Chapter 14
FOURTEEN
The one-stop-sign towns of South Texas slid past the 'Cuda's windows.
Dante had kept them off the main highways since Agua Dulce, cutting through back roads that bent and wandered instead of running straight. The journey was far slower but slower meant fewer cameras and fewer eyes.
Jessica rested her temple against the window, letting the vibration of the engine hum through her bones.
The adrenaline had drained out of her in stages, leaving behind a deep ache that had settled into her muscles and refused to leave.
She could still feel the imprint of Dante's hand at her shoulder, the heat of him against her skin, like her body hadn't caught up to the fact that he'd let go hours ago.
She lifted her gaze to the dashboard clock. They had been driving for hours.
“You're weaving,” she said quietly.
It took him a second to respond. He adjusted his grip on the wheel, a small correction that didn't quite disguise the drift she'd noticed.
“I'm fine,” he said. “We're making time.”
“You're not fine. You're running on fumes.”
He didn't look at her. “I'll sleep when we get there.”
“That's still hours,” she said, turning toward him, studying the shadows under his eyes, the tension that hadn't left his shoulders since Santiago's driveway. “And that's if we don't hit traffic near the coast.”
He didn't answer, which told her enough.
“Pull over in the next town,” she said.
“No.”
Jessica exhaled slowly. “Dante.”
“We keep moving. That's how this works.”
“That's how people fall asleep behind the wheel and don't wake up.” The edge crept in despite herself. “There's something coming up—Oakhaven, Oakridge, something. Barely a dot on the map. No one's going to be looking for us in a place like that.”
He checked the rearview mirror, then the side, then the road ahead. “We don't know who owns those motels.”
“We don't know who owns anything. Not the gas stations, not the cars driving past us. At some point you just have to pick your risk.” She paused.
“And right now, the risk is you. If we're going to make it to Galveston and deal with this Miller guy, I need to be able to stand up straight when we get there.”
The engine rumbled as he eased off the accelerator for a yellow light, the first sign of anything resembling a town in miles. The 'Cuda rolled through the intersection as Oakhaven revealed itself in pieces. A grain silo. A row of low buildings with darkened windows. A diner with a flickering sign.
Dante slowed, his fingers tapping once against the steering wheel. Then he turned off the main road.
The motel appeared at the far end of the street, its sign glowing a sickly green against the deepening sky.
THE PALMS.
There were no palms. Just two scorched yuccas in plastic pots and a row of doors that all looked the same. He pulled into the lot and cut the engine.
The quiet rang in Jessica's ears. Neither of them moved.
Dante's hands stayed on the wheel, his head lowering until his forehead rested against it, as though stopping had finally allowed something in him to give.
Jessica watched him, then let her gaze drift to the rundown motel.
It didn’t exactly scream “safety”. But it was still, and dark, and quiet, and right now that was going to have to be good enough.
Dante stayed in the car for a slow count of ten, his gaze sweeping the lot. Other than an old Ford F-150 near the far fence, they were alone.
“Stay in the car,” he said. “Doors locked. If you see anything you don't like—cruiser, SUV, anyone lingering—you move to the driver's seat and go. Don't wait for me.”
Jessica turned toward him. “Dante, you can barely keep your eyes open. Let me—”
He was already out of the car.
The gravel shifted under his boots as he crossed the lot, each step heavy as tiredness dragged through his limbs. His back prickled with that familiar, unwelcome awareness. He felt exposed.
In the lobby, a scratched acrylic partition separated the counter from the rest of the room, and behind it sat an elderly man with stringy white hair.
He didn't look up until Dante's shadow crossed the desk.
“One room,” Dante said.
The clerk's eyes lifted, but not to his face. They tracked his arms first, taking in the gang ink, then drifted up to the faded cross tattoo beneath his eye, and then past him, through the glass. To the 'Cuda.
“That's a lot of car for a place like this,” the clerk said, his voice dry and unhurried.
“It gets me where I need to go. How much for the night?”
“Eighty. Twenty more if you're paying cash. Need an ID.”
Dante felt the familiar tightening in his chest. “Left my wallet at a rest stop near Refugio,” he said, pulling a crumpled stack of bills from his pocket and sliding them forward. “This covers the room and your memory.”
The clerk didn't touch the cash right away. His gaze had shifted again, angling past Dante toward the car, where the motel's flickering neon caught the sequins of Jessica's dress.
“The girl,” he said. “She in trouble?”
Dante didn't hesitate. “She's my wife. We've had a long day, and we're not looking to make it longer.”
The man's eyes came back to him, measuring.
Then his hand closed over the money. A small brass key slid across the counter.
“Twelve,” he said. “Back corner. Camera's dead on that side.” A pause. “Keep it quiet.”
“You won't get any trouble from us.”
Dante stepped back out into the night. He didn't like how the clerk had looked at Jessica. He especially didn't like how the car sat in this lot like a fucking signal flare.
He reached the 'Cuda and opened the door. Jessica hadn't moved; she was still angled toward the window, still coiled tight.
“We're in,” he said.
Her eyes flicked toward the lobby, then back to him. “He saw me.”
“He saw money.”
He didn't start the engine. His gaze had dropped to the chain at her throat—the glint of gold resting just below her collarbone. He'd spent two years in a dark garage imagining that ring on her finger.
“Put it on,” he said.
Jessica stilled. “What?”
“The ring. I told him you're my wife. You walk around here without it, he starts asking questions.”
She looked down at the chain, then back at him. “You don't get to just—”
“I need you to.”
Something moved through her expression that he couldn't hold onto; it came and went too fast, and he had the sense that if he looked too closely at what was underneath it, neither of them would survive the next five minutes in this car.
She didn't speak for a long moment. Then she reached up and unclasped the chain. Her fingers weren't steady. She slid the ring free and held it for a moment, just looking at it, and he watched her throat work once before she put it on.
It fit perfectly. It had always fit.
Dante felt a fire ignite in his gut. Seeing that stone on her finger didn't make him feel like a protector; it made him feel like a man who was about to lose his mind.
He looked at her hand, then up at her mouth, and for a heartbeat, he almost leaned across the console and ended the two-year drought right there.
“Okay,” he said, voice thick. “Let's go.”
He put the 'Cuda in gear and rolled to the back of the motel.
He pulled into the spot behind Room 12. The door was a faded blue, the paint bubbling from the heat. He cut the headlights but kept the car running for a moment, listening to the silence.
“We leave at five,” Dante said. “Before the sun is up. Before anyone notices we were here.”
Jessica didn’t answer, though he felt her attention shift toward him. He reached for the key, for his bag, for anything that kept his hands occupied and away from her.
The motel room lock turned, and the door opened on a stale pocket of air that smelled faintly of mildew and old perfume.
He stepped inside and flicked the light.
The room came into view in a tired wash of yellow laminate surfaces, heavy curtains, a plastic chair in the corner. And in the center of the room, under a thin, polyester bedspread, sat a single, sagging queen-sized bed.
Dante stopped in the doorway. “There's only one.”
Jessica stepped in behind him, the door closing with a soft click that sounded too final for something so small.
“It’s fine,” she said, though there was a crack in it. “It’s just a bed.”
Dante moved to the window, peeling the curtain back a fraction, checking the car, the lot, the long stretch of nothing beyond it.
The motion gave him something to focus on that wasn’t the fact that she was here, that she was close, that the ring on her finger had turned a lie into something dangerously convincing.
“I’ll take the floor,” he said, dropping his bag by the wall.
“The floor is concrete under that carpet,” she replied. “You’ll last an hour before your back locks up.”
“I’ve slept on worse.”
She hadn’t moved far from the door, but something in her had shifted. “It’s a big enough bed,” she added, softer now.
Dante exhaled slowly, the sound dragging out of him. “Jessica—”
“We’re not those people anymore,” she said, cutting him off, though there was no bite in it this time. “You already made that clear.”
She crossed the room and sat on the edge of the mattress, the springs giving beneath her. Her hand drifted to the ring on her finger, turning it once.
Dante watched her do it, then made himself stop. He leaned forward, bracing his forearms on his knees, staring at the carpet. “You should take the bed. Get some sleep.”
She let out a quiet breath, almost a laugh. “Sleep,” she repeated. “Right.”
The reality of their situation didn't hit Jessica when the door locked. It hit her when she walked into the bathroom and saw the two wafer-thin towels hanging over a rusted rack.
She had nothing. No toothbrush. No cleanser to strip the stage makeup that felt welded to her skin. No change of clothes. Not even underwear.