Page 86 of Daddy's Obsession


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“But saving Dad and Odette is too important.”

“You’re important to me too, Raquel. Sometimes I think you forget.”

She relents, too tired to keep me arguing with me. She leans against me heavily while pressing her forehead to my chest. I kiss the top of her hair and carefully guide her to her seat, determined to make it to the next rest stop in record time.

* * *

Finding a vacant motel room the day after Christmas is understandably difficult. Places are booked well in advance. The hovel I manage to find is the furthest thing from the lap of luxury. It’s run-down and seedy in a questionable location with dirty carpets and dingy walls. It’s going to have to do, though. I’m still in an incredible amount of pain, and Raquel looks even worse than she did a few hours ago.

The guy behind the reception counter is a miserable son of a bitch —complete with dark circles under the eyes, a greasy triple chin, and a cigarette hanging between his lips. He greets us with a disinterested grunt.

“What d’ya want?” he grumbles.

“We need a room for the night.”

“How many beds?”

“Two beds,” she says, mumbling under her breath. Her answer makes my chest sting, though I guess I deserve it.

The guy checks his computer, fat fingers clomping down on his keyboard. “Looks like we only have a room with a twin.”

“Then why fucking ask?” I say with a sneer, my patience wafer thin.

“Do you want it or not?” he snaps back.

I glance at Raquel, my guts tying themselves in knots. A protective fire burns deep within me. I know I’ve made a mess of things, but I’m man enough to try and clean it up. Raquel has been going non-stop for almost a month and a half, so the least I can do is get her off her feet and let her recuperate.

“We’ll take the room,” I say.

“That’ll be three hundred Euros.”

I frown. “Foronenight?”

The guy shrugs. “What d’ya expect? It’s the holiday season.” His eyes rake over Raquel from head to toe, his ugly intent loud and clear. “Although, I suppose I could give you a discount if you’re willing to spend a few minutes with me in the supply closet, little lady—”

I reach over the reception desk and snatch the man by the collar of his shirt, hoisting the bastard onto his feet with a growl. “Listen very carefully, you piece of shit. We’ve both had a very long couple of days. The only reason I’m not beating your sorry face into a bloody pulp is because I don’t want to upset my wife.”

“Gabriel…” Raquel calls softly.

“You’re going to give us the damn room forfree, or I’ll let your supervisor know what I do to pigs for looking at my woman the way you just did.”

Buddy looks just about ready to wet himself. With a shaky hand, he fishes a key out of his desk drawer. Raquel takes it from him without a word, her eyes glazed over and just done with it all.

We both are.

Our motel room is a sad one with its grey walls, musty bed sheets, and hideously patterned window curtains. What we need is food in our bellies, a hot shower, and then at least a full night’s sleep before we head out again.

We don’t speak to one another, but there is no need to. Raquel and I know each other so well, our synergy perfectly balanced, that we can navigate around each other with simple glances. Everything she has to say is in the way she looks at me, in the way she carefully strides over with a heavy breath to help me lift my sweater off.

My scuffle with the reception clerk —if it can even be called that— definitely made my knife wound worse. Raquel circles around me to get a good look, clicking her tongue in disappointment. The cool sensation of her fingers grazing gingerly down my back sends a shiver down my spine.

“Let’s get you cleaned up,” she whispers.

I turn, taking her hand in mine to press against my chest. “I’m more worried about you. Are you feeling any better?”

Raquel shakes her head, eyes cast down and sullen. It physically hurts me to see her so sad, the stinging in my chest unbearable. I caress her cheek, brushing her hair away from her brow to press a tender kiss to her forehead. Standing in this dingy hotel room, one would think that intimacy like this was an impossibility. There’s nothing romantic or rosy about how beaten and tired we are, yet when I look at her, all I see are two fractured souls clinging to one another against the weight of the world.

I guide her to the shower. Or maybe she guides me. At the end of the day, it doesn’t really matter. All I care about is getting to hold her under the lukewarm spray, her head resting against my chest as I press kisses to her hair while she absentmindedly traces the lines of my tattoos. We breathe in the steam, the general vanilla scent of the motel-provided shampoo, listening to the steady hiss of water as it pours over our weary bodies.

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