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CHAPTER EIGHT

HUNTER

“ Y ou can turn on a light,” I say. “It won’t bother me.”

The scratch of Eve’s pencil abruptly stops. “Oh. It’s, um, fine. I’m just doodling.”

I’ve been trying to tell what she was “doodling” for the past two hours, ever since she pulled a sketchpad out of her backpack. She seemed more relaxed as soon as it was in her hands, sitting cross-legged and balancing the bound paper on one knee. I basically went cross-eyed trying to look over there while simultaneously keeping my gaze on the road.

Now, it’s pitch-black out and we’re in standstill traffic. We were moving—crawling—for a while, but the tires haven’t rolled an inch in ten minutes. The GPS is estimating our arrival time as 12:30 a.m., and I’m guessing the next update will be even later.

Ahead of us is an endless stretch of red brake lights. I glance in the rearview mirror, and immediately regret it. Pretty sure the truck behind me has its brights on.

White dots dance across my vision as I squint at the GPS. Arrival is estimated at 12:43 now.

A half hour later, we’ve barely moved, another hour has been added to our ETA, and I have to piss so badly it’s physically painful. The fast-food place we stopped at for dinner oversalted the fries, so I downed an entire root beer plus most of the water bottle I brought.

I blow out a long breath. “We should stop.”

“For the night?” Eve sounds surprised by the suggestion, but I don’t see a better option.

“Yeah. This isn’t looking like it’ll clear up anytime soon.” I nod toward the red lights ahead. “We get off the road, get some sleep, and leave early in the morning. We should make it to the rental by noon.”

Eve closes her sketchbook and sits up straight. “Okay. Uh, yeah. Okay.”

I flick on my blinker.

It takes us fifteen minutes to make it to the next exit—which thankfully has a hotel and a motel on the sign—and we aren’t the only ones getting off. Several other cars take the same ramp. Three of them pull off at the first hotel, so I keep driving to the motel farther down the street. The Vacancy sign is flickering, but the parking lot is pretty full. There are two leather-clad men straddling motorcycles in the spot next to us.

I park in the closest open spot to the office and hand Eve the car keys so she can lock the SUV if she wants. “I’ll be right back.”

When I enter the small office, a middle-aged couple is talking to the man at the front desk. I duck into the tiny bathroom. By the time I reemerge into the small lobby, the couple has disappeared.

“Good evening, sir,” the man greets. His name tag reads Alfred . For the late hour, he seems awfully chipper.

“Hey. Could I get two rooms, please?”

Alfred shakes his head. “I’ve only got one room left.”

“With two beds?”

Another headshake. “Just the one room with the one queen bed.”

Of course. With the way this trip is going, I wouldn’t have been shocked if he’d said he had no rooms available. Having to turn around and inch my way back onto the highway holds no appeal whatsoever.

“Okay. I’ll take the room, please.” I pull out my wallet. “Fifty-nine, right?”

“Sixty-nine. Plus tax.”

If Aidan were here, he’d make a joke.

I glance at the laminated price sheet, which lists a queen room as fifty-nine dollars a night.

Alfred reaches out and grabs the sign, stashing it under his desk. “Prices are subject to change based on availability.”

No wonder he looks so cheerful. Business is booming tonight thanks to the gridlock on the highway.

I hand him my credit card and then sign the slip.

Alfred beams. “Have a pleasant stay.”

“Yeah. Thanks.”

I leave the office with two plastic keys for room eleven. As I approach, Eve unlocks the car and climbs out, glancing around nervously.

I hate that we live in a society where women see a dark parking lot as dangerous.

“You okay?” I ask her.

“Yeah.” She bites her bottom lip and shrugs a little. “I listen to a lot of true crime podcasts, and a lot of them involve a seedy motel.”

I’m not sure what to say to that, so I just nod. I feel like Alfred would take offense to seedy , but Eve is right. This place looks like it could have bedbugs.

“They only had, uh, one room left,” I say, handing her one of the plastic cards. “Eleven.”

I watch Eve’s expression carefully as the fact that we’ll be sharing a room registers.

“Oh. Okay. Good they weren’t full, I guess.” She looks uncertain, mostly, tapping the key against one of the flowers on her pants and gnawing on her lower lip.

I nod. “Thought the same thing.” I don’t mention the one-bed situation yet. I’m hoping there’s a couch I can crash on. “And I promise I’m not a serial killer.”

Eve’s lips twitch a little. “I fear that’s exactly what a serial killer would say in this situation.”

Whatever expression is on my face makes her laugh. “Relax, Hunter. I trust you.”

She should trust me. Trustworthy is an adjective lots of people would use to describe me.

Eve’s trust feels different. I’m not sure if she means it or if she’s just saying it, but I want her to mean it. I want to earn that trust, somehow.

She holds something out to me. It takes me a few seconds to realize it’s a wad of cash.

“I’m not taking your money, Eve.”

She moves it closer, her knuckles bumping against my ribs and then quickly retreating an inch so we’re no longer touching. “It’s the least I can do. You didn’t let me pay for gas or dinner.”

“I told you, I was already taking this trip. I’d have bought gas and dinner regardless of whether or not you came along, and I would have stopped for the night regardless too.”

Eve raises an eyebrow. “You would have bought an extra sandwich and fries and lemonade if you were driving alone?”

I roll my eyes. “You can pay me back for your dinner, if you want. But that’s it. And it can wait until we’re inside. Someone’s going to think we’re doing a drug deal. Or that I’m paying you to have sex with me.”

I’m not sure why that last sentence slips out. But, if I had to guess, I’d say that it has something to do with how having sex with Eve crossed my mind several times while we were in my car together. It just did again, when she bit her bottom lip.

Eve pockets the cash. Scoffs. “Like anyone would think you had to pay for sex.”

Her voice has the same duh tone to it as when she complained I was “smart too.” I think it was a compliment, and that implying I’m attractive enough to get laid without money exchanging hands is another one.

I smile as I open the trunk of my car. “Uh, thanks?”

She clears her throat. “I texted Harlow, letting her know about the traffic and that we decided to stop for the night.”

I nod as I grab my duffel. The zipper clinks against the jack I didn’t bother putting back into the compartment. I completely forgot about the flat tire.

This trip has been a complete clusterfuck, and I’m oddly at ease about it despite usually thriving on structure.

Eve reaches for the handle of her suitcase once I pull it out.

“I’ve got it,” I tell her.

She keeps reaching anyway. “You’ve done too much already.”

Too much? Buying her dinner and offering to carry her suitcase? Sounds like the bare minimum to me.

Eve’s fingers brush my knuckles as she grabs the handle insistently. Reluctantly, I let go, allowing her to lift the luggage. By the time I’ve closed the trunk and locked the car, she’s made it to the stairs that lead to the second level of the motel. Rooms one through ten are downstairs. Rooms eleven through twenty are upstairs, according to the crooked sign.

The lot’s quiet now, the motorcycles gone and the remaining spots filled with empty cars. Aside from the buzz of the lights, all I can hear is someone loudly bemoaning the 49ers’ latest loss at the gas station directly across the street.

The room is exactly what I’m expecting. Generic striped carpet, beige comforter, white walls decorated with a few forgettable prints. Everything looks clean, at least. And there is a couch.

I set my duffel down on the round wooden table tucked in one corner.

Eve’s looking at the bed. The one bed.

“I’ll take the couch,” I offer.

She glances at the sofa—which is a rusty-orange color with two flat pillows—then at me. Smiles. “No way you’d fit.”

My sex-deprived brain delves straight into the gutter. I’d make it fit .

Eve’s cheeks redden like other situations in which those words could be used occurred to her too. She clears her throat. “I’m fine sharing the bed.” She nods to the ajar door that leads into the attached bathroom. “You can use it first.”

“Okay.” I grab my bag of toiletries and head into the bathroom.

This is weird. I’ve never spent the night with a girl without it involving sex. I’ve never spent the entire night with any girl, actually. Now that I’m no longer focused on driving or frustrated by traffic, I’m very aware of that fact.

Also, that this is Eve Driscoll, the girl I’ve wanted a second shot with for years.

I’m not going to make a move. She didn’t sign up to share a bed with me, and I don’t want to make her uncomfortable. But I’m going to be very aware that I could make a move—that we’re alone in a hotel room and both single—all night, and the possibilities bode poorly for getting much sleep.

Eve’s perched on the edge of the mattress when I exit the bathroom.

“It’s comfy,” she tells me, bouncing twice and making me smile. “Do you snore?”

“I don’t think so,” I answer. “Do you?”

“No. But I do roll around a lot, so I’ll build a pillow wall.”

“A pillow wall?” I repeat, amused.

“Yeah. A wall of pillows.”

She says it like it should be obvious, and I experience this sudden flash of déjà vu, reminded of my recurring thought the night we met—that I’d never met anyone like Eve.

Almost four years later, I still haven’t.

“Do you need help?” I ask.

“With what?”

“With the pillow wall.”

She laughs, and the drab motel room feels brighter. “I think I can handle it, thanks.”

“Okay.” I walk over to my duffel, and Eve disappears into the bathroom.

I usually sleep in boxers, but that’s not an option tonight. I pull on a pair of sweats and a clean T-shirt, then turn the thermostat down a few degrees. Hopefully Eve won’t mind. The comforter on the bed looks thick, so I’ll be sweating otherwise.

I find my charger and plug in my phone, then lie down on the mattress. Eve was right—it’s surprisingly comfortable. I lie as close to the edge as possible to make sure Eve has plenty of space.

The last sound I register is the running tap as Eve gets ready for bed.

Persistent buzzing cuts through the haze of sleep. I fumble for where I think I left my phone, finally locating it thanks to the charge cord.

My stomach drops as soon as I see the name lit up on the screen.

Fuck .

I roll out of bed, shove my feet into my sneakers, grab a room key off the table, and then hustle outside. I close the door behind me as quietly as possible, hoping not to wake Eve, then swipe to accept the call.

“Hi, Sean.” I take a seat at the top of the cement steps.

“Hunter!” my brother crows.

Fuck , fuck , fuck.

He’s high. On what, I couldn’t even begin to guess. It started with opioids, but I know he’s sampled coke and heroin.

I press my palm flat against my forehead, forcing myself to take deep, even breaths, when all I really want to do is hurl my phone down to the cracked asphalt below and watch it shatter into a thousand unreachable pieces.

“How’s it hanging, little bro?” Sean continues. “You sick of the shitty weather yet?”

At least he remembers I go to college in Washington. Last time my brother called, he was so out of it he thought I was still in high school, living at Mom and Dad’s. Asked me to come pick him up at the corner convenience store where we used to stop for candy after hockey practice.

“Where are you, Sean?” I ask evenly.

Passivity is the best way to deal with him, I’ve learned. Too cheerful, and he tries to get me to party with him. Too angry, and he gets belligerent.

Most times, I pretend I’m a 911 operator. Poised, composed…detached. I pretend it’s a stranger on the other end of the line, not my childhood hero. The funnier, more outgoing, more charming Morgan brother. The guy who helped me tie my first pair of hockey skates—hand-me-downs from him.

It fucking killed me that Sean wasn’t there to see me win a championship two weeks ago. But this call—knowing rehab didn’t stick, again —is doing even more damage.

“Sean?”

I’m so caught up in my own disappointment, it takes me too long to realize he never answered my question. That his end is dead air.

I stand and start pacing, continuing to repeat his name.

Hanging up is a gamble—Sean is a lot better at making calls than answering them—but this is a familiar part of the pattern. He calls me, then gets distracted and forgets he called me.

I repeat his name once more, then hang up. Exhale, then call him back.

No answer.

An endless stream of swears run through my head. I’m so disappointed. Mad—at Sean, and at myself, for thinking this time would be any different. Worried.

I force myself to tap the number at the top of my Favorites list.

“Hey, Hunter.”

The forced cheerfulness in my dad’s voice is worse than the undercurrent of exhaustion. He knows what this call means. I’m sure he dreaded answering, experiencing the same sick sensation that I did as soon as I saw Sean’s name light up on the screen. Subconsciously, as soon as I registered the buzz. Because only one person calls me in the middle of the night.

Another thing I resent my brother for—making me be the one to break our parents’ hearts over and over again. He never calls them. He always calls me.

A long time ago, I got some sick satisfaction from it. I liked that I was the person my big brother turned to for help. Almost like I was his hero, for once. When the phone rings now, all I feel is anger and dread.

“Hi, Dad. Sorry to wake you.”

“That’s all right, son. You calling from California?”

“Not quite. Car got a flat on the way and there was terrible traffic, so we stopped in Oregon for the night.”

“We?” There’s a rare note of curiosity in my dad’s voice as we help each other prolong the inevitable. Distract each other, just for a bit, before we address why we’re having this conversation at three a.m.

“Yeah.” I stop pacing and rest my elbows on the metal railing. “A friend of Harlow’s—Conor’s girlfriend, you met her at the banquet—decided to join us. She got a ride with me.”

“Does this female friend have a name?”

“Eve.”

“Nice name.”

My life is hockey and school. Well, was hockey. Still is school.

That’s the only reason my dad is latching on to Eve, because our small talk never lasts very long before we’re stuck on the big talk. He’ll ask how my classes are going, how hockey is going. But he can’t ask that second question anymore.

“Have you heard back from any schools yet?”

“Not yet,” I lie.

I need to tell him—and my mom—the truth. But now isn’t the right time for that conversation.

“How’s Mom?”

“She’s good. She and Kate Simpson are doing a cooking class together. We made one of the recipes tonight. It was…interesting.”

I chuckle, and it releases a little of the tension humming through my body. “Edible?”

“I’d have gone to bed hungry if not for some jerky I had hidden in the garage from my last fishing trip.”

“Nice one, Dad.”

“Yeah. The class lasts another four weeks, so I’ll have to restock this weekend.”

I smile, picking at the peeling paint on the metal railing. Little bits fall the twenty or so feet to the parking lot below. “He called a few minutes ago. I tried—” My voice cracks. “I tried to get a location, but no luck.”

“That’s all right, son.” More false cheer. “I’ll swing by the usual spots.”

“I’m sorry, Dad.”

“Don’t apologize, Hunter. None of this is your fault.”

Sean won’t accept any blame, though. Won’t make apologies. Won’t even call our parents. So I have to do it all for him. I hate the idea of my dad going to all the seediest spots in town alone, and I’m also relieved I’m hundreds of miles away. I hate that I answer the phone and indulge him, but I know I would never forgive myself if I didn’t answer and he needed help.

We linger in sad silence.

“I thought maybe it stuck this time,” I admit.

My dad’s exhale is heavy. “Me too. Go back to sleep, kiddo. And enjoy your break. You deserve a vacation.”

“Let me know…”

He understands what I’m trying to say. “I will. Night, Hunter.”

“Night, Dad.”

I shove my phone into my pocket and stare at the blinking No Vacancy sign.

The chill in the night air registers for the first time, bleeding into my beleaguered body.

I blow out one final breath, then head back to the room.

Eve’s a still lump under the covers. I must have passed out before she came to bed because I have no recollection of her leaving the bathroom. Two pillows are piled between Eve and the empty spot where I was sleeping. The sight makes me smile. I hope she appreciated I took the side closest to the door in case a serial killer broke in.

I’m too restless to go back to bed. I’ll just lie there, thinking. I head into the bathroom, the only separate part of the room with its own door.

Leaning against the back of the door gets old fast, so I decide to shower. Usually I shower in the morning, but this’ll save some time before we hit the road. And hot water will help me decompress a little. I won’t be able to fall back asleep until I get a text from my dad. Probably not after then, either.

Surprisingly, the water pressure is better here than at my bathroom off campus. I lean a hand against the damp tile and let the spray hit the top of my head, pounding my scalp and dripping down my face.

After a few minutes, I take a pump of soap from the dispenser to suds my hair and arms.

My gaze snags on a pink razor sitting on the shelf.

Eve was naked in here . Something I should not be thinking about before climbing back into bed with her. Two pillows aren’t going to prevent me from fantasizing about all the things we could do in a bed besides sleep.

Telling myself to stop thinking about it isn’t doing much either. I’m desperate for a distraction right now. More blood is rushing south. I grip my growing erection, sorely tempted to jerk off for some stress relief. But…I’ll picture Eve. And it feels sleazy, pretending I’m fucking her instead of my hand while she sleeps, oblivious, on the other side of the door.

I turn the handle instead, hissing when icy water hits my abs. It feels like tiny knives are stabbing my stomach. My cock deflates some, but my balls are still throbbing.

I shut off the water and pull the shower curtain open.

There’s a quiet creak, followed by a loud gasp.

My head snaps up.

Eve is standing in the doorway. Her wide eyes are fixed on my wet body, and I can actually see the color pooling in her cheeks as my nakedness registers. Her complexion will rival a tomato’s soon.

“Sorry,” she blurts, then spins around. Only to turn back, eyes pointedly fixed on the floor, and grab the door’s handle.

It slams shut a second later.

I stare at the spot she just stood, distantly registering the drip drip drip as excess water rolls down my body and hits the floor of the tub.

This might make tomorrow’s—technically today’s—drive a little awkward.