Chapter 7
Seven
Blair
It’s been three days.
Maybe four.
Time’s slippery here, like everything outside this crusty motel room exists in some other timeline where girls like me still had futures.
I don’t remember how I got back after the party.
I remember strobe lights, breathless kisses, someone’s hands on my thighs.
Then nothing. Just darkness. Static. A hard mattress and the lingering taste of regret.
I’ve been holed up in this dump since.
The motel’s a budget beach rat paradise, if by paradise you mean mildew in the corners and paper-thin towels that smell like burnt dryer sheets.
I haven’t left this bed except to piss and grab whatever sad excuse for food I could get delivered through DashDrop—the knockoff app with slower drivers and warmer soda.
I’ve been living on fries, lukewarm tacos, and reruns of '90s sitcoms where everyone has their shit together and no one’s sister disappears off the face of the earth.
My phone lights up again from the nightstand.
Mom.
Third time today. Fifteenth this week. The notifications stack up like guilt.
I don’t answer.
I haven’t answered since the first call came in after the party.
She keeps trying because for the longest time, I was the “good one.” Brynn was the chaos.
I was the straight-A student. The girl with a full-ride scholarship and a five-year plan and a carefully curated future that fit into a PowerPoint slide.
Until it all went to hell.
Until I started chasing shadows and calling it hope. Tossed everything—college, friends, sense of self—into the fire the second Brynn went missing. Because I couldn’t let her go. Couldn’t accept that I might be the only one who made it out.
And now? I’m nothing but another ghost haunting motel beds with skin that smells like smoke and boys who don’t know how to stay.
I reach for my soda can on the nightstand.
Empty.
I shake it, like maybe it’s lying to me, but no. Just a faint fizz and a mocking rattle. My stomach growls like it wants to fight me. It’s past two a.m.—too late for DashDrop. Which means I have to do the unthinkable: leave the room. Interact with air. Move.
Groaning, I sit up, pushing off the thin blanket.
The AC unit kicks and sputters like it’s coughing up its last breath.
I dig through my duffel and throw on a cropped black tank top—tight, ribbed, no bra—and a pair of sweatpant shorts, rolled at the waist to show a little more thigh than necessary.
Not for anyone. Just because it makes me feel less like a corpse.
My hair hangs around my face in beachy waves that toe the line between perfect and chaos—purple streaks tangled in pink, like cotton candy left in a hurricane.
I slide my feet into the cheap black flip-flops I grabbed from a gas station when I first got into town.
One of the toe posts is about to snap, but they’ve held out this long. Good enough for a midnight soda run.
I grab my wallet and keycard off the table, then tug open the door, stepping out into the muggy night.
The motel lot is quiet, the air thick with the scent of salt and stale smoke.
Fluorescent lights buzz overhead, casting everything in a sickly glow.
I head toward the vending machines outside the main office, where a rotting wooden picnic table sits off to the side—the unofficial smoking lounge for the working girls when they’re not scoping out a John.
I fish a couple of bills from my wallet, smoothing one against the machine. It eats it without complaint. I punch in the code for a Coke, listening to the clunk and rattle of gears before the can drops into the tray.
That’s when I hear voices.
Low. Male. Serious.
I glance toward the parking lot and freeze.
Dagger.
Standing near the picnic table, mid-conversation with two guys I don’t recognize, he looks exactly how I remember him only sharper, darker. Like the night’s wrapped around him, coiled tight.
He’s in a black leather jacket that clings to broad shoulders, worn but expensive-looking, paired with a hoodie pulled up just enough to cast his face in shadow.
Ripped black jeans hang low on his hips, and the stitching on his thigh spells something in jagged, gothic lettering I can’t quite make out.
Combat boots laced tight, splattered in something that might be mud…
or might be blood. And his hands—those inked-up fingers twitch like they’ve been itching for violence all night.
The second he sees me, the whole energy shifts. One flick of his gaze, and the other two melt into the shadows like they were never really there. He says something under his breath to them—low and clipped—then jerks his chin. They scatter like they know better than to argue.
Then he starts toward me.
God. That walk. Confident, cocky, slow like he’s got all the time in the world and he already knows I’ll give it to him.
I blink and suddenly I’m back there.
Up against a brick wall. His mouth on mine. His fingers tangled in my hair. That kiss, brutal and breathless, like he wanted to punish me with it. Like he could fuck me apart with just his tongue and the weight of his body pressing me into cold stone.
I can still feel the scrape of the wall against my back. Still hear the low growl in his throat when I whimpered.
Now he’s walking toward me like he’s ready to prove it again, and I’m not sure if I want to run… or beg for a repeat.
Every nerve in my body lights up. My skin prickles, heart tight. His eyes are locked on mine like he already owns the rest of me.
“Well, well,” he says, voice low and full of that maddening swagger. “Look who crawled out of her cave.”
I cock a brow, roll my eyes. “What? Vending machines your new office now?”
My gaze flicks over him, uninvited but automatic. Same lethal calm, same smug mouth. But there’s a bruise along his jaw now—dark, swollen, ugly. Like someone clocked him good.
“Here for information,” he says.
“On how to be less of a dick?” I pop the vending machine glass open, grab my Coke. “Because judging by the shiner, I’m guessing one of your junkies already gave you some feedback.”
His grin is lazy, unbothered. Doesn't answer. Just lets the tension sit there between us, thick as the humidity curling around my ankles.
“You could’ve picked a better place to crash,” he says, voice dipping. “This spot’s a goddamn dive.”
I glance around at the flickering overhead light, the busted security cam swinging on one sad wire, the peeling stucco walls stained with god-knows-what. The whole place looks like it spawned straight out of a cutscene in Grand Theft Auto: Hooker Edition .
“What, you got beef with the ambiance?” I deadpan. “Or is it just the hookers?”
He chuckles, low and amused. “Hookers I can live with. It’s the murders that make it a little less cozy.”
That yanks me up short. “Wait, what?”
He tips his head toward the office, voice almost too casual. “Yeah. Couple nights ago, one of my suppliers turned up dead. Throat cut. Whole scene looked like something outta a slasher flick.”
My stomach twists. “That why you’re here?”
He nods once, hands sliding into his jacket pockets like he’s got all the time in the goddamn world. “Trying to figure out who did it. People ‘round here’ll talk to me. Not cops.”
“Right. Makes sense,” I murmur, fingers tightening around the vending machine soda like it’s a lifeline.
I shift to step around him, signaling this little reunion’s over. But he falls in step without missing a beat.
“Where you headed?”
I shoot him a look. “Back to my room.”
He doesn’t even blink. “Take me with you.”
I stop short. “Excuse me?”
A slow smirk spreads across his face. “What? Just wanna check it out. Make sure you’re safe. Might be more murderers lurking in the AC unit or something.”
Oh my god. This man.
Don’t panic, Blair. He’s hot as hell. That’s it. Just abs and attitude with a pretty face. Doesn’t mean he wants to fuck you. Doesn’t mean anything. He probably just wants to inspect your water pressure or some bullshit.
Totally normal. Totally fine.
Holy shit.
I cock a hip, raising a brow. “Fine. Let’s go, lover boy.”
His grin widens like he just won something. “Knew you couldn’t resist.”
I spin on my heel and start walking, soda clutched in one hand, the other flipping him off over my shoulder. “Don’t stare at my ass.”
“Can’t make promises I don’t plan to keep,” he shoots back, boots crunching the gravel behind me.
The night air buzzes around us, thick and heavy with motel grime and bad decisions. When we reach my door, I swipe the keycard, pretending my heart isn’t jackhammering in my chest.
The lock clicks. I push the door open.
He follows me in without hesitation.
Behind us, the door shuts with a soft thud and then clicks locked.
I crack open the can of Coke, take a sip, and make a beeline for the tiny table by the window. I set it down next to the half-eaten bag of chips, a crumpled burger wrapper, and a lonely fork that’s been haunting the same paper plate for three days.
Classy.
I glance around at the room like I’m seeing it for the first time with someone else’s eyes. Dirty laundry in the corner. Empty takeout containers. A sock on the lamp. Perfect.
I wave a hand at the chaos with a dry smile. “Welcome to paradise. Don’t mind the biohazard-level mess. I was aiming for post-apocalyptic chic.”
But he doesn’t even look at the mess.
He steps toward me like it’s nothing, like the trash doesn’t exist, like all he sees is me. “I’m not here for the room,” he says, voice low and thick. “I’m here to finish what we started.”
Then he closes the last bit of distance, one hand sliding into my hair, the other cradling my jaw like he’s done it a thousand times. And then he kisses me.
Hard.
Hot.
Like his mouth already fucking knows mine.
He walks me backward, step by step, until the back of my knees hit the bed and I fall onto it.
Oh fuck. You were wrong, Blair. He definitely wants to fuck you.