Page 9

EIGHT

After she drives off, I walk inside the front office. The same guy from earlier peers through large, framed glasses behind the front desk cluttered with paper.

As I walk toward the desk, he fidgets. Beads of sweat form on his forehead. He slouches in his chair like he expects me to make fun of him. The glasses don’t help at all.

When he looks up, that’s the first thing I notice—enlarged eyes that look like you’re looking at them through a microscope. At first, you think he is being funny by wearing them. It gives me a strong urge to laugh, but then I look past the glasses and see the insecurity in his eyes.

“How can I help you?” He drops his gaze from whatever he’s reading, acting as if he doesn’t know I was in here hours ago.

“I need a room.” He looks up in surprise. “I got the job at The Church.”

“Alright.” He starts typing. “I need an ID and a credit card for payment.”

“Whoa, I don’t have a credit card. I have an ID and the cash.”

His fingers stop typing. “I need a credit card on file.”

“Well, I only have cash,” I counter. “Anyway, why do I need a credit card on file if I’m paying for the room up front?”

“It’s for incidentals. In case you break something.”

This place is a cum-infested shithole. How can this motel expect people to pay with a credit card? The place is prehistoric except for the computer on his desk—the screen almost hidden behind sticky notes. It’s not a resort you see online or find appealing in any way. No one will look for them here, so people stay here or have no choice.

I scan the worn-out furniture in the office. The walls need paint. The office has those box air conditioners stuck to the wall, dripping with condensation. The carpet is stained. The corner of the ceiling is swathed with mold. Near the exit, the linoleum floor is degrading. The vending machine light flickers from the window outside.

“This place doesn’t look like it accepts credit cards.”

“I know, but it’s what the owners want.”

I snort. “Who’s the owner?”

“Some rich asshole who doesn’t live far and still makes money.”

I lean on the counter and give him my best smile. “What’s your name?”

“Um, Simon,” he says nervously.

“Simon,” I repeat slowly and lick my lips. “Here’s the thing. I need a room, and I don’t have a credit card. Is there anything you can do?”

“I can’t.” He points at the computer screen like it’s a villain. “To secure the room, I need a credit card.”

When I pull a hundred-dollar bill from my bra, his eyes widen. “I’ll give you this if you make it happen,” I tell him, holding a Benjamin between two fingers and lowering my voice. “It will be our little secret, Simon.”

It feels like I’m negotiating with a ten-year-old to do my math homework, but beggars can’t be choosers.

“Oh.” He glances at the screen, then at me, before launching into a furious typing spree. He pulls out his wallet and slides out a credit card. I smile the whole time and wait to hand him the money in exchange for a key.

“Room 203,” he says, grabbing the hundred bucks. “I’ll need one of these every day until you get a credit card.” He holds the bill up to the light to make sure it isn’t a fake.

It’s less than the going rate for this shithole. Simon likely does not care about stealing from the wealthy individual who owns the establishment despite the fact that I received a discount.

Simon continues typing. The door opens, and a loud voice booms across the room, causing Simon to stiffen. “What’s up, Cherry Prick?”

I look over my shoulder. A guy with sandy-brown hair and a medium build walks in. He looks like he’s in college—possibly in Randy’s class. He walks toward the counter with two other guys about the same age. They’re all wearing black jeans, like some sort of uniform, and they belong to a club.

“What do you want now, Zack?” Simon says, annoyed, pressing the sticky note that fell off his screen.

I’m guessing they come in here often and give Simon shit. Every town has a nerd and a bully. In this case, bullies.

“We came to check on you, Cherry Prick,” Zack says, leaning on the opposite side of the counter. “Have you seen pussy yet, or are you still afraid it will bite your cock?”

I roll my eyes, wanting to leave with my key. Zack glances at me and then at Simon. “Are you holding out on me, Cherry Prick?” Zack taunts with a Southern accent.

“Come on, Simon, I gotta go,” I tell him impatiently, gesturing with my fingers for the key.

Simon looks down and resumes typing.

“Was I talking to you?” Zack glares at me, then looks back at his two other sidekicks, and I notice the Stockbridge University logo embroidered on the right pocket of their white T-shirts. Zack is the only one wearing a plain black one.

When he opens his mouth, his attractiveness quickly fades away. You almost want to wipe away that stupid, sarcastic grin he wears. The other two simply follow him and wait until he gives them permission to speak. They even mimic the way Zack stands. It’s pathetic.

The fluorescent lights start to flicker. “I need the key to my room,” I tell Zack in a stern tone. “You can have a bromance with Simon after I leave since you’re so worried about whether he gets pussy or not. I know it’s your competition, but don’t worry, it’s not like that between me and Simon.”

He crosses his arms over his chest, making a feeble attempt to accentuate his muscles. “How is it between you and Simon?” His blue eyes are giving me a once-over.

Something scrapes the counter, drawing my attention as Simon slides me the key. Thankfully, he had pocketed the money before Zack and his friends came inside, so it looks like I’m just checking in.

I pocket the key. “Not the kind of party you’re hoping for, Zack. Now, if you’ll excuse me.”

“I can show you a party,” he says quietly with a curl of his lip. “You don’t know what you’re missing.”

I chuckle sarcastically, step close, and lower my voice before walking out. “I’m not into the little things.”

“I can guarantee you that there is nothing little,” Zack says crudely. He skims his crotch with one hand, making me cringe.

My gaze drops to his hand. “Hold that thought.” I turn around, knowing he’s going to check out my ass, and I ignore the smirks from his other two friends as I walk past them to the exit. “I’ll be sure to ask Simon what he thinks when you show him.”

“I’ll make sure he watches when I take you from behind,” Zack spits, making me want to throw up. “I’m not a faggot.”

“Could’ve fooled me, Zack,” I shoot back. “And I don’t believe people use that word anymore. And it’s okay to be gay. I heard for a guy, it feels good.” I glance at his two friends and then back. “As for me, I don’t play with little boys.” I scrunch my nose before walking out. “It’s not my thing.”

Prick. They should make room in the psych unit for assholes like him.

I take the stairs, not trusting the elevator. It looks like a death trap.

I stand on the landing, prepared to take the next step. I glance toward the office and watch Zack, through the window, pull Simon’s hair from the back of his head and shove his other hand in Simon’s jean pocket, pulling out the one-hundred-dollar bill and stuffing it in his own front pocket of his jeans.

“It’s not my problem,” I mutter to myself.

Drawing attention to myself by calling the cops from my room is not a smart move. Anyway, it’s not like they would believe me once the cops ran my name and figured out who I was. I have a record and history in this town.

Simon needs to stick up for himself.

I slide the key into the lock. The dank smell of mold hits me when the door swings open. It must be from the stained carpet. It looks more black than green.

The threadbare mustard-colored comforter greets me uninvitingly. The water stains on the ceiling are most likely the cause of the peeling wallpaper. When I close the door, mummified bugs reside in the top corner where the wall meets the ceiling.

I walk over and turn on the air conditioner mounted on the wall under the window. It makes a clanking noise, and then the little yellow plastic string tied to the vent blows out like a kite. I pull the curtains closed as much as possible, making sure it covers the window from all angles, ignoring the cigarette burn on one of the panels.

White noise greets me when I turn on the TV. I slap the box on the side and change the channel, but it’s nothing but static. Great, no cable. I don’t even see a flicker of a channel when I turn the knob.

“Useless,” I mutter, tossing the key on the old dresser.

Why bother leaving the TV in the room? I walk over to the bathroom, and it’s just like the rest of the place. Shitty. It looks like the bathroom you would find in the Bates motel. There is mold growing between the tiles. Green paint adorns the walls, while the brown toilet seat complements the white toilet’s wood finish. The floors are yellow with black grout lines. It’s outdated and in need of a thorough cleaning with bleach.

I’ve showered in worse places. The psych wards aren’t any better, but at least here, no one will watch me while I shower. A bath is not an option. Small flies with decapitated wings cling to the tub’s bottom. I could tell the water hasn’t been turned on in a while because the showerhead is caked in soap scum. It’s so thick, I’m not sure water can pass through the tiny holes.

I look around for a complimentary bar of soap, but all I find is a shabby piece of fabric resembling a towel. On second thought, I’m not sure the threadbare piece of fabric could be called a towel—more like a hand towel.

I turn around, walk to the nightstand, and pick up the 1970s-looking phone, hoping there’s a dial tone. When there’s none, I slam it back on the cradle, almost breaking it.

“Credit card, my ass,” I mumble.

I’m badly in need of a shower, and I hope Simon keeps complimentary soap and a spare towel at the front desk.

I grab the room key, and I’m about to head out when I hear a loud thump coming from the wall. I stare at the shabby picture frame with trees and a large cowboy boot like it’s committed a crime. Another thump causes it to rattle, followed by moans, and then another thump in rapid succession.

I open the door and slam it behind me. “You have to be fucking kidding me?”

I look left at the offending door to the next room, but a shadow at the end of the staircase on the far side of the hallway causes me to freeze. My stomach drops and my lungs seize. A man is wearing a black hoodie near the stairs. I blink, making sure I’m not seeing shit, but it’s a man. It’s impossible for a woman to be that tall and have shoulders that wide. The black hood covers his head, obscuring his face.

He doesn’t move.

The fluorescent light above starts to flicker like a strobe light, causing shadows to move across the walls. Every flicker of light, accompanied by the zapping sound of flies hitting the exposed bulb, causes my heart to race.

I’m afraid to look away and run in the opposite direction. What if he runs after me? If I go back inside my room, there is no guarantee he wouldn’t kick the door in if he wanted to. The man is huge. Whoever is in the room next to mine is too preoccupied to hear me knock on the door. I can still hear the occasional thud coming from the wall.

I take a slow step backward in the opposite direction, never breaking eye contact with the man standing in the shadows watching me. Studying me like a predator. My mouth is dry, making it difficult to swallow.

If I scream, he’ll rush me. The man in front of me is massive. You could tell he is fit by the way the black hoodie fits on his broad frame—tight on his chest and shoulders and loose at the waist.

I take another slow step. The parking lot is empty below. There are no cars in any of the spaces. There is no one nearby to call for assistance. Simon, the individual at the front desk, is situated at a considerable distance from me, and even if he were able to hear me, what would be his actions? Simon can’t help me. Zack and his friends are long gone.

He takes a step forward. He moves robotically, as if he is deep in thought.

The door to my left opens abruptly. A guy walks out wearing a black hoodie, similar to the man at the end of the stairs. Right behind him is a woman I recognize from the club. She was one of the girls snorting lines of coke when I walked in the dressing room. Her nipples are clearly visible from the white T-shirt she has tied under her breasts and a leather mini skirt so low on her hips you could tell she isn’t wearing underwear.

If she recognizes me, she doesn’t show it. The girls at the club probably have a rule outside of the church. I briefly glance to my right, feeling a wave of relief wash over me as the mysterious stranger disappeared. Like he vanished, and it was all in my head.

Maybe it was. It isn’t the first time I’ve been confused about what I saw or what I did, like where the ax I killed my stepfather with came from.

The man pivots, causing the brunette from the club to collide with him. He’s tall, but not as tall as the creepy stranger who stared at me like a serial killer.

This guy isn’t old. He is attractive with high cheekbones and dark hair. His eyes have the color of coffee. He’s beautiful. The kind of beautiful that doesn’t need to fuck a stripper in a seedy motel.

“Who the fuck are you?” he asks, glaring at me.

“You neighbor,” I spit. “The one that couldn’t stand being in her room with all the noise.”

He raises a brow. “What’s wrong? Aw…did I scare him off? He snorts. “Besides, no one comes here to sleep.”

I’m annoyed that he would think I would fuck for money. I’m not one to judge anyone, but I don’t like people to assume things about me.

“I don’t sell myself short,” I reply sarcastically.

The brunette gasps, but I don’t care. She isn’t my problem.

His gaze slides up to my face disapprovingly. “Is that what he told you before leaving?” It looks to me like he wasn’t in a mood to be charitable. Can’t say I blame him.”

I laugh. “Oh, please. I’m not desperate.” I glance at my coworker. “No offense.” I ignore the glare on her face and look back at him. “You think you’re better than her because you paid her for five minutes.”

His eyes darken.

“Who said it was five?” he challenges.

I struck a nerve.

“The picture frame above my bed,” I reply.

He grins. “You counted?”

“I didn’t have to. It was over by the time I made it to the door.”

“That means you listened?”

I didn’t. I was scared shitless by the man watching from the stairs. I’m stalling so they don’t leave, and I’m left alone. I couldn’t care less if they fucked for an hour or five minutes. There was something about what I saw. The way he stared before disappearing was captivating. It was both dangerous and thrilling. For some reason, I felt alive—scared but alive.

“What would be the fun of that?” I ask.

“That’s what women do when no one wants to fuck them. They watch. They listen. They wish.”

“It’s fake,” I deadpan.

He pinches perfectly shaped brows. “Fake?”

“She was faking. She can’t come.” A look of unease washes over the brunette’s face.

A look of horror crosses his features. Every man’s fear. That’s why men pay for sex or fuck women they don’t care about. The performance. The high. But women also feel a high. They experience a feeling of euphoria.Sex addicts. Drug addicts. Serial killers. I read about it. Studied it.

Women who abuse cocaine can go longer when having sex. There’s a momentary surge in sexual pleasure, but there’s a catch: they can’t orgasm. In the brunette’s case and in her line of work, she has to fake it. I’m sure she’s a pro at it.

I don’t see how she would need to be coked up to fuck him. My only guess is she prefers women to men.

“I have to go,” the brunette says, walking around him toward the stairs. She raises her hand when she descends the first steps. “Call me.”

He doesn’t respond, probably processing what I said.

“It was nothing that you did,” I reassure him. “She was high on coke.”

He glances at me like I’m the root of all evil. “How would you know? You work at The Church?”

“Just started.”

He looks at the door to my room, then back at me. “Not going well on your first day?”

“I’m not on the clock.” I head to the stairs to ask Simon for soap to take a much-needed shower.

“Wait… you stay here?” he calls out.

“Pick a better partner to fuck, lover boy.” I look over my shoulder. “It’s a shame to waste a perfectly wonderful orgasm.”

“What’s your name?” he calls out, but I ignore him taking the stairs. The fewer people know I exist, the better.

I storm into the front office. Simon has his nose deep in a science fiction book, and I notice the red handprint on his neck.

“What now?” he says dryly, placing the book down, marking the page.

I lean on the counter. “I need soap.” He sighs, opens a drawer, and hands me a bar of soap the size of a pack of gum.

He lifts an irritated brow when I don’t move to leave. “Yes?”

“I need a towel.”

“Your room doesn’t have one?”

“Are you serious?” I scoff. “Have you seen it?”

He gives me an irritated look. “This isn’t the Marriott. I’m sure you’ve noticed.”

“I’m aware. My neighbors cleared that up perfectly.”

He sighs. “Look, I’m trying to help you out here, but you’re not making this easy.”

“I’m asking for normal shit every motel in the country provides.”

“Well, this isn’t like every motel if you haven’t noticed.”

“I’m aware.” He gets up and walks around the counter to a closet, pulls out a set of keys from his pocket clipped to a loop on his jeans, unlocks the door, and hands me two towels that feel like sandpaper. “Thanks.” I think paper towels from a public bathroom feel softer than this.

He locks the door, turns around, averts his gaze, and sits behind the front desk. After a few seconds, he looks up at the ceiling, annoyed that I haven’t moved to leave.

“What now?” he huffs, each word dripping with annoyance.

“Why do you let them pick on you?”

He lets out a puff of air, clouding his glasses. “I don’t want to talk about this right now.”

“Why not?”

“Because it’s not going to change anything.”

“How do you know them?” I ask curiously, not caring if I’m testing the limit of his patience.

“School. They go to Stockbridge University, and I’ve known them since high school.”

Simon doesn’t look older than me, and I’m guessing he might be around my age. In a way, I’m glad I didn’t stay long in school before I was arrested, or he would have figured out who I was when I showed up, blowing up my chance in finding answers.

When I moved here, I had just started high school. I didn’t have friends and I don’t remember anyone except the boy I saw in English class on my second day of school. I haven’t thought about him since it all happened. But I could never forget his obsidian eyes or the way he looked at me when the teacher paired us up for our first writing assignment.

He stared at me like he knew me, like he was waiting for me to show up, and I stared right back. His skin was fair. His hair was so dark it looked like he had it dyed black. He wore black combat boots, a black long-sleeve shirt, and black jeans. If I close my eyes, I can still hear the chain on his jeans scrape the chair every time he moved. He was so tall, his knees barely fit under the desk, but he never said a word if he didn’t have to.

“Is that all?” he drawls, pulling me back to the present.

“Jocks?” I ask.

He shakes his head. “I wouldn’t say they’re jocks. Sure, they play sports, but they…” He trails off anxiously.

“They what?”

“They have money. Their parents, I mean, but it’s the same thing. They get away with everything. If you see them at the church, stay away. They don’t treat girls like you nicely, if you know what I mean.” He shakes his head. “What you saw earlier with Zack—that was nothing. A free pass because they don’t know you.”

“They’re the town bullies?” I ask to find out more.”And what do you mean, girls like me?”

Because of their parents and the money they bring to town, those assholes get away with everything. And I didn’t mean girls like you to offend you personally, but what you do for money.”

“I’m not a prostitute. I needed a job, and you sent me there. So don’t go judging me.”

He sighs in defeat. No, I didn’t mean that. It’s not my business what you do for money. I’m just warning you. Stay away from Zack and his friends. Most of the football team are just like him.”

I roll my eyes. “Whatever,” I mutter and turn around.

“Except for around Halloween,” he calls out, causing me to pause. “That’s when the circus comes to town.” I’m not sure if you’ve heard, but girls go missing around Halloween, and no one can find out who did it.”

I whirl around. “Huh?” A sense of fear rushes in my stomach. He’s the second person to warn me. The man from the stairs comes back to mind.

“You haven’t heard?”

I shake my head. How would I? I’ve spent my entire teenage life in a psychiatric ward, but I can’t tell him that.

Suddenly, the office grows silent, like he is about to tell me a ghost story around a campfire, and I find myself asking, “What do you mean?”

“Every fall around Halloween, girls go missing,” he says, staring at the wall. The room suddenly gets cold. It reminds me of the night I spent in my mother’s bedroom, where blood adorned the walls and her screams were like white noise coming from a TV. “In Stockbridge, there is a tradition that dates back decades, if not longer. The disappearance of teenage girls later found raped and mutilated. Some were found beside the road. Others were discovered in the woods. Most of them were school-aged. No younger than eleven.”

My stomach churns, and I hold the towels and soap tight to my chest. “Let me guess; no one found out who did it.”

He shakes his head. “No. It’s why you should be careful walking out alone around this time—or anytime.”

“Why is it always around Halloween? Why not in the summer, or the winter?”

Perhaps it’s because school doesn’t start until the fall? He shrugs. “In small towns like this, it’s normal for young women to walk home alone compared to the city where there are more people. All I know is, since they opened the university, it’s gotten worse.”

“The disappearances?”

He nods. “Some turn up dead, while others are never found.” Zack and his friends usually back off around that time. They’re less aggressive. Especially around girls. Girls are skittish when they know they’re being targeted or—scared, you know?” He lowers his voice, as if fearing that someone might overhear what he is about to say. “The last thing girls in school want is to go on a date with a creep, and the last thing Zack and his friends would want is for anyone to think they’re the creeps capable of doing it. I’m not saying they’re the ones behind it all, but…”

“They’re the type of guys that don’t care if a girl says no,” I finish for him.

“I would imagine so.”

“Is it always like this for you when they’re around?”I don’t mean to be a bitch and keep pointing it out. I don’t have friends. Hell, I don’t have family. I’m not adept at making conversation with people, and Simon isn’t terrible once you get him to talk. He did tell me where I could find a job.

“You mean people picking on me all the time?” he says ungraciously.

“I didn’t mean it like that. Honestly, what I meant is, ‘Why don’t you stand up for yourself?’”

“It was three against one,” he argues, as if that’s a sufficient explanation.

“I get that, but if they think you won’t defend yourself, they’ll keep doing it.”

I didn’t want to point out that they also robbed him of the money I gave him or make him feel worse about it. I wanted to know why he didn’t fight back. Why he just sat there and took it.

He nods, seemingly having contemplated the question a thousand times. Then he asks, “Where are you from?”

“Massachusetts,” I quip.

“What part?” he asks curiously.

“A small town, three hours away from here.” Not a total lie. I can’t tell him I used to live here because that would open the door to too many questions. If he was smart, he would have Googled the address on my ID, but then again, Simon is not out to catch me in a lie, and it’s best if I don’t give him one.

“Why here?”

“I guess I’m used to living in a small town and didn’t want to stay in the one I grew up in.”

He shrugs. “Makes sense, I guess.”

“Who were the people in the room next to me?” I ask to change the subject.

“Oh, I thought you recognized the girl.” He means the brunette from the Church.

I shake my head.

“The girl works at the club, and the guy who was with her attends Stockbridge University.” He’s a freshman, I think. I don’t have any classes with him or anything; sometimes, he gets a room here with a different girl. If you stay here long enough, you’ll get used to seeing him around. To be honest, I don’t know why he messes with girls at the club. The girls on campus seem to like him.”

I want to know something else, and this is my only shot in ruling out I wasn’t imagining what I saw. “Was there a guy with him?”

He pushes glass up his nose and frowns. “No. Why? Was someone else with him?”

“No, I thought I saw someone by the stairs when I left my room, but it must have been someone else.”

“That’s weird,” he says, confused.

“Why?” I ask, afraid of the answer but at the same time hoping I’m seeing shit and it wasn’t real and its withdrawal for the crap they prescribed me.

I haven’t picked up the medications waiting for me at the pharmacy. I always thought I didn’t need that shit. I hate drugs. Sometimes I think it’s the medication that makes people worse instead of helping.

“Because there are only two rooms that have been checked out. Yours and the one next to you.”