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Crossing to the table, Preston thanked heaven he’d hidden the gun in the back of the van and dug under his towel to find his key. Then he handed it to Emma. “Room three forty-one,” he said. “I’ll be up in a minute.”
EMMA STARED at her reflection in the mirror of the motel room’s locked bathroom. Wide, frightened eyes gazed back at her, eyes underscored with dark smudges of fatigue and worry. The rest of her face looked pale, almost translucent—and it wasn’t any wonder. She’d offered to prostitute herself to the man on the other side of the door, a man she’d known for only two days.
Fleetingly, she thought of her mother and sister in Arizona, and cringed. They wouldn’t believe her if she told them what she was about to do. No one would. She could scarcely believe it herself.
“How has my life come to this?” she whispered to her reflection. As a girl, she’d excelled in school and in track. When she went away to college, she’d remained at the top of her class. She’d kept up with her running. She’d volunteered to read aloud twice a week at the neighborhood elementary school. She’d had wonderful, lofty aspirations to make a difference in the lives of the little first-graders she planned to teach one day. Overall, she’d been an exemplary citizen. She hadn’t even slept with anyone until Manuel.
Yet here she was, cowering in Preston Holman’s bathroom, going through the motions of showering and drying her hair while summoning the nerve to keep the bargain she’d just made.
She hung up the blow dryer and closed her eyes so she wouldn’t have to see herself any longer. Sometimes people had to do things they never dreamed they would. It was called real life, survival, she told herself. But she knew all the self-talk in the world wouldn’t make it any easier. She glanced down at Max, sleeping peacefully on the blankets she’d arranged for him at her feet, beside the tub. Before Preston had returned, Emma had tested her son, fed him a granola bar to raise his blood sugar after swimming, and tucked him in his makeshift bed. She couldn’t have him in the room while she kept her promise to Preston.
For the moment, Max was safe. Sheltered. Hidden from the tall dirty man she’d recognized at the Feel Good Motel. Closeted away from Manuel and the threat of abduction to Mexico.
When she looked at her son, no price seemed too high. And at least Preston Holman had an impressive body. His skin was smooth and golden, not apishly hairy. He was young and fit, close to her age. And he smelled good. She’d noticed that earlier, in the van.
Most women would be eager to sleep with a man like Preston Holman. But not her. When Manuel touched her, she felt only revulsion and could no longer imagine feeling anything else. She wanted to retain possession of her own body; she wanted complete independence.
Unfortunately, that probably wasn’t going to happen until she reached the midwest and found a job and a home. Until then, she’d have to get by any way she could—and right now, she had no better option than to be where she was.
With a final, bolstering breath, she forced her eyes open. “I can do this,” she murmured. “I can do it for Max.” Preston had barely spoken to her all day. He’d probably use her quickly and be done with it. And she didn’t have to worry about getting pregnant. She’d been on the pill since she’d had Max. She’d known early on not to have another child with Manuel.
The volume of the television dropped, and she quickly scooped the dry clothes Preston had given her off the lid of the toilet seat. Was he getting impatient? She had no idea what to expect. When she’d let him into the motel room thirty minutes ago, he’d asked if she needed to borrow some clothes. She’d said yes, and he’d lent her a T-shirt and a pair of boxers—all he had that might fit her.
After that simple exchange, he’d walked into the bathroom, closed the door while he showered, and returned wearing nothing but a pair of well-worn jeans. Then he’d plopped onto one of the beds and flipped on the television while she took her turn in the bathroom—which included settling Max. Fortunately her son was tired enough not to question his sleeping arrangements….
She was taking much longer than Preston had, which was no doubt becoming quite noticeable.
She held the T-shirt he’d given her to her nose. It was clean; she could smell the fabric softener. But she didn’t even have a bra or a pair of panties to put on underneath.
“What are you doing?”
She froze at the sound of his voice. “I’m…um…just finishing up,” she responded, but he spoke at almost the same time, and she realized he wasn’t even talking to her. He was on the phone.
“Yeah, it’s me. I’m fine. I’m always fine, right?”
Slightly embarrassed by her blunder, Emma pressed her ear to the door, curious to learn the reason behind his sarcasm.
“No, I didn’t call for that. I’ve finally found Vince. Christy, did you hear me? I’ve found him.”
Emma had no idea who Vince might be, but she could tell by the way Preston spoke that he expected this news to make an impact.
“Because I thought you should know, that’s why…. What do you mean? God, have you forgotten Dallas completely?” Anger, accusation and some other emotion, something that sounded a lot like pain, rang through his words. “So we’re divorced. Does that mean we can’t talk about our son?…Forget it. You’re right. I shouldn’t have interrupted your comfortable new life with Bob.”
So Preston had an ex. And that ex was apparently remarried.
“No, you stop. Our son’s dead, Christy. Our bright, perfect six-year-old who—” His voice cracked. He couldn’t seem to finish his sentence, but he recovered by starting off on a different tack, this time lashing out, obviously trying to hurt. “You might be able to pick up and carry on as if nothing happened, but I can’t. At least not until I make it right…. What? Justice!”
He said something else but Emma couldn’t quite catch what it was. He must’ve turned away from the bathroom.
“I was his father,” he said when she could hear him again. “He was depending on me…. If it’s not my place, then whose is it?…We’ve gone over this before. That doesn’t mean I’ll let Vince get away with what he’s done…. Fine, call it whatever you want.”
Emma winced as certain things became clear to her. Preston had had a son once, too—a son he’d lost.
