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He doesn’t need to find out that I’m flat broke and won’t be able to help him in any way to cross the border. Fifty grand? I don’t even have five thousand. Hey, don’t judge me. You’d do the same in order to save your life too. Lying to your captor included. And his question about me being a mother? Well, that’s none of his business, either.
Seeing as we have 24 hours to burn in Los Angeles, Nate suggests that we check into a motel and use the time to plan our next move on Godfrey and Sebastian.
I still want him to lust after me, even though I shouldn’t. Seducing him should no longer be part of the plan—I’m already free. But the truth is, I crave him.
Trying to remind myself that he’s a criminal, a killer and a guy who—up until a few hours ago—had every intention of handing me back to my ruthless enemy to be skinned alive and fed to his twisted son, I disconnect our hands and keep to myself until we arrive at our next stop.
We check into a rundown motel in a rough neighborhood downtown. The one-story complex is unevenly painted in baby blue, with pink lettering announcing Palm Spring Apartments. A Mexican pop station greets us when we walk in, its tunes swallowed by a loud portable fan directed at a heavy lady wearing taffy lipstick at the reception desk. Her curly hair has been violently straightened, a flowery dress barely covers her huge cleavage and a coat of sweat mists 100% of her flesh.
“No AC,” I cough into my fist when Nate and I walk in.
“Hey, Dorothy, I don’t think we’re in Blackhawk anymore. Unless you want to waste your money on the fucking Chateau Marmont. Your call.”
I grimace. At this point, he probably has more in his bank account than I do.
The woman ignores us, despite me punching the bell on her counter several times. When she finally looks up from an erotic paperback, it’s because she sees Nate approaching from behind me. When he rests his elbows on her reception desk, she puffs a cloud of cigarette smoke into his face. Her blue mascara is so clumpy, blinking must be an exercise for her.
She lets out a primal growl. “Well, you’re a treat, aren’t you, gorgeous?”
Am I see-through? Nate and I are clearly together. I’m not sure why I care. He is not my boyfriend and it’s not like he’s going to run away with this middle-aged woman. Besides, the bastard is probably used to it. I haven’t seen him interacting with the outside world yet. I know the man in the darkened basement, the captor who will hurt me if I disobey, but something tells me this isn’t the first time a woman has blurted out something embarrassing in real-life Nate’s direction.
He looks like the reason women buy Pocket Rockets. This probably happens to him all the time.
Nate leans his waist on the counter and flips through a wrinkled travel magazine, chewing his peachy gum, the signature flavor of his mouth. Completely unfazed by the attention he’s drawing.
“We need a room,” he says, ignoring her compliment. “One night. One bed. Paying in cash.”
“No problem, sweetie. Name?” Her pen floats over a page listing the rooms. Almost none of them are highlighted in yellow as occupied. Jesus. This place doesn’t even use computers. I hope there’ll be a lock on the door.
“Baby-Cakes”—he drapes his arm over my shoulder, his mouth invading my cheek with a charged groan—“should we put it under your name? What do you say? Yeah, let’s just put it under your name.” He angles forward and pronounces slowly, “Tanaka C-o-c-k-b-u-r-n. That’s her last name. Cockburn.”
“Shut up.” I swat his arm, barely biting down my laughter.
“Do you need me to spell that for you again?” Nate points at the form the receptionist fills out, and she licks her lips when her gaze moves up to his tattooed fingers. Stone-faced and perfectly composed, he continues, “Cockburn. Like a cock that burns. You know, like an STD side effect.”
He is so not going to get backdoor access tonight if he continues this.
Who am I kidding? Him being funny just kills every attempt to dislike him even more.
Five minutes later, Nate is dangling a small key with a pink hoop and we both stroll to room number 13. The receptionist directed us (well, directed Nate, he was the only person she was looking at throughout our short encounter with her) to a bar down the road that serves all-you-can-drink beer beginning at five p.m.
Even poor people need one happy hour.
As it happens, I desperately need a drink. This could be a good way to clear my mind and think about our next step. If everything goes to plan, we should be back in Northern California by tomorrow evening.
