Page 11 of Desert King

A few working girls stand in stilettos, cautiously coming back inside. I guess the lack of gunshots or screaming sirens had them coming back for the dollar bills.

The music turns back on and a few take the stage, gyrating their hips and shaking their tits but no one cares. The new entertainment is the two men.

“My money’s on Edge.” Viv eyes his rock-hard abs appreciatively.

“I hope they both kill each other,” I murmur.

“This is some shit,” Roger smirks amused as one of the strippers holds up a card like in a boxing match and prances in-between the men in nothing but a G-string and high boots.

But I only have eyes for the two men, circling each other with murder in their eyes. One dark. One Light. Both dark in their own way. Their muscles shine with a light coat of sweat. Tarak’s torso is bronze and hairless. His pecs are big, but hard. Edge also has a smooth chest, but he has a small trail of fine hair that travels down his abs, disappearing under the waistline of his jeans. They’re both fantastic male specimens. My hands are clammy. My eyes wide. My mind starts imagining all kinds of dirty things. Dirty things a plain girl like me never thought once about before.

Disgusted at it all and myself for being so intrigued I turn back to the bar, help myself to a water and slip out unnoticed while punches and kicks are being thrown.

Sure, I could’ve stayed and gotten help. But wasn’t the whole point of leaving to stand on my own two feet? Literally and figuratively?

Night’s fallen. I open my UBER app and wait. I decided to stay at a hotel at least ten miles away even though there were some closer.

Forty-five minutes later, I arrive at the Courtyard Inn. It’s ninety-five a night but has free Wi-Fi, breakfast—with a promise that every blanket, towel, and piece of bedding has been thoroughly washed between guests. They also ripped up all the rugs and replaced them with wood flooring so everything can be bombed with disinfectant sprays.

I help myself to a wipe and tap the kiosk after scanning in my confirmation code from my cell. The virtual display shows me all available rooms. I pick a corner one facing East and hope for the best. The kiosk spits out a keycard and I browse another dispenser sales machine for toothpaste and a toothbrush.

I grab another wipe and use it to push open doors and turn the handle on the one to my room. After using it to flick on the lights, I carefully wipe down every knob I can. Hell, I have antibodies now but that doesn’t mean my lungs, or my spirit want to go another few rounds with the damn disease. Even though they say it’s gone I still have PTSD from what I lived through. Hell, the whole world does. After taking a long, hot shower, I crash. My dreams are filled with low constant drone of motorcycle engines, the taste of Edge’s lips and the dark, enigmatic eyes of the rugged man who looked at me like I was nothing…yet everything.

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