Chapter 6 Ash
ASH
When I wake up however many hours later in the motel room, curled up on my side beneath the covers—and it must be fairly late, the parking lot beyond the windows having grown dim and dusky—I’m feeling much better.
And I’m ravenous, too. My stomach’s snarling audibly and my head’s hurting a little, but that’s from hunger more than anything else.
I need to eat before that changes; it’s only going to get worse and that means more attacks.
Insisting on skipping lunch was a mistake, I think, but I thought it would mean we would get farther. And farther meant safer.
For now, though, I wipe the myriad concerns from my mind—there’s nothing I can do about it, after all—as I stretch my arms out in front of me.
I don’t actually remember coming in this room or getting into bed.
When the attacks come quick like that, rapid succession, they sap all my energy and then I’m no better than a narcoleptic.
I can only assume Sam took the time to put me to bed and tuck me in.
And he even removed my Chucks, which are paired neatly by the door.
Thoughtful.
And then I roll over and immediately come face to face with the man in question.
Blink soundlessly at his face in shock, which is so very near, and my mouth launches open to ask why on earth he’s asleep in my bed when there surely must be another perfectly good one for him to hog—but he’s passed out, too.
And I don’t want to wake him. I guess. Not just yet. Also, I don’t mind him being there, not at all. I’ve known and shared beds with men for far less time than I have with Sam. And I’ve liked them a lot less, too.
I lie there very still and watch him, just for a minute, where he sleeps atop the covers in just his T-shirt and boxers.
He looks quite young, face slack in repose, with tousled waves draped across his forehead.
Long lashes cast down along those strong cheekbones that look much rounder when squished against a pillow, and I didn’t notice before, somehow, that he has a tiny dimple in his chin. Of course he does.
I lean over carefully to examine the clock on the nightstand.
It’s past seven, which means we slept for—what, two hours?
It seems almost a shame to wake Sam up. Between the driving and dealing with me, he must be exhausted.
I haven’t thought about it much before, but I must be a rather exhausting person.
He really is a good-looking guy. Broad shoulders and chest tapering down to a narrow waist that flares out again into a round ass and muscular thighs.
I have to wonder what flaw of personality made his girlfriend call it quits, because it certainly isn’t his looks.
Is it really because he’s a scrub? I don’t even know if that’s necessarily true.
Different, to not know what you want exactly, to be indecisive.
He’d been driven enough to make the two-day excursion just to see her.
In fact, it seems so terribly romantic in my limited view of things.
Then again, he was trying to bang a bartender the night I met him. So…
But hey, what do I know? I’ve never had a relationship in my life and I’ve never really been interested in one.
Didn’t have time for one. Seemed pretty tiring, actually, after everything.
Mike’s always had a boyfriend or girlfriend, and even Jules has a girl he brings around every now and then, but not me.
Ben was the closest I ever got to someone, and even then we’d been friends before anything else.
But then he went and met someone, and they went to Miami together.
A vision that hadn’t initially included me, but had expanded to try.
I was the one who’d balked. A combination of things—money, apathy, and yes, maybe even jealousy.
Not the romantic kind, but the sort where you don’t want to be picked last in dodgeball when you always are, anyway.
I sit up and touch Sam’s shoulder. “Hey,” I say.
He grunts and his eyes flicker open. They’re hazy and unfocused as they flit around the room, trying to make sense of the surroundings, before landing on me. Which is when he sort of bucks back with a snort like a startled horse, nearly clipping my chin in the process.
“Oh shit,” he mutters. “Sorry, Ash. Uh...” He rubs his face on first one shoulder and then the other. “Shit. I didn’t mean to sleep for so long.” And then, belatedly, “The bed thing—they didn’t have anything else left—”
“Figured as much, yeah,” I say, bemused.
“I can sleep on the floor,” he offers.
“It’s fine, Sam. I don’t care at all.”
“Okay. Cool. As long as it’s…not weird. Or whatever.”
He twists to get a look at the clock and his boxers sort of gape in the front, which gives me a very explicit glimpse to the sort of heat he’s packing, because he’s got a fucking half-chub from waking up.
And, you know, even that part of him is beautiful, the brief look I get: thick, dark and uncut.
My mouth goes unaccountably dry, though for what reason I don’t know. I’ve seen about a thousand dicks at this point, all makes and models, and they fail to move me much anymore. Now I feel half-inclined to get between Sam’s legs and see just how big it is at full mast.
“Ay, it’s fucking late,” he remarks.
I clear my throat. “I’m starving.”
“Ditto.” He throws his legs over the side of the bed—goodbye, cock—and grabs his jeans off the floor. “You think this place has room service or something?” he asks me over his shoulder with a grin.
My mouth twitches. “I don’t think so, Sam. Should we call the front desk and ask?”
He laughs, standing as he pulls his pants up and over his ass.
He’s zipped up by the time he turns around, which is unfortunate, but also I don’t need to be thinking about his dick so it’s for the best and I don’t know why I am, anyway.
“Could you imagine? That kid wouldn’t know what the fuck to do. ”
“Tormenting the locals already?”
“He tormented me,” Sam protests. “He imparted me with knowledge against my will.”
“God. You poor thing.” I throw the covers off and get out of bed too, snatching my bag out of the lone, worn chair in the corner.
I have a stray, panicked thought—what if Sam looked?
—but it sort of wanders off as quickly as it came.
I guess the funny thing is, within twenty-four hours of knowing him, I’ve come to trust my newfound companion.
If he meant me some kind of harm, then said harm would’ve manifested by now. Right? Probably.
“Did you know,” Sam intones, grabbing his keys and meeting me by the door, “that the historic town of Millstone Gap has a population of only fifteen hundred?”
“Wow. I bet it’s got one whole stoplight.” I squat down to lace up my sneakers. “Why’s it so popular, then?”
He makes a face and drops the schtick immediately. “I don’t fucking know. Some Civil War shit? I stopped listening to his rant about five seconds in.”
“Ah. Indicating its enduring role on the wrong side of history.” I straighten. “Come on. Let’s walk around and look.”
We slip outside into the humid evening, Sam’s shoulder bumping mine as we cross the parking lot. “We could drive,” he points out. “If you’re not up to it. If you’re still feeling crappy.”
“This town’s tiny, right? Not worth the wasted gas.”
And it is. Adjacent to the motor lodge we have the option of McDonalds, but we pass it up in favor of the cozy-looking diner across the intersection. A bell tinkles overhead as we enter, and a fresh-faced waitress behind the counter entreats us to sit wherever we wish.
We pick the first booth we see near the door. The joint’s neither crowded nor empty, and there’s a pleasant hum of chatter running undercurrent to the radio as we peruse the sticky, laminated menus.
“Oh, man.” Sam’s enthusiastic. “I can’t even decide. Biscuits and gravy, shrimp and grits…fuck, it’s good to be below the Mason-Dixon again.”
I hold the menu gingerly by its corner. “What are grits?”
“What?” His mouth drops in shock. “It’s, y’know—southern comfort? How have you never had it?”
“I’m from Providence,” I say, and then immediately regret it. Even more when he gives me a blank look because oh, great, the dude doesn’t even know where it is. “Rhode Island,” I clarify stiffly.
“Oh. Oh!” Sam claps his hands together with a shit-eating grin. “You’re actually sharing something about yourself. Okay. It just caught me off guard for a sec.”
“I’ve shared plenty,” I mutter, knowing that isn’t true.
And why did I just volunteer that information?
Where had that even come from? This is the problem with getting too comfortable with people, letting your guard down for even five seconds because that’s all the time you need to hang yourself, really.
It’s just, well, he’s so damn nice and personable.
It’s like trying to ignore a big friendly dog constantly butting up against you for affection.
You can’t help but lean down and get your face licked.
Or you can, but you feel like a total asshole about it.
He is so relentlessly nice when he looks like someone who doesn’t need to be.
“Here are the things I know about you.” Sam leans forward, ticking them off his fingers one by one. “Your name is Ash…something. You want to go to Miami. You got shot. And you’re from Rhode Island.” He wiggles four fingers in my face. “Four whole things. You are not exactly an open book.”
I brush his hand away. “I told you my age,” I remind him, if only to make it seem like I have, in fact, shared things, and if that’s true maybe he will be less curious. It’s a stupid Hail Mary and I know it. “And I have epilepsy,” I add.
“Okay. Six things.” He concedes the last technicality with more grace than he should, considering I’d seized in his very arms mere hours ago. “So you really hitchhiked from Providence to New Haven?”
“Yeah. Not that far.” A hundred nothing miles.