Cillian’s head tipped to the side. He wasn’t going to call me out. We tended to be too professional and respectful for that. But he was making it clear he didn’t believe me.
“If you need a few more days to get back into life-mode, I get that.”
“How would you get that? You never take vacation,” I reminded him.
“I… hear things,” he said, shooting me a smile. “But, seriously. You’re too important to us. If you’re feeling off, I want you to take more time for yourself.”
“No, really, I’m fine,” I insisted, lying through my teeth. “But I am going to cut out early tonight. I don’t love the idea of sitting around in a wet, stained dress.”
“Okay. But keep it in mind. It’s an open-ended invitation.”
With that, he walked off before it could get too uncomfortable.
I loved that about Cillian as a boss. He knew exactly how much to push before backing off. I don’t think I’d ever been in a conversation with him that felt awkward or like it went on too long. He was always swift with a breezy exit.
I took my cup to the dish pit, making quick small talk with Javi as he cleaned my cup along with some more glasses, then handed it back to me with a clean dishtowel, since it was about a million degrees. Then I deposited it back on my desk, made sure my coffee warmer was unplugged, grabbed my purse, and headed out the back door.
That was all normal.
What wasn’t normal was that I got in my BMW and turned left out of the back lot. Not right toward my condo.
Because it wasn’t mine anymore.
I traveled down the side street and took an unofficial dirt road shortcut to avoid going back on the main drag in town. Where someone might see me. As I pulled into the lot for the motel in town.
Parking in the back lot with my car mostly hidden by the dumpster, I climbed out and made my way toward the back entrance that I had rigged so it didn’t lock.
Not fair of me to the owner, Jack. But the only way I could get in and out of the motel without being seen by someone in town.
The interior of the inn was the kind of place that harkened back to old horror movies: long, dark hallways, flickering lights, the glow of vending machines, distant sounds of people talking or screaming, and the distinct slapping sound of bodies slamming together. Whether that was porn played loud and proud or someone getting down with a fling or local sex worker was anyone’s guess.
I slid my key in the lock and moved into the room.
Flicking on the light, I sighed.
“Home sweet home.”
CHAPTER THREE
Raff
“I’m just saying, if she’s got four breasts, why didn’t the creator make her have quadruplets instead of triplets? It would have made more sense,” Hail asked, waving his beer at the TV.
“You don’t think she’s busy enough ruling all of Traylon 7?” Syn shot back.
“Jesus fucking Christ,” Saint grumbled, throwing his head back on the cushion and staring at the ceiling. “Are you still going on about this show?”
I sat back, watching the three of them, intrigued by the new dynamic in the club that seemed to have really gotten footing while I’d been away.
When I’d left, Hail had been a practical stranger still, showing up demanding to be part of the club.
Now, he seemed fully integrated.
Enough that he and Syn were somehow into the same weird-ass sci-fi show featuring a four-breasted queen.
“I mean, what happens with the last tit? Does she have to manually drain it?” Hail asked.
“You’re giving this way more thought than it needs,” Saint sighed, slapping his legs as he moved to stand. “You should be hitting the bar, getting real women with real breasts.Twoof them.”
