6. SIX
SIX
I’m overwhelmed. Period.
I’ll wait until Hunter leaves, though.
There is no way in hell this rich boy will watch me break down now that everything that’s happened is finally sinking in.
Because it is.
The numbness is disappearing, and my emotions are all over the place.
Too many menus. Too much change. Too much pain and aching that seeps too deep.
It’s hard to get enough air in my lungs and see past the blur in my vision.
“Italian is always a good choice,” Hunter says beside me.
I don’t know when he snuck up like that, but I can’t seem to make myself move. “Haven’t had spaghetti in years,” I admit, throat thick.
“I’m partial to tortellini.” He shrugs a little, picking up the thick paper and flipping it in his hand. “They don’t have it.” There’s honest-to-god disappointment in his tone.
I take the menu from him, and I'm grateful to have something to focus on as I read over the options. There are still too many, but it's easier. “Korean pizza? What the fuck is that?”
He leans a tad closer to look at it, too. “Spicy. Do you like spicy?”
“Not on an empty stomach.”
“Fair. How about the scampi? It’s just butter and garlic.”
I nod, setting the menu down. Grabbing one of the chairs for support, I breathe through my nose. “Go on and sit down. I’ll order it.”
It's the easiest decision I’ve made so far.
I pull out the chair and sink into it. There’s an instant throb and sting when I do, another reality check spearing me through the chest. Bile shoots up my throat, but I swallow it down.
I’m vaguely aware of Hunter’s voice as he calls in an order while I stare at the grain on the table.
When he tucks his phone away, standing idly beside me, I look up.
“Look,” he starts, running a hand through his thick, dark hair. It’s almost as long as mine but well-kept by a barber. “I want a doctor to look at your leg and…wherever else you might be hurt. Can I do that?”
“I don’t have insurance,” I say automatically.
“I’ll take care of it.”
“Why?”
“Because I want to, Gray. Is that something we can arrange?”
I’d kill for some medicine— fucking kill for it. “Is it a real doctor? With like…a license or whatever?”
“Of course.”
“Can they write prescriptions?”
“If needed, yes.”
Fuck. Medicine costs money.
“I’ll cover that too if that’s what you need.”
Our eyes meet, his hazel ones swirling with cautious sympathy. “Can I shower first?”
“It wouldn’t be today. I have to make some calls, but I hoped tomorrow would work.”
“Alright.”
“Good.” He nods and glances at the watch on his wrist. “Food should be here in about forty minutes. They know to come to the door.” Flicking his eyes over to the nightstand housing a lamp and landline phone, he points at it. “I’ll leave my number there.”
Flashes of the motel door being kicked in, Dan’s threats, and statements of seeing all come to mind. For all I know, one of his lackeys works for the restaurant. What if they aren’t done with me? What if I’m still in Dan’s turf ? I didn’t pay that much attention after the highway incident.
Why didn’t I pay attention?
“Can…will you stay until the food gets here?” I manage to ask, hating how pathetic I sound.
“Sure,” he says easily.
Nodding, I swallow the panic and push to my feet. “Gonna shower.”
“I’ll be here.”
I’ll be here.
It’s been a long time since I’ve heard those words and even longer since I dared to believe them.
Looking was a bad idea, but I needed to know.
Feeling it happen was one thing, the blood, too. But seeing it with my own eyes has a sob pushing past my lips as I smother it with my palm.
I knew it’d be swollen; the pain whenever I sit down is gnarly. I knew it’d be red. I didn’t think it’d look so fucking bad, though. That it would look like three men took turns with no care or patience.
I force myself in the shower, thankful for the steel bar on the wall to keep me steady.
This hotel supplies shampoo, conditioner, and body wash.
All liquid. All in little bottles. I hiss as the hot water cascades over every open wound.
Scrapes along my hips and stomach, the raised, inflamed ring around my asshole, and the cut on my temple.
It’s not relaxing in the slightest, but if a doctor is going to come out here, I’m going to be fucking clean.
Using the washcloth, I scrub my nails until most of the grease and dirt are gone.
When I get out, I wrap up in the bathrobe that, sure enough, was in the bathroom closet, just like Hunter said.
The material is thicker than it looks and rough against my skin, but it hangs to my knees and covers my arms. I tie it shut and limp out of the bathroom.
“Food got here early,” Hunter says when he sees me.
There is a small buffet laid out on the table: three containers of pasta, a foil wrap, a personal pizza, and what appears to be salad. He also had the foresight to get extra water. A few bottles sit beside the food. “I can’t eat all that.”
“There is a microwave and mini fridge.”
I know what he’s doing. He wants to push to find out more, but he’s using his departure as a way to make it my choice. Autonomy or whatever. Like I have any of that anymore. “Just fuckin’ eat with me. I know you want to.”
He nods and pushes up the sleeves of his black shirt.
We both go about serving ourselves, putting food on the provided paper plates and when I gingerly lower into the chair, he follows suit. While we eat—which, fuck, this food is better than it should be—I examine him.
Hunter is what I’ve heard Tammy say is traditionally handsome. He has no distinguishing features, no weird moles or crooked nose. His teeth are white and straight. I can’t find any tattoos, and I don’t see the telltale bump of nipple piercings through his tight shirt.
He’s clean-cut, except for that beard. It’s not long enough to style but not short enough to be considered scruff. It throws me off.
Everything about him points at a cleanshaven face, yet he’s got facial hair.
Like, it’s a rebellious act or a disguise.
Hunter is taller than me, but I’d peg him at being just an inch or two over six feet.
His body is obviously fit, although not to the point I’d say it was his favorite pastime. He’s not a gym rat; that much is clear.
Out of his entire appearance, though, the thing that stands out the most is his eyes. Textbook hazel with slightly more green mixing with the honey brown.
“How old are you?” I ask abruptly, and he takes his time chewing before delicately wiping his mouth.
“Twenty-nine, why?”
“I thought you were forty.” I shrug and take a sip of my water.
Chuckling, he leans back in the chair. “Forty?”
“It’s the beard. Makes you look old as fuck.”
“And how about you, then? Sixteen?” he teases with a little smirk.
I narrow my eyes—or try to—and scoff. “I’m twenty-two.”
“Duly noted.” I know he isn't lying about his age when he cracks a smile that isn’t half-assed or pacifying. And there, desperately trying to pop free, are a pair of dimples.
“Yes. So funny,” I drawl before taking an aggressive bite of my pizza.
“Are you from here?” he changes the subject.
“Yup.”
“Olympia for me.”
“Do you still live there?” I ask.
“No, I live in Seattle now.”
It seems like he’s not willing to hand out much, and I don’t want to talk about this anymore, so I focus on my food.
“My dad is the governor,” he says in a rush before making his nervous hair-raking move again.
I lower my fork, feeling the pasta solidify into thin rods. “Seriously?”
“It might’ve come up tomorrow, so I just thought I’d be straightforward.”
Wealth and power. I was right.
He’s also a trust fund baby.
I won’t pretend to know a thing about politics, but those red flags I saw the other day?
They’re back with a vengeance. Men like that don’t help people like me , and certainly not the offspring of them.
Sure, Hunter has said all the right things and comes off like a decent human, but he’s from that world.
The one with color.
The one that left me to rot.
“You can go now,” I rasp, pushing away from the table.
“Gray,” he starts, but I shake my head.
“I’ll stay the night, then leave.”
“I said I’d help you, and I mean it. Who my dad is doesn’t change that fact, alright?”
“But it will. It will ,” I all but shout. “What do you think happens when someone recognizes you? When the host downstairs gets bored and alerts the local news station that the governor’s son is toting around some homeless guy? Sharing a hotel room? Buying him food? Think about it.”
I can tell I struck a nerve as his eyes drop to the floor. “I hadn’t thought that far.”
“Well, I did. I do. How the fuck do you think I made it this long?”
“I’ll figure something else out. We can go to my family’s—”
“I’m not leaving this town. I’m not leaving my fucking home.” It slips out against my will, so I seal my lips, shake my head, and reach for my backpack.
Then I remember I don’t have one anymore.
I’m not even wearing clothes.
I have nothing.
“This is what I was talking about earlier, Hunter,” I whisper, voice clogged with disappointment. “You can’t take someone with nothing and show them something, especially if they don’t get to keep it. I’m leaving tomorrow.” And with that, I hurry to the bathroom to lock myself inside it.
I cover my mouth as tightly as possible while the tears spring free.