2. TWO
TWO
Hotels aren’t always a luxury.
After being turned away by the three nearest the gas station due to not having a debit or credit card, I walked another four miles to a dingy motel that I knew would take cash without any questions.
It isn’t The Hilton, but it beats cold concrete any day.
When I get the deadbolt slid into place, I press my head against the door and groan.
The pain in my left leg is unreal.
I don’t know the people who jumped and mugged me, but the bigger of the three stomped my leg real good. If the bruises are anything to go by, it’s at least fractured. I highly doubt you can sprain your femur.
Letting my backpack slide onto the floor, I push off the wood and take a few painful steps into the bathroom.
Mildew clings to the corners of the shower, dark water stains coat the showerhead, and I’m pretty sure that’s old piss in the toilet.
I make quick work to flush it, then turn on the water.
While the weak spray hits the tile floor, gurgling as it swirls in the drain, I work on getting undressed while ignoring the giant roach that crawls out of it.
As I lift my shirt over my head, my nose scrunches as I supress a gag. "Holy fuck."
The smell wafting off me must be nasty if I can detect it. Usually, you get nose-deaf to your own funk when you’ve been marinating in it long enough.
By the time my pants are off, I’m sweating and biting the inside of my cheek to distract myself from the pain. A constant throb coupled with inferno-strength heat licks up my shin and around my calf.
Fuck.
I glance down, gripping the sink counter for stability, and study the ugly purple bruises that are the size of footprints.
I can’t go to the hospital again. If I ever find myself in a place where I’m no longer cruising the boulevard, I’ll have a mountain of debt waiting to bury me.
Some people in my situation can get aid from the state—food stamps and free insurance—but since I have a felony for theft, I’m automatically disqualified from any of those programs—something about not being trustworthy enough to be honest on an application or other.
That pisses me off.
Stepping under the spray, I groan when the hot water hits my skin. It’s not the best pressure, but I’m not complaining. A slow trickle with this kind of heat is fine by me. The knots in my neck and shoulders are already loosening.
Snatching the wrapped soap bar off the caddy, I peel the paper free and toss it on the floor. How many people take soap for granted? To think I used to be one of those idiots.
This stuff smells like Pinesol and feels like straight tar, but it suds up and might get me halfway clean if I scrub hard enough, which I do. I scrub until my skin is red and raised. The runoff is a gross, muddy color when I finally get to my hair.
The last time I was in a semi-better situation, I bleached my hair, but that was a few months ago, and my roots have grown out. Pushing the wet strands out of my eyes, I lather my hands and scrub my scalp just as thoroughly.
It’s just a shower, sure, but it’s the best damn thing to happen to me in a while.
That, and the four hundred and thirty-six bucks still in my backpack.
By the time I’m done, a towel wrapped around my hips, I limp over to the bed with a mysterious white stain on the duvet and collapse. My eyes flutter shut while I dream about a stranger with bright hazel eyes.
The first mistake was taking the cash. I know better.
Instead of picking the smart option—buying a few more nights and some food—I left the motel and went to the diner across the street.
When I woke up today, all I wanted was canned corned beef hash with sourdough toast—something hot and fresh, a taste of what life used to be all those years ago.
My second mistake was ignoring Dan's loitering outside.
Dan is a dealer who dips too deep into his product.
He is also in a situationship with one of the servers—Melody.
Dan doesn’t like me, and I don’t like Dan.
Sometimes, that’s just how it went. We didn’t have a good reason, and we didn’t need one.
You make enemies just by breathing on the wrong side of the street, and I pretended mine didn’t exist.
That shower and wad of cash really fucked up my common sense.
My situation was still shit. I was still dead in the water, homeless, and I was positive my leg was fractured. There were no more what-ifs in that department.
What had me forgetting that I was still Gray? Some good looking rich boy gave me a crumb and suddenly all my problems were solved? Fuck no, they weren’t. I could feel at least ten more manifesting into something tangible just outside the diner, where Dan glared at me through the window.
He wouldn’t let me go without a confrontation.
That cash I knew I shouldn’t have taken is burning a hole in my pocket, reminding me of how stupid I was. How quickly it’ll be ripped from my fingers.
I swallow hard, keenly aware I have to pay for my meal soon; all the while, Dan smiles menacingly. What is he even doing outside?
I’ve scanned the diner at least ten times, looking for one of his ‘customers', but I couldn’t find any—I still can’t. Wracking my brain, I flip through all the faces I saw last night while I stumbled to the motel room.
Some were familiar, but not so much that I felt threatened. I've seen them around, and they have never messed with me before...
“Idiot,” I whisper, balling my fists in my lap.
“Check?” the server asks me with a bright smile.
“Please,” I say with a slight nod.
The middle-aged woman with laugh lines around her mouth pulls out my check from her apron and sets it on the table.
Angling my backpack to act as a shield, I reach into the waistband of my jeans, where I’ve got the cash wedged between them and my boxers, and pull out a twenty.
I used to keep my money in my backpack, foolishly thinking it’d be safer because whatever asshole who tried to steal from me would have to get it off first.
Let me be the first to tell you: they always get the bag or backpack off.
Fresh nerves fire off low in my stomach as I mentally prepare for the fight I know is coming.
With my leg injured and the lack of meat on my bones, I don’t stand much chance with Dan.
He’s got at least a hundred pounds on me, runs with one of the local drug lords, and I know he’s got a gun tucked into the back of his pants.
If he wants something from me, he’ll get it.
The four-hundred and seventeen dollars burn through my boxers, reminding me for the millionth time that I shouldn’t have taken it.
I linger for a few more minutes at the table, then get up and head to the restroom to piss. Getting punched with a full bladder is asking for a wet crotch, and these jeans are the cleanest pair I’ve got right now.
I wash my hands, watching the soapy bubbles slip off my tattooed hand and catch my reflection in the slightly greasy mirror.
Tammy from The Pines warned me that I needed to remove my piercings.
I got them back when I was still living at the group home; the tattoos came later after I’d completely given up on being socially acceptable.
The tear in my septum stings a bit, but at least the hoop through it didn’t get lost when I was jumped.
I run my tongue ring over my teeth, the barbell pierced through it never feeling foreign in my mouth.
One of these days, my septum ring is going to get ripped out and possibly tear right through my nose.
Worth it.
I’ve always idolized people with piercings—they seem so fuckin’ tough, you know? Tough on the outside and tough mentally. Nothing, and no one could beat them down or steal their authenticity. Maybe those are just residual childish thoughts. Maybe I should take them out.
Someone enters the restroom, signaling my cue to leave.
I can’t avoid Dan forever.
Steeling myself, I adjust the single working strap of my backpack over my shoulder, shortening it as much as it will go, and hobble out.
I keep my head down, hood over my hair, and move as fast as I can.
A blast of cold air hits my face, the bell of the diner door dings to expose my exit, and Dan makes his move.
Dirty Nikes slap over the concrete, gaining on me with speed.
“I thought I told you not to come ‘round here no more?”
My fingers tighten over my backpack strap as I force myself not to limp. Pain shoots up my leg and the breakfast I stupidly ate swirls around in my stomach, threatening to come right back up. I manage to get to the sidewalk, mere feet away from the streetlight, when Dan grabs my elbow roughly.
“You deaf now?” he snarls, whipping me around to face him.
“Fuck off,” I bite out, jerking my arm free.
Dan's single silver cap over his left front tooth winks at me as he grins. Greasy brown hair pokes out from underneath his backward cap. “Unless you’re reconsidering, the motel ain’t for you. Nothing ‘round here, in fact. Go back to 2nd Street.”
That’s the thing about people like Dan. They piss on one corner and suddenly become king of an entire neighborhood. Does anyone stop it? Does anyone care? No, they fucking don’t.
I could take a bus to the next motel around here, but then I’d be caving. I’d be cowering . Keeping my head down is the smart move—the safest. Bending the goddamn knee is what he wants.
Fuck what he wants. No one ever gave a shit what I wanted.
“You think I don’t see shit? Think I don’t know who comes and goes ‘round here, man? I see it all. And I know you got a pretty number tucked right there.” He flicks my belt, and I shove him back.
“I said fuck off, Dan. Nothing I’m doing interferes with what you’re doing.”
“We’ll see about that.”
He isn’t going to jump me right here where a shit ton of people could see and call the cops. Not that the cops would do anything for either of us besides slapping some handcuffs on our wrists and getting paid for the ticket.
I beeline for the streetlight, punching the crosswalk button, refusing to look over my shoulder. His threat isn’t unnoticed; eventually, he’ll make good on it, but I’ve got daylight on my side.
My new plan is to spite this fucker and buy two more nights.
I get across the street, my leg hurting so bad I have to lean on my right one.
My foot drags across the ground dramatically, and oh, how I wish it were just that.
Hopefully, two days of staying off it will help with the pain.
Tomorrow, I’ll take the bus down to a pharmacy and grab some pain pills.
That’s the best I can do because, as it stands currently, I’m ready to collapse.
The motel is eerily dead when I get there. Cars in the parking lot tell me people are around, but usually, they hang out outside to smoke or whatever. Not a soul is to be seen.
I pay for two more nights and hit the vending machine in the makeshift lobby, so I won’t have to leave later.
Securing two water bottles and a couple of bags of chips, I tuck it all in my backpack and head outside to my room.
It’s one around the backside of the motel this time.
As I head that way, a door opens. Careful to avoid eye contact, I keep walking and ignore the men watching me.
Despite it being morning, the shadow of the building casts an uncanny darkness over this side, and I’m on edge. Those few guys I saw around before follow behind me.
Fuck.
My fingers shake slightly, but I hold fast to unlock the door. I hear the click, push inside, and just as I go to slam it shut, wood cracks into my face. My back lands on the stiff carpet with a muffled thud .
“Where’s the money?”
“Check his pants.”
The third man stomps his foot on my sternum while I struggle to push it off.
My uninjured leg kicks out at the second as he tries to grab at my belt.
The first guy shuts the door and locks it, trapping me inside.
I want to fight back, but I’m so tired. I’m in so much pain.
Money like I’ve got doesn’t just happen; people aren’t that generous.
I’ll never see five hundred bucks again.
But I want them to take it.
Just take it and leave me alone.
I don’t like the unhinged look in their eyes or how they're touching more than my limbs.
“Fuckers!” I roar as foreign fingers dip into my jeans, successfully snatching up my money.
“Dan said to remind you where you belong,” the first guy sneers right before kicking me in the face.