There was a week’s worth of a fee for the parking lot, and we were off. I didn’t know where in Miami we were headed, but I hoped there would be a view of the ocean. We weren’t on the interstate long when blue showed up at the horizon.
My eyes grew wide as the interstate turned into a bridge and the ocean finally came into view. The sign read Miami Beach. It’d been years since I’d been to the beach, since college. Before then, I used to travel to Sanibel Island with my parents every year, sometimes twice a year.
Granted, I knew that there was a high likelihood no beach lounging would be going on, but there was still the warm, salty breeze and sun that always seemed to melt everything away. And that was something I was in desperate need of.
I made a little whimper, then chanced a tentative peek in Six’s direction. “I will fuck you so hard, squeeze your cock so tight, let you do whatever you want to me, if you will just let me have a few hours to sun on the beach and play in the waves.”
I couldn’t take my eyes off it. Right out the front window, in the not too far distance, was the ocean for as far as the eye could see.
Maybe I could swim to freedom. Wonder how many people try to get into Cuba…
“I already get to fuck you whenever and however I want. Where’s the incentive?”
“You can fuck my ass without complaint.”
The corner of his lip drew up, and his eyes glanced toward me. “Hmm, that’s an intriguing proposition.”
We made a left, and I lost sight of the beach as we headed down another out-of-time experience. There were a lot of art deco buildings. After about a mile and a half, we turned into a huge parking garage and found a spot in the shade.
“Okay…”
Six moved to the trunk and unloaded our bags.
“Where is this place?” I asked, suitcase in tow.
“Up ahead.”
There was a back alley between buildings and if I hadn’t been with Six it would be giving me a wiggy vibe. The drug deal going down might have been one reason for that uneasy feeling.
Down another shorter alley and we were back on the street with Six holding open a door for me. There was some parking out front, but not much.
If the lobby was any indicator of the rest of the hotel, I sensed a repeat of our previous US stays, and the direct opposite of our Parisian one.
A couple hundred bucks in cash handed over in exchange for another outdated brass key. We passed by an in-house restaurant that had a health inspector notice on the window. Great indicator there.
The elevator was closed for repairs, so we huffed it up the flight of stairs to a stained door and salt worn doorknob.
The inside of the room was just as disgusting as I imagined. It was actually worse than the hotel outside Atlanta, and I didn’t think there was a worse.
Everything was out of date with exception of the television. Stains on the chairs and carpet, even a few on the bedding. Cracked and popped tile flooring.
Icing on the cake was the smell—dank, vomit-like, stuffy, with a hint of sea air. By far the worst.
Why was there no upkeep or maintenance? And how did a place like that stay in business in such a hotel saturated area?
“How do you find these shitty places? Is there a shitholehotels.com or something?
He chuckled.
A fucking chuckle.
Six voiced amusement.
My mouth popped open as I stared at him as he worked to locate something in one of his bags. He didn’t look my way, just continued what he was doing.
“Why do you always have duct tape on you?” I asked after he pulled it out and set it aside.
He continued to shuffle through the bag. “If I need to tie someone up or fix something. Duct tape does it all.”
“Why not rope when tying up hostages?”
He gave me the side eye. “Not as easy to work with or as fast.”
Fair point. It would have taken a lot of time, experience, and rope to tie me up in the ways he had. Duct tape was more compact and only took a few seconds to bind hands or feet.
“So, what’s next?”
“Food.”
I nodded. “Food is good.”
We headed out the front door and walked down the street. The art deco buildings had me sighing. Such beautiful lines. I didn’t know why I liked the style so much, maybe it was something to do with the lines. They almost seemed romantic.
They were sexy and appealing, much like the man beside me who was getting major looks from some of the bikini clad chicks coming in from the beach.
If only they knew.
Yes, he was good at sex, but being a death row hostage wasn’t fun. One did not make up for the other.
We found a Mediterranean eatery and popped in. Chicken kabobs were a favorite, and I was happy to get some hummus and falafel. Best meal since we’d left Paris.
On the way back, I couldn’t help but window shop, spotting a cute bikini and causing us to stop. “So pretty.”
Six didn’t seem to be in a hurry. There was no pressing matter, so he indulged me. Perhaps he was thinking on my earlier request, perhaps he was just a pervert, but when we stepped in, he grabbed a basket.