Chapter 5
Brielle Shaw?
I pull into the lot in front of the motel, engine ticking as it cools.
It’s the cheapest one in Ironvale—maybe in the whole county.
Cracked asphalt parking lot, faded yellow lines, half the bulbs in the sign burnt out.
Midway Inn, except the I flickers so it just says Midway nn.
Graffiti scrawled across the side wall in marker and spray paint, half-covered by older paint jobs that gave up the fight a long time ago.
Seventy bucks a night. More than I should spend.
More than I have to spend, if I’m being honest.
But it’s late. I stayed longer than planned at Desmond’s.
Again. And my hair’s reached a point where even I can’t ignore it—it’s heavy, greasy, pulled into a bun that feels like a clump of wet rope at the back of my head.
I’ve been hiding it under my hood for days, pretending it doesn’t matter. But it does.
I need a shower. A real one. Not a gas station sink. Not a water bottle rinse-off in the car. A proper shower. With pressure. And hot water. And soap that doesn’t come out of a public restroom dispenser.
And maybe, just maybe, a bed.
A real bed. With a mattress. With space to stretch my legs. With clean sheets that don’t smell like vinyl and stale air.
I shut off the engine and sit there for a second, fingers still curled around the keys, staring at the crooked neon in the window. There’s no front desk, just a night window with a bell and a sliding tray for cash. They don’t ask for ID here. Just money up front. No questions.
I open my wallet, count what’s left.
Barely enough. But enough.
It’s a lot—for one night.
But tonight, I need to feel like a human again. Just for a few hours. Not a stray. Not someone killing time in parking lots, rinsing her hair in public restrooms, folding herself into the backseat like a suitcase. Just a person. A woman. Clean, fed, and horizontal in something that isn’t a car.
Maybe that’s worth seventy bucks.
Maybe it’s worth more than I know.
The room smells like bleach and dust. The light’s a little too yellow. There’s a stain on the carpet shaped like a bootprint someone tried to scrub out and gave up on. But the door locks. The shower works. And the bed doesn’t fold. That’s already enough.
I strip down, step into the shower, and let the water hit my back.
The pressure’s mediocre at best, but it still feels like heaven compared to what I’ve had lately.
Warmth runs down my spine and I close my eyes, breathing in steam like it might erase the week off me.
I wash my hair twice. Watch the grime and grease spiral down the drain like it’s taking pieces of the past with it.
I rinse out my clothes in the tub and hang them over the shower rod to dry. Then I throw on my spare hoodie—clean, finally—and flop onto the bed.
I should be out cold in minutes. I should be.
But I’m not.
Instead, I lay there staring at the ceiling, tracing the shadows the TV doesn’t cast, and thinking about Desmond.
And Leon.
And the fact that his wife—ex, now—cheated on him and just… walked away. Like it was easy. Like it was nothing. Like she could forget that baby in a bassinet and sleep fine afterward.
It seems insane to me. Unforgivable.
I mean, I know I don’t really know Desmond.
Not really. I don’t know what he’s like when he’s pissed off or pushed too far.
I don’t know if he raises his voice or shuts down or breaks things.
But something in me says… he’s not that kind.
He’s not a shouter. He doesn’t throw hands.
He doesn’t lash out just because the world’s been cruel to him.
He just works.
Hard. Quiet. Steady. Carries everything on his back without asking anyone to help lighten the load.
And yeah… I’ve noticed him. It’s hard not to.
The hazel eyes that shift depending on the light. The way his jaw tightens when he’s thinking too hard. That rough stubble that makes him look a little dangerous, but not in the way that scares you—more like the kind that makes you wonder what he’d be like if he wanted you.
And then there’s his body. Solid. Heavy-built from lifting steel and fire for a living. His arms alone could write poetry in a woman’s head without saying a word.
I don’t care who you are—there’s no woman on earth who’d look at him and not wonder. Even just a little. Not when he’s got that quiet protector thing going. The bruised-but-loyal kind. The kind you think about when you’re alone in a motel bed that smells like lemon cleaner and old heat.
I roll over. Try to close my eyes.
But Desmond stays with me.
So does Leon—his soft little laugh, his tiny fists grabbing at my hoodie, the weight of him warm against my chest when he dozes off. I didn’t mean to get attached, but it’s happening. Quietly. Like moss growing over something cracked.
I let out a quiet snort into the motel pillow, bitter at myself. At the whole stupid ache blooming in my chest.
Like someone like him would ever look at someone like me.
Desmond’s the kind of man who stays. The kind who keeps showing up, even when it’s hard.
Who comes home bone-tired but still asks how the baby was, who says thank you like he means it, who notices when your hair’s a mess but doesn’t say a damn word.
The kind who keeps food in the fridge and a roof over his kid’s head, even if it’s held together by grit and duct tape.
And me? I’m a ghost in borrowed hoodies.
A long stretch of bad decisions and worse luck.
A girl who keeps running and doesn’t know how to stop without flinching.
Who sleeps in a car more often than a bed.
Who can barely look at herself in the mirror most days without seeing every man who ever said you’re not enough.
People like me don’t get people like Desmond.
We break them.
We drag them down.
And we hate ourselves for it after.
I turn my face into the pillow, eyes burning. Doesn’t matter that he’s kind. Doesn’t matter that he makes room for me at the counter and always says I did a good job. That’s just who he is.
And me?
I’m not someone you build a life with.
I’m the lesson before the real thing.
And I know better than to start wanting anything more than what I already have.
Even if, just for a moment, it felt like home.
----
Desmond Coyle
Saturday passed weird. Off-balance. Like something in the air shifted and never settled.
Leon was fussier than usual—wouldn’t nap right, wouldn’t eat the way he normally does, cried over things he usually shrugged off. I held him, rocked him, did the walk-up-and-down-the-hallway routine until my knees ached. Still, he whined. Sobbed like his whole world was missing something.
“Guess I’m not Brielle, huh?” I mutter under my breath as he cries again, face scrunched, little fists beating against my chest like I’m the one that broke his heart.
It’s not colic. Not gas. Not teething. I know my kid. He’s lonely.
And yeah… I think he misses her.
Which is a hell of a thing to admit out loud. He never cried when Lizzie left. Never reached for the door, never searched the apartment like he’d lost something. It was like he didn’t even notice. Or maybe he did and just learned faster than most that some people don’t come back.
But Brielle? He’s bonded to her in a way that’s got weight. Like he knows she’s safe. Like he trusts her more than he’s ever trusted anyone not made of blood and bone.
And me? I can’t stop thinking about her either.
She’s been in my damn head all weekend. Between loads of laundry and holding Leon at 3 a.m., I keep seeing her—curled up on my couch, eyes soft from sleep, hair a tangled mess and still somehow the prettiest damn thing I’ve looked at in months.
She’s not flashy. Doesn’t try to be. Doesn’t flirt or linger too long.
But it’s in the little things. The way she hums when she cleans bottles.
The way she talks to Leon like he’s already a full person.
The way she sits cross-legged on the floor and reads out loud like it’s the most important job in the world.
And yeah… I’ve imagined some things.
Scenarios, sure. The kind that creep in when the house is quiet and my head’s too loud. The kind that start out harmless, then spiral into something else before I can stop them.
Like what she’d feel like under me.
What those tits would feel like in my hands—soft, full, just as heavy as they look when she leans forward to pick Leon up.
I catch myself staring sometimes, then feel like a bastard for it.
But hell, I’m a man. I notice. And with her?
It’s not just looks. It’s the way she moves.
The quiet, unassuming way she carries herself.
Like she doesn’t know she’s got that body. Like no one ever told her.
I wonder if she’d like it rough. If she’d pull my hair and claw my back and beg for more with that sweet, low voice gone breathless and wrecked.
Or if she’s soft in bed—sweet moans, eyes fluttering, hands gripping tight like she doesn’t want to let go.
I wonder what face she makes when she comes.
If she bites her lip or cries out. If her eyes would go all glassy and dark when I kiss her slow, tongue in her mouth, my hand creeping between her thighs.
And that Friday night?
Yeah. I was dead on my feet, covered in steel dust and ache, but still—
I stepped into the shower and let the water run hot.
Got myself hard thinking about her—really thinking about her.
Not just the way she looks, but the way she was.
Sitting on my couch, soft and half-asleep, trusting me enough to stay.
I wrapped my hand around my cock and stroked one out to the thought of her lips parted, her chest rising and falling under that hoodie, her breath hitching when I slide between her legs.
It was fast. Messy. Not proud of it. But I slept better that night than I had in weeks.
And that? That scares me more than anything else.
Because it means she’s under my skin now. Deep. Quiet. Like rust. Like something that started small and slow, and by the time you notice, it’s already eaten through the metal.
And the thing is—I don’t know her. Not really. Not beyond the basics.
She’s twenty-five. My kid adores her. She works harder than most people I know for a hell of a lot less. Shows up every day on time. Doesn’t complain. Doesn’t ask for more. Leaves everything better than she found it.
But past that? She’s a locked door.
Brielle never talks about herself. Not really. Never said where she’s from, or where she’s headed, or why she even stopped in Ironvale to begin with. Just showed up, soft-voiced and wary-eyed, and slotted into our life like she’d always been part of it.
All I know for sure is there’s damage there. That much is obvious. In the way she flinches when someone startles her. The way she always checks the door’s locked, twice. The way her shoulders tense when I raise my voice, even if it’s not at her.
She’s carrying something heavy.
What?
Who?
Why?
No clue.
It should bother me more. It does bother me, if I’m honest.
I’ve got a kid to protect. But there’s never been a moment—not one—where I thought she’d be anything but safe for Leon.
She’s got that instinct. The kind that can’t be faked.
The way she looks at him, holds him, talks to him like he matters.
And maybe that’s why I’m so twisted about all this.
Because it’s pathetic, really. Me, standing in the shower with one hand braced on the tile, getting off to the image of a girl I barely know—someone who lives like a ghost, never says where she goes at night, never asks for anything she doesn’t need.
Maybe it’s just stress. Maybe I just need to blow off steam. Get laid. Stop picturing my kid’s nanny in my bed—naked, moaning, arching under me like she was made for it.
But even that feels hollow.
Because it’s not just the sex I picture.
It’s her laugh.
It’s her making coffee barefoot in my kitchen.
It’s her falling asleep on the couch with Leon curled up on her chest.
And that? That’s what really screws with me.
Because you can jerk off a fantasy.
But you don’t daydream about someone like that unless you’re starting to want them.