“You’re a…” He couldn’t force the word whore from his lips. “You use your body for money?”
The roses on her cheeks turned cherry-bomb red and spread to her entire face. Burning cinnamon rolled off her.
She glanced down at herself. “It’s none of your damned business how I earn my money.”
“You don’t have to live like that. There are other options.”
She lifted her chin high in the air. “I’m not ashamed of what I do. I work hard for my money. Never mind the ride. I’ll walk.” She stomped away from him.
She was a whore. He let her go. Watched her walk away.
An ugly urge bubbled up from deep inside him. He wanted to hunt down, eviscerate, and then kill every man she’d ever fucked.
The rage died a sudden violent death. He shouldn’t be acting jealous. He should be embarrassed. She hadn’t offered her services to him. Obviously, she couldn’t tell by the way he lived that he had money. Lots of it. He could probably afford to pay her for a decade of her time. The FBI compensated him very well for his unique ability. Money just meant very little to him. Privacy mattered more than currency.
He watched her as she walked across the parking lot toward the road. Her skyscraper legs and those hooker sexy shoes sent a clear message to every dick.
He ran to catch up with her. “Let me give you a ride.”
She acted like she didn’t hear him and kept walking.
“Honey, you’ve got two choices here. Either you’re riding with me to Morty’s, or I’m walking with you.” Morty’s wasn’t far, maybe a half mile, but a lot could happen to her in a half mile.
She reached down, barely breaking her stride, and pulled off her heels—going barefoot. Barefoot. In November.
He stayed with her until they reached the flickering Morty’s Motor Lodge sign.
Low slung and L-shaped, the motel looked like something from a cheap horror flick. The paint on the concrete walls was so drab it had lost its ability to even be considered a color. Each room had a different style of door, like the owner shopped flea markets and garage sales. In the middle of each door, someone with an obvious case of dyslexia had painted a drippy number. The three, five, and seven were backward.
She stopped. The scent of her anger had burned out her during their walk. “It meant a lot to me that you helped me deal with Junior, but you’ve got to grow eyes in the back of your head. Junior’s dad is the new sheriff, and he’s as big an asshole as his son.”
“If Junior gives you any more trouble, let me know.” He wanted her to ask him for his number, but she didn’t. He was thinking like a pizza-faced teenager. “Gill will probably have more questions for you. Will you be here?” He gestured toward the motel.
“For a few weeks.” She twisted her lips up in a smile that was so obviously fake it looked like a grimace. “See you around, Lathan.”
Before he found words to say in response, she walked down the row of dilapidated rooms to the short arm of the L, unlocked number nine, entered the room, and exited his life.
Chapter 5
Each step closer to the motel room felt like she was walking against a strong current. Her brain screamed its resistance to returning to the life of working at Sweet Buns and living at Morty’s.
She entered the motel room. The door swung inward and crashed against the wall like it always did. On the bright side: the room was empty and its double beds were made with fresh sheets and comforters from Morty’s stock of overused, out-of-style, and under-washed linens. Brittany had even plugged in one of those glow-in-the-dark air fresheners. Evanee suspected Brittany was afraid of the dark, but she never mentioned it.
The room looked like it always had, but today Evanee couldn’t tolerate its ugliness. She wanted the light, airy, open atmosphere of Lathan’s home. The sense of safety and security she felt there with him. She’d even take Gill interrogating her over one more moment in this decrepit space.
She left the room, locked the door behind her, and went over to Sweet Buns.
The moment she walked through the back door, Ernie looked up from the grill. The angry planes of his face softened for a moment, but then were replaced with an expression that rivaled Freddy Krueger’s for scare value.
“Where the hell have you been?” He shouted the words. The entire diner went silent. He threw his spatula at the grill with the force of a baseball pitcher. The clang, bang of it rang out like a death knell.
Oh, shit. She was so fired. She might even end up being the dead body he stashed in his freezer.
“Ivy! Get back here and watch the grill!” Ernie tore off his apron, threw it on the floor, and stalked toward Evanee.
This was bad. Beyond bad. Ernie never left the grill. Never. She backed into the door, pushed it open, managed to get one step, just as he reached her.
Should she run? Yell for help?
Slowly, as if giving her time to react, he reached up and tipped her chin to the side. His fingers were gentle, light against her skin. “Who hurt you?” His voice was soft kindness floating over her. She didn’t know his vocal cords had that kind of range.
Absurdly, she wanted to tell him everything about Junior. Miserable memories lined up, each one attached to one name—Junior. She opened her mouth, not sure where to begin, but then noticed Ernie’s gaze was locked on her eyebrow. He only saw her eyebrow—that was it. Had no idea about all the hurt hidden underneath her skin.
She stuffed the lid back down on the garbage can of her life. Waited a second to make certain the lid would hold, and then spoke. “I hit my face.” At his look of disbelief, she elaborated. “On a toilet. I was sick. Vomiting. And kinda passed out for a moment.”
He stepped closer, examined her brow, tilting her chin at odd angles under the light of the back door.
She hadn’t even thought to look in the mirror. “It probably looks worse than it is.”
“What happened? Where were you? Your car was gone, but when I talked to Brittany, she said your wallet was still in the room.”
“You talked to Brittany?”