, small and confused. A little bit like me, I guess.
I finally pull Lucille off the street into the potholed parking lot of a rough motel on the edge of town, the kind where strays find themselves. It’s marginally better than the first no-tell motel I stayed in, but not much.
I have a gun this time, though.
The attendant behind the desk smokes a cigarette, likely one in an endless line of them, judging from the tapping yellow fingers against an equally yellow keyboard.
I pay cash for a room with cheap thin walls and buzzing lights.
The ceiling presses low and hangs in place with a lattice work of what looks like plastic. Panels droop and threaten to fall down. Small hills of what looks like either plaster or asbestos grow taller in the corners.
This is definitely not good for my claustrophobia. My heart quickens and my hands go clammy despite the valiant effort of the air conditioner.
This is punishment. This is what I deserve for my mistakes along the way in my hunt for revenge. I should never have gotten close to them.
I shouldn’t have smiled and danced with Shiloh. I should have walked away the second he made my pulse race.
I really should have run the first time Ever’s glare made my core clench. I never should have let the hate between us turn into more.
And Inevershould have let Nash control me the way he did. His touch…his very presence made everything so much more.
No. This dilapidated room is my penance.
My shirt pulls at me, uncomfortable, plastered in places with sweat and ripped and faded in others. My hair pulls too tightly at my scalp, the high ponytail another type of punishment.
I can’t fucking breathe in this room.
My room in Nash’s house was always nice, clean. Muted colors and soft linens.
Comfortable.
Safe.
I drop my duffel but one look at the shower erases the idea of a rinse from my head. If I want to share the rectangular torture chamber with colonies of black mold then it’s fine. Otherwise, I need about ten gallons of bleach to clean this place enough to stay here.
I ease myself down on the bed, and Homer curls against my side, purring. I stroke its head. Such a trusting little fucker.
So stupid.
I press my face into the thin pillow, and I cry. I know this is the right decision.
