CHAPTER 1 #4
The words repeated in her head like a dark mantra every time she pressed her finger against the camera's shutter button.
She remembered the sheer size of the bulge resting beneath her palm under the coffee shop table.
She remembered the heat of his skin, the low vibration of his voice when he had laid down his terms without an ounce of hesitation.
Gray had texted her at two o'clock. She pulled her phone out of her pocket while standing near the flamingos, her thumb sliding over the glass screen.
Gray: Hey sweetie! Hope the zoo shoot is going well. Are we still on for tacos tonight? I bought some fresh cilantro on my way home.
Jayla had stared at the message for a long thirty seconds. A tight, cold knot of guilt tried to form in her chest, but it was quickly obliterated by the heavy, thumping desire that had been building inside her all day. She typed back with steady fingers.
Jayla: Hey babe! Shoot is going super late. The director wants evening lighting shots of the night exhibits for the new nocturnal campaign. Won't be done until after nine. Go ahead and eat without me! Love you!
Gray: Oh bummer! Okay, save some energy. I'll leave a plate in the fridge for you. Love you too!
She locked the phone and slid it back into her camera bag.
It was done. The lie was complete, neat, and entirely believable.
Gray wouldn't check on her. He wouldn't call the zoo.
He would eat his tacos, watch a baseball game on the couch, fold his laundry, and go to bed early, entirely oblivious to the fact that his wife was about to walk into an entirely different life downtown.
***
By six o'clock, the sun had begun its final descent toward the horizon, painting the sky in deep shades of purple, dark orange, and bruised magenta. The zoo visitors had cleared out, the heavy iron gates locking behind the final family.
Jayla packed her heavy lenses into her leather bag, zipped it tight, and slung it over her shoulder. She walked through the cooling evening air toward the parking lot, her boots clicking rhythmically against the asphalt.
She climbed into her Jeep, slammed the heavy door shut, and turned the key in the ignition. The engine roared to life with its familiar, deep hum.
She didn't turn on the radio. She drove in total silence, her hands gripped tightly around the leather wheel as she merged onto the freeway, heading toward the downtown core.
The city shifted around her as the sun disappeared entirely. Bright neon signs began to flicker to life against the dark urban landscape—liquor stores, diners, gas stations, and old apartment complexes.
Traffic was thick, a sea of red taillights stretching out ahead of her like a bleeding river.
Jayla sat in the middle of it, her breathing shallow, her eyes fixed on the road ahead.
Her left hand rested on her thigh, her fingers occasionally pressing into her own denim, feeling the tight, swollen heat beneath her jeans.
Her heart was hammering against her ribs so hard she could feel it in her throat.
She wasn't terrified; she was consumed. The quiet, orderly life she had built with Gray felt miles away now, reduced to a small, distant memory.
Right now, the only thing that existed in the universe was a clock ticking toward seven o'clock, a neon sign waiting in the dark, and a broad-shouldered man named Drew.
She pulled off the freeway exit at six-fifty.
The neighborhood was older, industrial, filled with low-slung brick warehouses and dimly lit side streets. And there, sitting at the corner of 4th and Elm, glowing under a flickering halo of red and yellow neon, was the sign she had been searching for.
THE RED MOTEL:
Jayla slowed the Jeep down, her pulse spiking into a frantic, wild rhythm as she pulled through the narrow asphalt driveway and into the parking lot.
The parking lot was largely empty, save for a few beat-up sedans and a dark delivery van parked near the ice machine. The air outside smelled of old rain, exhaust fumes, and damp concrete.
Jayla parked her Jeep in a dark corner near the perimeter fence, well away from the streetlights. She cut the engine. The sudden silence inside the vehicle was deafening.
She sat in the dark cabin for a full minute, her hands resting on the steering wheel, her eyes fixed on the long row of blue doors lining the second story of the motel walkway.
Room sixty-three was at the far end of the ground floor, tucked away behind a rusted staircase. A faint yellow light shone through the small, curtained window beside the door.
Jayla reached over, grabbed her purse, and adjusted her rear-view mirror.
In the dim light of the dashboard, her face looked pale, her dark eyes luminous and wide.
She reached into her bag, pulled out her small bottle of perfume, and sprayed a light mist over her neck and wrist—a dark, woodsy scent with notes of black plum and amber.
She checked her phone.
6:58 PM
She locked her phone, shoved it into her back pocket, and stepped out of the Jeep.
The cool evening air hit her skin, making her nipples harden instantly against the lace of her bra beneath her silk blouse.
She locked the Jeep with a sharp beep, adjusted the strap of her purse over her shoulder, and began walking across the cracked asphalt toward the door that waited at the end of the line.