30DaystoSyn (24 page)

He scowled as he looked around him. The
room was as dismal as the outer reaches of the Outback. Orange drapes on the
side-by-side windows, avocado-green quilted bedspreads, gold shag carpeting
that was straight out of some sixties porn flick. Even the hideous pictures
that hung over headboards of the saggy-middle beds bore the unmistakable stamp
of fifty years ago.

“It stinks in here,” he said.

Not of cigarette smoke, he thought. That
would have been preferable. It smelled of stale sex, spent semen and bodily
fluids he didn’t want to name. The window air conditioning-heater unit made a
low rumbling sound almost like that of an asthmatic succumbing to his illness.

Walking through to the bathroom, he winced.
Cracked tile, sink and bathtubs with rust stains, a fluorescent lighting tube
over the sink that flickered and made deadly hissing sounds when he flicked it
on added to the dubious ambience.

“I wouldn’t take a crap in that toilet,” he
mumbled. “I’d be afraid to pick up crabs off the toilet seat.”

“Couldn’t be any worse than the bedbugs, I
guess,” she said.

He looked around at her. “That’s not
funny.”

“I thought it was,” she said as she tossed
the room key onto the built-in console between the two beds. “It doesn’t look
like much but the woman who owns it keeps it clean. You’re not going to get lice
or bedbugs here.”

“You know that for a fact?” he asked, his
attention on the bed nearest the wall adjoining the bathroom.

“Yes. She’s my friend Rachel’s
grandmother.” She sat down on the edge of the other bed. “The place isn’t much
to look at…”

“It makes the Bates Motel look like the
Waldorf Astoria,” he grumbled. “Who named it, anyway?”

“Mr. Tucker,” she said, taking off her
coat. “Rach’s grandfather.”

He chuckled. “Tucker Inn,” he said. “I gave
that name a whole other meaning.”

Her perfect brows drew together for a
moment then relaxed. Her lips twitched. “You’ve got a dirty mind.”

He shrugged. “It was how I grew up,” he
replied. He came around the foot of the bed and to the side, sat then swung his
legs onto the mattress, bracing himself on his elbows. He groaned, then got up.
“Lumpy as hell.”

“Can you find anything else to complain
about?” she asked, flopping down on the other bed.

“You want a grocery list?” He shrugged out
of his coat, hung it up in the little alcove where the bent-wire hanger barely
held its weight. When he went back to the bed, he gingerly lay down and was a
bit relieved the pillow wasn’t as soft as a marshmallow. He laced his fingers
and put his hands behind his head, staring up at a ceiling that bore a
remarkable resemblance to the one he’d had in his jail cell—fly specks and all.

She got up, he swung his gaze that way, and
what she did next grabbed his full attention.

Without preamble, she pulled the sweater
over her head. Her breasts bounced as she tossed the garment aside. The breath
caught in his throat when she put her fingers to the waistband of her jeans,
unbuttoned them then ran the zipper down.

“Mother Mary,” he whispered, his gaze
following her every movement as she slid the jeans down her long legs and
stepped out of them.

She was completely naked with her long,
dark hair cascading in curls down to the curve of her hips.

The front of his jeans tented like a
maypole.

“Wh-what are you doing?” he asked as she
came to the foot of his bed.

“What would you like me to do?” she asked,
her voice low and sultry.

“Melina…”

Not only his breath caught but his heart as
well as she put a knee to the foot of the bed he was on and began a slow crawl
toward him. Her hair draped over her shoulders like a cloak—hiding the creamy
perfection of her breasts from his view.

“No,” he said.

“Yes,” she whispered.

He started to get up but she flung a leg
over his, trapping him. He knew the moment he put his hands on her shit was
going to go down that she wasn’t ready for. Opening his mouth to order her to
stop, she dropped her weight on his leg then slithered up him like an eel.

Any other time the look in his eyes would
have made her giggle. He was stunned by her actions, completely immobile,
staring up at her with panic. Beneath her, he was as rigid as steel and the
thick bulge at the center of his thighs couldn’t be missed.

“You want me,” she said.

“You know I do,” he replied. “But not here.
Not in some smelly no-tell motel.”

“Then where, Kiwi?” she asked, running her
hand along the underside of the tense biceps of his left arm. She trailed her
fingers up his forearm then swirled her fingertips in a tight little circle on
his wrist.

“The Room,” he said. He cleared his throat.
“It has to be in the Room.”

She put her lips to the side of his neck.
“What’s so special about the Room?”

He swallowed for she was moving her fingers
down his forearm then across his biceps as she plied her lips to the column of
his throat.

“Why the Room, Kiwi?” she asked.

“That’s where I have chosen to make you a
woman,” he said and she wondered if that explanation sounded as lame and
ridiculous to him as it did to her.

“I’m already a woman,” she said and planted
kisses along his strong jawline.

“Not yet you aren’t,” he told her.

“Having a hymen does not a woman make,” she
said.

“Well, yours is gonna be intact come
morning so stop it,” he said. He lowered his arms and pushed her to her back.

He got off the bed while he still could and
walked over to the long, scarred console that held the TV. He snatched up the
ice bucket.

“You won’t last the entire thirty days,
Kiwi,” she told him as he headed for the door.

“Watch me,” he said.

There was a fine mist of icy rain falling
as he stomped down the cracked walkway to the ice-vending machine. Pushing up
the lid, he wanted to crawl inside it for he thought it might be the only way
he could put out the fire burning a hole in the front of his jeans. A cold
shower wouldn’t hack it. He needed to be encased in ice in order to quell the
need he had.

“Fuck,” he said as he scooped ice into the
Styrofoam bucket. The black woman behind the check-in desk was peeking out at
him from the office window. He knew as sure as he was standing there that she
had recognized him.

Shoulders slumping, he set the bucket atop
the ice, closed the lid then went to the office door. She was backing away as
he opened it.

“How much will it take for you to keep your
mouth shut?” he asked, reaching into his back pocket for his wallet.

“I don’t want no trouble,” she said.

“I don’t want any trouble, either,” he
said. He took out all the bills. “How much?”

She licked her lips. “Five hundred?”

“Make it a thousand and throw in a bottle
of scotch and we’ll call it even. How’s that?”

She nodded. “Ain’t seen nobody here
tonight,” she said, taking the bills he extended toward her. “Ain’t got no
booze but I can go get you whatever you want.” She licked her lips again. “For
another hundred and fifty.”

“Expensive hooch,” he muttered but he
peeled off more bills. “That’s two hundred but I’m gonna give it to you with a
little warning.”

“Don’t need no warning,” she said, lifting
her chin.

“I’m gonna give you one anyway,” he said
and put on the face he reserved for recalcitrant employees and waffling
distributors. “If anyone—and I do mean anyone—shows up here tonight looking for
me, I will make you wish you’d never seen me. Are we clear?”

“Yeah,” she said. “Ain’t no need for
threats, Mr. Mc—”

“Not a threat, baby,” he said, cutting her
off. “A promise. Pick up a big bag of waffle crisps…” He shook his head.
“Waffle potato chips while you’re after it.”

After retrieving the ice bucket and buying
two Cokes from the dilapidated vending machine, he went back to their room. He
kicked the bottom of the door with the toe of his sneaker and it opened. She
was standing behind it.

Still as naked as the day she was born.

“You are a shameless hussy,” he said.

“You were gone an awfully long time,” she
said, worry showing in her eyes. “What were you doing?”

“Putting out a fire before it burned me to
cinders,” he said.

Her eyes flared. “Someone recognized you?”

“I took care of it,” he said.

“Thankfully not with the gun in the pocket
of your coat,” she said.

He stopped unwrapping the plastic cup in
his hand and looked around. “You went through my pockets?”

“I was looking for your cell phone,” she
said. “I didn’t want to risk calling out on the land line. I figured the cell
phone would be safe.”

“Who the hell were you going to call at
this time of night?” he demanded.

“Jonny,” she said. “I thought someone
should know we were together and all right. Just in case he called my house or
dropped by looking for you. There’s no need to make him worry.”

He looked at her and smiled. “That was
thoughtful of you, Lina, but the phone is in the center console of my car. I
called him before I left home. He knows I’m with you.” He popped a can of cola
and poured them each a cup. “How ‘bout wrapping a towel around you, please? My
cock can’t stand too much more of you parading around with your boobies and
patch showing.”

“Spoil sport,” she said, going into the
bathroom. She came out with a dingy white towel tucked around her. “Out of
sight doesn’t mean out of mind.”

“Tell me about it,” he grumbled, wondering
when she’d gotten so comfortable being nude around him. He asked her as much as
he took several large gulps from his cup.

“You watch me all the time,” she said. “I
know you do.”

“After the day I’ve had swimming around in
a fishbowl being gawked at, I’ll have those cameras removed tomorrow,” he told
her.

“No need,” she said. She went over to the
bed he’d claimed for himself and scooted across it to the far side, propped a
pillow behind her and leaned back. She patted the place beside her. “Shuck you
clothes and—”

The knock at the door made her jump.

“It’s just the motel clerk with my order,”
he said. At her quizzical look he grinned. “Putting out fires, remember?”

He went to the door, opened it, accepted a
paper bag and a bag of potato chips from the clerk, thanked her then closed the
door in her face.

“What if she calls the reporters?” she
asked.

“She won’t,” he said. “Trust me on that.”
He tossed her the bag of chips then slid the bottle of scotch—the very cheapest
brand—from the paper bag and unscrewed the cap. He poured a hefty amount into
his cup with the cola. He figured that would be the only way he could stand to
drink the shitty booze. He held up the bottle and when she shook her head, he
shrugged.

He could feel the heat of her eyes on him
as he pulled off his T-shirt then sat on the edge of the bed to tug off his
sneakers and socks.

“What’s wrong with your bed?” he asked as
he retrieved his cup of scotch and cola then leaned back against the headboard.

“You’re not in it,” she said, popping open
the bag of chips.

“Thought you said if I didn’t have on
underwear I’d have to sleep alone.”

“You’re clothed,” she said.

“You’re not,” he replied. He was so
aware—too aware—of her silky thigh close to his. “And I won’t be for long.” He
tipped the cup to his lips.

“Crisp?” she said, holding the bag out to
him.

“Chip,” he said as he plunged his hand into
the bag.

“Potato, potahto,” she said.
“Al.Lu.Min.E.Um. Luh. Bore. Ruh. Tory.”

He snorted. “I’ve been struggling to sound
less Kiwi and more American,” he said. “You aren’t helping.”

“I think your accent is sexy,” she said.
“Why change what ain’t broken, bloke?”

“Isn’t broken,” he corrected, munching away
on a handful of chips.

“Tomato, tomahto,” she said with a saucy
grin. She moved her foot over to his and wriggled her toes against his calf.
She leaned over to lay her head on his shoulder.

He looked down at the top of her head. “I
bet you liked to poke hornet’s nests when you were kid,” he said. He took the
last gulp of the cheap whiskey, his eyes burning as he swallowed.

“Not me,” she said. “You must be thinking
about yourself.” She ran her foot up his leg.

“Woman, you’d better be careful,” he said,
putting his empty cup on the bedside table.

“And I should do that because…?”

He plucked the bag of chips from her hand,
took the cup of cola from the other and set them on the table. The sweetest
sound he’d heard all day was her gasp as he turned, hooked an arm around her
waist and dragged her down the bed to cover one side of her body with his. He
pinned her to the bed with his thigh planted firmly between her legs. He put
his cheek to hers.

“You wanna play, baby?” he whispered in her
ear.

“Bring it on, cowboy,” she replied.

He swiveled his hips on her, pushing the
hard plane of his thigh tightly against her very core. The rough fabric of his
jeans was touching the most intimate part of her and was causing friction that
sent tingles of pleasure through her lower body. She was no stranger to
orgasms. She was an adult, a woman well beyond the age when most had already
lost their virginity. She’d given herself pleasure with the little finger-held
vibrator many times. She knew the tell-tale signs of impending release but she
wanted to prolong it as long as possible. The weight of him bearing her down to
the bed was far too pleasurable to end quickly. Trying to shift away from the
pressure he was putting on her clit, she only managed to place that
ultra-sensitive part of her closer into contact with the rub of the denim.

“You like that?” he asked, staring down
into her eyes, refusing to let her look away.