She clutches the steering wheel even tighter. “Huh?”
“Why are you so freaked out?”
I watch her swallow. “Okay, well. It’s going to sound crazy, and I’m sure I’m just being jumpy and overdramatic, but…” She chews on her lip. “My mom sort of owes my ex-boss twenty thousand dollars. And Big Joe wanted to collect from me right before I left Chicago by making me work at his diner for free, or something like that. And when I quit he sort of threatened me so I fled town.”
My eyes widen. “And you didn’t think to mention this sooner? Like say, before we agreed to chain our wrists together and make ourselves one incredibly awkward and slow-moving target?”
“I didn’t think Big Joe would come after me!” Her voice squeaks.
“Listen. There’s no need to stress.” I say. “That black car is probably just some little old lady on her way to get groceries.” I inhale softly. “No one is coming after you.”
I look calm, but oh. My. God. Kayla has some Chicago diner villain coming after her for twenty grand? Holy shit. That’s like movie-quality drama. And I’m handcuffed to it!
“You’re right.” She nods and takes a steadying breath. “I’m probably just being paranoid.”
I give her a reassuring smile. “Exactly. Everything’s fine.” I tap my fingers on the center console then furrow my brow. “Wait. If your mom passed away, how does she owe someone money?”
She shrugs. “She must have borrowed it before she died. I knew nothing about the debt until after she was gone.”
I stop tapping my fingers. “So… your mom siphoned all the money out of your trust fund in addition to borrowing twenty thousand dollars from a restaurant thug?”
“Yeah,” she says slowly, her eyes flicking to the side.
I look out the window. “That’s a lot of money. Do you have any guesses on where it all went?”
“I have my theories,” she mutters.
But she doesn’t say anything else on the matter so neither do I.
Several minutes later, the black sedan disappears and Kayla visibly relaxes. The seriousness with which she’s taking the whole Big Joe debt thing alarms me. I don’t know what we’re in for. Mobsters with guns. Street thugs with baseball bats. A lawyer with a strongly worded letter. It could be anything, really.
But fortunately, Kayla no longer has to face “anything” alone. She has me, bound to her side at all times. For a fleeting moment I’m ridiculously grateful for James Turner and his handcuffs idea.
Soon, we pull into the Quickie Stop. I look over the old motel and let out a low whistle.
It really is a shady dump and looks like the setting of a low-budget porno flick. I glance at Kayla as she parks and grabs her purse from the backseat.
Why in the hell is she staying at a shithole like this? Especially with someone who may or may not be coming after her for money. She’s way too pretty and sweet to even step foot onto the premises, let alone lay her pretty head on one of the nasty room pillows.
I wrinkle my brow as she rummages through her purse. Is she really as broke as she claims? Is she so low on cash that she chose the frugality of this place over the safety of Willow Inn or Martha’s Bed & Breakfast?
Well I don’t like that idea at all.
Not just because I hate the fact that she’s sleeping at this dank motel, but because her being poor puts a serious dent in my plans to keep the entire inheritance for myself. I was okay with ripping her off when I thought she was a selfish brat who could afford to sail around the world in a yacht. But now that I know just how not selfish or spoiled she is and how difficult things are for her financially right now, taking money from her is no longer an option. Especially after how Gia robbed the trust fund.
I run my eyes over Kayla’s small hands, still digging around in her purse, and my chest tightens. There’s no way I could ever steal from this girl.
She pulls out her room key—which is an actual metal key hanging from a tacky green plastic keychain—from the depths of her bag and starts to get out of the car.
I get out of the car as well and follow her to door #3. The motel only has sixteen doors. Two look busted and unused, while the others are scraped up and covered in questionable stains and dents.
Bars are in front of every room window, laced with cobwebs and dirt. And the small lights that hang outside each door give off a dull orange glow, which makes the place look like something from a horror movie.
What. In. The. Hell?
As Kayla inserts the key and opens door #3, visions of the world’s creepiest game show pop into my head.
What’s behind door number three? A dead guy! And what’s behind door number two? A murderous clown with a butcher knife!
Flicking the switch inside, Kayla lights up the tiny motel room and I can’t help but make a face.
Shaggy orange carpet sticks up from the floor, matted in some places and clumped together in others. The full-size mattress on the bed is lopsided and covered in a stiff bedspread from the 1970s. It’s orange with brown and green stripes, and has several cigarette burns in it. The smell of stale smoke and urine fills the air, while mysterious stains coat the walls and ceiling—yes, ceiling—complementing the various cracks and dents in the drywall. And the small bathroom in the back has a toilet that looks clean enough, but is probably disgusting inside, and a yellowing sink beneath an old mirror marbled with gold.
A cockroach skitters across the bathroom floor before disappearing into a small hole behind the toilet.
“Yeah, no. We’re not staying here,” I say, shaking my head as Kayla tries to walk us into the room.
She swings her head to me. “Why not? Is my hotel room not good enough for you, Pretty Boy?”
“Your motel room isn’t good enough for the cockroach I just saw dance across the bathroom tile.”
“Well I’m sorry I can’t afford five-star accommodations everywhere I go like your family, but this is how normal people live.”
I want to correct her about my family’s lifestyle, but there’s no point. “This is not how normal people live,” I say. “This is how lowlifes with drug addictions and sex appointments live.”
She juts her chin. “Well too bad. This is where we’re sleeping tonight. It’s been good enough for me for the past two nights, and it will be good enough for you tonight. So suck it up.” She shuts the door behind us and secures the three locks on the back.
It’s a bad sign when the motel installs three fucking locks on their guest room doors.
I open my mouth to protest once again, but think better of it. Our only other option isn’t much better than this, if I’m being honest with myself. And if Kayla’s going to be sleeping in a shithole like this, at least I’ll be with her, which makes me feel a little bit better about tonight. It makes me feel downright pissed about the last two nights, though.
Looking around, I notice the only personal item in the room is a suitcase on the bed. Inside the suitcase are a few clothes and some personal items: a framed picture, a few books, some papers. When Kayla said she “fled” Chicago I assumed she meant temporarily. But why would she bother packing such things if she planned on returning to Chicago?