This is where I ended up, and I just wanted to sleep.
Pushing Kian out of my head, I swim the length of the pool several times, trying to wear out my body, hoping that will stop my brain from mulling over the past few days.
I cling to the edge of the pool as a Lamborghini with blacked-out windows roars into the parking lot, the engine growling like a beast. Low slung and shiny, the car is lemon yellow, the golden bull emblem sparkling in the sunlight. It parks next to a rusted pickup truck.
“I guess the Four Seasons was booked,” I snark to myself, then wince at my raspy voice. My throat is swollen and aches horribly.
When no one gets out of the car right away, hair rises on the back of my neck.
Wait a minute . . . did Kian rent a different car and follow me?
Nah. He had a bachelor party last night, which means he’s sleeping it off today; plus, I only grabbed a small bag of essentials when I left. My suitcase is still in the room at the Bellagio, along with most of my clothes. For all he knows, I’m wandering around the casinos, pissed at him.
Whatever. It doesn’t matter. I’m overthinking it.
I’ll never let you go, Emmy.
I push Kian’s last words away as I sink underwater, swim to the ladder, and scramble up the steps. I gather my book and sunscreen, then adjust my hair around my shoulder, hiding the purple bruises on my neck. Sliding on my flip-flops, I’m dripping water as I make my way to the gate that leads to the rooms, keeping a wary eye on the car.
The driver’s side door opens, and a dark-haired man gets out.
I’m not even aware of how relieved I am until my shoulders sag. Not Kian.
Stretching his arms up and rolling his neck, the man squints at the sun, swears under his breath, then reaches inside the car. His back is broad. Like, fucking big. He must be at least six and a half feet tall. He thrusts on a pair of aviators and glares at the iguana on the sign as if he’s got a personal vendetta. I don’t know what he has against Darcy.
Muttering a curse, he slams the car door, then shoves a ball cap over his hair. The hat casts his face in shadow, giving him a dark aura.
Lambo looks about as cuddly as a steak knife.
Dressed in designer jeans that cling to his thighs and an expensive-looking button-down with the cuffs rolled up, he has a blade for a nose, sculpted cheekbones, and sensuous lips. Tall. Broad. Muscled. Sex on a stick. Swipe right, ladies.
He takes long strides yet somehow manages to appear graceful—no, scratch that, athletic.
My guess? He’s felt the crack of bone under his hands.
He exudes broodiness. My favorite.
I allow myself to picture just what kind of sexual damage he might cause, wondering at the thrill of being caught up in his arms when he unleashes.
Oh yeah. I’d ride that stallion like a cowgirl gone wild.
I mentally slap myself.
No. More. Men.
My next date will be with a rom-com and a kitten. A cat would be a superb boyfriend—hair balls but no drama.
As I’m picturing kittens dancing around a ball of yarn, Lambo slings a duffel over his shoulder and heads to the front office.
Goodbye, sexy beast. Enjoy your stay at the crappiest motel in Arizona.
Hustling, I head in the opposite direction and take the rusted metal stairwell up to the third-floor-balcony breezeway that leads to my room.
The motel is a squat, crumbling hulk of faded teal stucco with the rooms on the outside. My room is sparse and ugly with ceramic tile instead of carpet and a bed frame that used to vibrate but doesn’t work anymore. As soon as I walked in last night, I stripped off the bedding, checked the mattress for stains, then settled for sleeping on the top sheet with towels as my covers.
Around the motel, tumbleweeds blow and grass pokes through the asphalt. It’s like something out of an old western movie. Last night I heard wolves howling, the lonely sound echoing in the silence. Perhaps I wouldn’t feel so solitary if my headspace were clearer.
There’s a diner across the street and a gas station down the road, yet the motel is far enough from Tucson to see miles and miles of desert. I stood at the edge of it this morning, looking out into its emptiness. Being a city girl, I’d never seen such a sight, and its beauty made my heart swell with appreciation for nature, but there was also fear. It’s a harsh and ambivalent place, one that could swallow me up and never let me go.
Like Kian.
Like any man, really.
Just as I think that, my phone vibrates with a text from him.
Pick up the phone and talk to me!
Bastard. I scroll back. He called me over twenty times while I was in the pool. Guess he knows I left him.
My gut twists, part of me getting a rush that he’s frantic, the other side of me sickened by my response. This thing between me and Kian feels too much like the relationship my mom had with my dad.
Texts pop up, one after another.
Come on, talk to me.
I’m sorry. I fucked up. I never should have put my hands on you. It’s been a hard year, you know that. With you by my side, I’ll be better.
Be better by yourself, jerk.
Yes, he’s had a tough year. He got two DUIs and was removed from the team’s roster, then put money into a restaurant with a friend that later failed. He actually asked me to marry him this weekend. My stomach swirls with anxiety. Doesn’t he know who I am? Marriage is the last thing I want.
Emmy. I was there for you when you needed me. I sat by your side when your gran died. I held you. I didn’t leave. I’m sorry, baby. It will never happen again.
Oh, Kian. That’s what they all say.
Come on, call me. You’re messing with my head.
Nope. I’m done riding his roller coaster. I’m getting off and saying “See you in hell” to his amusement park.
I ram my phone in my bag but miss, and it skitters across the open-air walkway. Cursing, I bend down to swipe it up.
“Hey, gorgeous,” a voice murmurs from behind me, and I whip around in surprise to see Clint Eastwood—not the real one, but a cheap knockoff.
Fake Clint showed up in the motel honky-tonk bar last night in a legit black leather duster, boots, and a hat. He lurked in the shadows cast by the flashing neon lights while I drank at the bar. He made the rounds, chatting up every woman in the place, and I left before he got to me. If he’d been interesting and less of a creep, I might have fooled around with him. Just to get over this awful feeling Kian has left in the pit of my stomach.
Gran said it best: Darling, if he’s no good, pick another pony. Of course, she was talking about the racetrack, but still, it’s a good reference for men as well.