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Half a bottle of whiskey was nowhere near enough to deal with Gerald’s visit and that fucking key.

After I’d placed it on the table in the motel room, it stared at me. Taunted me.

I should’ve flushed it.

But I didn’t trust the motel plumbing to handle it, and I wasn’t brave enough.

Me. A fucking coward. I wasn’t exactly great at positive affirmations, but I’d never call myself a coward. A borderline alcoholic? Yes. A bitch? Definitely. A whore? If the occasion called for it, sure. A girl had to get some once in a while.

A coward, though? Absolutely fucking not.

Yet I couldn’t stand being in that motel room with its generic artwork, faint smell of Lysol, cheap sheets, and that key.

I wasn’t sure where I was going, since my small hometown didn’t offer much in the way of escape—which was the point—but I knew I had to get out of that room. I didn’t bother changing. Who was I there to impress?

My problems went from bad to worse when I slammed my door shut. In my peripheral vision, I caught a smudge of black expelling wisps of smoke, my body prickling with awareness before I even gave him my full attention.

“What in the fuck are you doing here?” I demanded when I saw Dante leaning against the door of the neighboring motel room, smoking like he didn’t have a care in the world.

His leather jacket blew open in the wind, exposing his shoulder holster and the gun inside it. A custom Colt M1991, packed with silver bullets. Both obnoxious and badass—as was Dante’s entire personality, though I’d never verbalize the latter thought.

His boots were unlaced, beer dangling between his fingers of his cigarette-free hand. Various silver rings adorned his tattooed hands. The man was not afraid of jewelry. Some of it was obviously functional. A fistful of silver was an advantage if he ever found himself up shit’s creek and hand to hand with a monster. But to the layman, he would’ve looked like an aspiring rock star. Or an outlaw biker. Trouble, but worth it for a great lay. I knew better.

He was a cocky monster hunter with an ego the size of Texas. And definitely not worth the trouble of sleeping with.

I’d really hoped I had scared him out of town earlier. Or at least I’d tried to convince myself I had. But unfortunately, I knew better. This fucker was a lot of things, and determined was one of them. He had decided that, for whatever fucking reason—definitely to torture me—he was going to see this hunt through.

“Looks like we’re gonna be neighbors,” he said, exhaling a gray plume. “I’m right next door.” He knocked on the space between the rooms. “Just a knock away. In case you need me. Or you get lonely. I’ll bet these walls are paper thin.” He winked, took one last puff of his smoke before discarding it, then sauntered into his room.

I stared at the door he closed behind him.

The walls were paper thin. Like they were at every shitty roadside motel. And though I didn’t plan on having any kind of wild sex or masturbation sessions, I liked having the option. It was one thing for a stranger to hear me orgasm but quite another for Dante to. Let alone have him responsible for the aforementioned orgasm. Though the idea wasn’t as repulsive as it should’ve been.

Suddenly, the lack of privacy that these motels offered seemed overwhelming and stifling.

So I did something that I hadn’t done in years… I acted out of panic.

five

Gerald could’ve written the alarm code on the back of his business card. But he didn’t. Because he wanted me to call him to ask for it. He wanted to know that I was taking him up on his offer, that I was going home again.

He wasn’t the kind of man who wanted to humiliate me. More likely, he just wanted me to call. Because he wanted to foster some kind of connection that only existed in his memory. He wanted to save the girl who was long gone and well past saving. Which was nice and horrible all at once.

Not much would make me swallow my pride and make the call, but the prospect of living next to Dante for the foreseeable future would do it. My teeth gnashed together during the phone call, as I spit out every word, trying to make the conversation as short as possible.

Gerald offered to come with me, check out the house for me, make sure the water and electricity were in working order, that there were no rogue rats.

I’d assured him that none of that was a problem, and I most certainly could handle rats.

He hadn’t pushed, which I was thankful for.

I really didn’t need to be making small talk while I entered the house I hadn’t set foot in since my parents died.

The night my parents were killed, Gerald and Sharon had whisked me into their large home. I’d stayed there for a while afterward, lived there, technically. Until it became clear that I had to leave. Their home was the one I eventually ran away from.

My car obnoxiously roared down Chesterfield Street—where I’d learned to ride a bike, where I’d drawn on the sidewalk with chalk, where the third tree past our house had the initials H&C carved into it.

I pulled onto the driveway where my father’s old Ford used to be parked—my mother’s and mine kept inside the garage, my father wanting to protect them from the elements. He’d given them regular oil changes, kept them full of gas, ensuring that our insurance policies were always current. He took care of us. I’d wanted that once—a man to make sure my car was gassed, who ensured that I would never worry about oil or tire pressure. Then I realized that being taken care of by a man was remarkably similar to being chained by one. Also ripe for disappointment. I fueled my own damn car.