Page 80 of Auctioned Innocence
“Room for the night,” I say, trying to keep my voice steady.
He starts to reach for a registration form, then actually looks at me for the first time.
His eyes widen slightly as he takes in my appearance—torn dress, blood on my hands and wild hair.
Something predatory flickers across his face.
“Well now,” he drawls, leaning forward on his elbows. “Rough night, sweetheart? You look like you could use some…assistance.”
The way he says it makes my skin crawl, his gaze sliding down my body with obvious appreciation for my disheveled state.
After everything that’s happened, I don’t have time for his bullshit.
“Just a room,” I repeat firmly.
“Sure, sure.” His smile reveals teeth stained yellow from cigarettes and coffee. “But maybe you’d like some company? I get lonely during these long shifts, and a pretty little thing like you?—”
“Listen,” I interrupt, my voice shaking slightly before I force it steady, “I need a fucking room. You need…you need money. That’s all this is. Are we clear?”
His smile falters at the bite in my voice, but he recovers quickly with a sneer. “Feisty. I like that. But honey, looking like you do—all beat up and desperate—you’re not exactly in a position to be picky about?—”
“Room.Now.” I slam two hundred dollars on the counter, enough to shut him up and make him forget any inconvenient details. “The one furthest from the office.”
He stares at the money for a moment, then at my face, clearly recognizing something in my expression that makes him think twice about pushing further.
With a muttered curse that sounds like “rich bitch,” he slides a key across the counter.
No ID required for the room at the far end, away from the office.
The key is attached to a plastic tag shaped like a palm tree, ironic given the industrial wasteland surrounding us.
“Room twelve,” he grumbles, already turning back to his magazine. “Ice machine’s broken, vending machine takes exact change only.”
I pocket the key without another word, relief making my knees weak.
Dante needs medical attention, and every second we spend exposed increases our risk of being found.
Getting Dante from the car to the room is harder than I anticipated.
He’s deadweight against my shoulder, his feet dragging as I half-carry him across the cracked asphalt.
By the time I get the door open, my own legs are shaking from exhaustion.
The motel room smells of cheap bleach and cigarettes, with an underlying staleness that speaks of thousands of temporary occupants.
Yellow water stains mar the ceiling like abstract art, and the neon sign outside casts intermittent red shadows through thin curtains that have seen better decades.
The carpet is worn thin in a path from door to bathroom, and the bedspread looks like it hasn’t been changed since the eighties.
But it’s the first time we’ve stopped running in hours, and my legs are shaking so badly I can barely stand.
The adrenaline that kept me going through the auction, the escape, the chase—it’s all finally wearing off, leaving me hollow and trembling.
“Sit,” Dante orders, though his voice is weak as he drops our meager supplies on the scratched dresser.
We managed to grab a first aid kit from Vincent’s car, along with some water and energy bars.
Not much, but better than nothing.
