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I sigh, melting into him and closing my eyes as he pets my hair. I feel the panic and fear of my nightmare fade away with his touch.
“Tell me,” he says again, his voice soft. “Help me understand, help me help you.”
I think about the weekend leading up to meeting Neil and his boys. The normalcy that was my life until that one wrong decision.
“I wasn’t a good person,” I tell him, “And some of it, you won’t want to hear. I mean, I—”
He shakes his head, effectively stopping me.
“It doesn’t matter.”
I look up and see the care and worry shining through in Killian’s eyes. Maybe it's that, or maybe it’s that I need to get it out, but for whatever reason, I find myself beginning to talk….
“It was about ten years ago, and I was in Madrid, Spain….”
“Well, it’s all very complex. I mean, technically, I was raised in a filthy-stinking orphanage, but apparently they weren't all that fond of children."
I exhale in an airy, bored fashion and stare blankly at the dusty motel T.V. screen. I adore making up dramatic backstories for myself. Half the fun is the delivery.
The naked sex god sitting on the bed appears to be giving this statement deep thought, as though it was a difficult puzzle and not a blatant statement about my upbringing. Apparently, this one isn’t the brightest crayon in the box. Not like they ever are.
"What do you mean, apparently," the man replies finally.
I think his name is Ronaldo, or maybe Ernie. I guess it's a little late to ask again. Not that I probably asked in the first place. It’s that damn tan that distracted me.
I turn to stare at him, the Mexican or Greek or whatever he is, and use the classic under the eyelash bat that every celebrity sex-icon has perfected, and every girl aims to learn.
Bat bat bat.
Flawless.
"Well, they must have treated me that bad," I sigh airily, "For I can't remember a thing!" I pose my hand above my brow with yet another dramatic sigh as I fall back onto the pillows.
God, these ceilings are dirty. And is that a spider nest in the corner?
The room is, in fact, rather dingy. Covered in floral wallpaper, it looks like an 80's living room threw up in here, with an ugly pull-out sofa and a small broken mini fridge in the corner to add to the effect.
Faint, orange-colored stains make a droplet path from the bed to the bathroom, and I can’t help but wonder how many people have died in this room, fucked in this room, god only knows what in this room.
Why the fuck did I choose this one again?
Oh, yeah. The tan.
The shit I was on when I picked him up probably didn’t help either.
At least he’s good in the sack.
It was only a little while ago that I realized we are at a small out of the way motel just outside of Madrid. And while I’m not entirely sure where, the matchbook on the bedside table with 'Arganda del Rey' printed on it is good enough for me.
Besides, I’m no power deprived male unwilling to even ask for instructions to the nearest airport. I’ll be fine, I always am.
I look again at the beautiful, drug-addicted sex god next to me.
"Well, my sweet Bethany," says the tanned god seductively as he turns to his side, "Shall I now treat you good?"
I raise my eyebrow at him and look him up and down. He’s a perfect physical example of masculinity at its finest. From his perfectly pedicured toenails to his wavy dark hair, he was indeed fucking gorgeous.
He had to be at least 6’2” and incredibly built with an adonis belt I wanted to lick. The nine-inch cock certainly doesn’t hurt either.
