Chapter 34 – Marlowe
Chapter Thirty-Four
MARLOWE
Iyank the sheet off the bed, wrap it around myself, and stumble to the door. Scrapes slice into my heels as I run barefoot across the cracked pavement to the room next door. Maybe he’s in Bridger’s room?
He’s not there. The only person inside is the maid, vacuuming. When I step inside, she looks up, startled, and turns off the machine.
“I’m sorry,” I begin, then falter. “Um…the people that stayed here…did they leave?”
“Very early this morning,” she responds, pulling at the hem of her shirt. “Before sunrise.”
“Okay, thanks,” I say, backing out of the room.
My mind races, trying to piece together what the hell could have happened.
Did they need to rush him to the hospital?
Why would he just leave? He told me he was okay, that he wasn’t leaving.
I can’t catch my breath. I reach my room, push the door open, and stop short.
There’s something on the nightstand.
I move closer, the bedsheet slipping off my shoulders, and see a neat stack of cash. I pick it up with trembling hands, and count it out. Five thousand dollars. The money slips from my grip and scatters across the rug.
Five thousand. That’s it. A consolation prize. A payoff. He didn’t even have the nerve to say goodbye. I sit down hard on the edge of the bed, the ache in my chest swelling, choking me.
He left. He actually fucking left.
He took the money and left me here all by myself. Now I have to deal with Joel and Vick and Taylor all on my own. I thought something changed between us last night. The way he touched me, the way he kissed me, it wasn’t just sex. It was something more, at least, I thought it was.
I press my hand to my mouth to hold back a sob, but it rips out of me anyway. I can’t stop the tears now, hot and bitter, spilling down my cheeks. I thought maybe after everything, after the pain and the chaos and the fear, maybe I wasn’t just someone to use and discard. But of course, I was wrong.
After everything that’s happened to me, after everyone who’s used me and let me down, how could I not have known this was how it was going to end up? How could I have been so stupid to think he’d actually want something more from me? That I meant something? I should have known better.
I wrap my arms around myself, the sheet slipping from my shoulders, and I curl up on the bed, sobbing.
I feel so small, so stupid, so fucking used, and I replay every second of last night over in my mind.
His hands on me, his lips, the way he whispered my name like it meant something. All of it a lie.
He just took what he wanted.
I wipe at my tears hard enough to make my cheeks burn, forcing myself to swallow the sobs. Fury builds in my chest, pushing out the hurt, hardening into something I can actually use.
He didn’t make any promises to me. He never said he was going to stick around.
I’m the one who let myself believe it. It’s fine.
I’ll deal with it all. I always do. I take a deep breath and start gathering my clothes scattered around the room.
They’re stained, stiff with dried blood, and the sight of them makes my stomach turn.
I can’t just walk around wearing a cocktail dress straight out of a slasher movie.
I ball up the fabric in my hands and carry it into the bathroom. Plugging the sink, I fill it with scalding hot water and a squirt of hand soap. I scrub the fabric, watching the water turn pink, but most of the stains don’t budge. Great. I’ll need new clothes. Hopefully there’s a boutique close by.
I step into the shower, twisting the knobs, and let the rising steam wrap around me.
I scrub at my skin, hard and relentless, trying to erase the grime and the memory of his hands on me.
I force myself to think of anything else: recipes for new pastries, the stupid leaky pipe in the apartment that makes it so hot, how I’m going to have to hire someone to fix it.
But the way Damian touched me, the way he looked at me, it’s tattooed onto my brain.
I dig my nails into my scalp, forcing myself to focus on the burn of the hot water instead.
I don’t need this misery. I have a bakery to open.
I have to deal with Vick. And if Joel and Taylor come after me, I’ll figure it out. Maybe I’ll hire a bodyguard.
How the hell will I be able to afford that? Maybe I’ll just go to the police. Tell them everything. Put my father in jail where he belongs.
The thought makes me pause, standing under the stream of water, gripping the soap bar so tight it almost slips from my hand. Could I actually do that? Could I finally be done with him?
Yes, I can. Then maybe I’d be able to breathe for the first time in my life.
I scrub at my skin one more time, as if that will help me find the answer.
I pull my still-wet dress back on, grimacing at the uncomfortable, chafing fabric. It scrapes against my skin as I step out into the heat, the dry air turning the wet bloody spots into stiff, uncomfortable patches. My feet ache in the heels.
I head toward the motel office, squinting against the sun. The place is old and run-down, just like the room, but at least the air conditioning is blasting when I step inside.
There’s a boy behind the counter, maybe nineteen, slouched in his chair with his feet up, scrolling through his phone. He glances up when I walk in, eyebrows lifting.
“Hey,” I say, forcing some kind of normalcy into my voice. “Is there a clothing store around here?”
His brow wrinkles as his eyes sweep over my stained, wet clothes, probably wondering why I look like I just crawled out of a dumpster. “Uh . . .” He scratches his head. “There’s a thrift shop a few blocks down. They have some clothes. Are you okay, Miss?”
“Yeah, thanks,” I answer, forcing a tight smile. “Can you point me in the right direction?” I ask, backing away.
His index finger juts to the left.
Stepping back out into the sun again feels like stepping into an oven, and I tug at my hem, trying to keep it from riding up over my ass as I walk.
Each step I take in these shoes makes me cringe, though the pain is a welcome distraction from thinking about Damian.
One step at a time. Between each curse and wince, I try to formulate a plan.
I need clothes, ouch, food, ouch, and ugh, these heels are fucking torture devices, a plan.
The walk takes forever, even though it’s really only a handful of blocks.
The sun is relentless, baking the ground beneath my feet, but at least my dress is drying out.
The motel is far enough behind me that I can almost pretend I’m just a normal person on a normal day.
Yeah, sure—walking in a bloodied prom dress, with a bruise the shape of a handprint across my throat.
Finally, I spot the thrift store, wedged between a pawn shop and a bar that’s playing loud country music.
I push the door open, and a bell chimes overhead.
The place is empty, not another soul shopping, just the scent of old fabric and that weird, musty smell thrift stores always have.
A teenage girl behind the counter nearly jumps out of her skin when I walk in.
She’s leaning against the register, her hands still wrapped around some boy’s shirt collar.
He’s got his hands on her waist, both of them red-faced and guilty.
They scramble apart, muttering apologies like I give a damn.
I swallow down the urge to warn her about men. About how they’ll smile and kiss you like you’re something special, then leave you alone and hunted. But I bite my tongue. Not my business.
I move past them, heading to the racks of clothes. There’s not much: rows of mismatched items sorted mostly by color, not size. I sift through the shirts, my hands moving automatically.
I pull out a faded t-shirt with a retro print that says Blockbuster Video: Be Kind, Rewind.
It’s soft and worn, probably from the early 2000s.
I keep digging until I find a pair of patched-up jeans that look like they might fit.
They’re frayed at the ankles and ripped at one knee, but I can’t be picky.
I just need something clean. I find a pair of old skippy sneakers that are one size too big and a pair of thick fluffy socks.
I grab the clothes and walk back to the counter. The girl is smoothing down her shirt, trying to look professional while the boy has already vanished into a back room.
She gives me a shaky smile. “Did you find everything okay?”
I nod and pull out one of the bills from the nightstand cash stack I have stuck down the front of the dress. A crisp hundred. I hand it over.
Her eyes go wide. “Oh, uh . . . I don’t have change for this.”
My jaw clenches. “Bet you do. Bet if I rip that cash register off the counter and smash it against the wall, a lot of change will fly out.”
Her mouth falls open, and I immediately regret saying it. I sigh, trying to reel in my temper. “Just keep the change,” I mutter.
She gasps, “Seriously?”
“Yeah. Seriously.” I grab a plastic bag from the end of the counter and stuff my new, old clothes inside. I’m not about to change here, not with her looking at me like I’m some kind of psycho. I stalk out of the store, the bell chiming behind me, and hit the sidewalk again.
I feel raw and worn out, like the world’s been grinding me down to nothing. I can still see Damian’s face over me last night, that little flicker of something almost soft. Forget about him, Lo.
I don’t know where I’m going. My feet just keep moving. I can’t seem to stop. I’m too angry and hurt to figure out what to do next.
Before I know it, I’m back at the strip mall where the vet’s office is. The building looks even shabbier in the daylight, the paint on the sign faded and chipped, but it’s the only place that feels remotely safe right now.