Chapter 1

1

L IZ

I must've slept for hours, maybe days.

That's how it feels when awareness seeps back into my brain and my surroundings slowly come into focus.

The austere motel walls, the small space, and the bed, which is not exactly bad, yet not too comfortable either.

The bathroom door slightly open, with a flicker of light sneaking through.

The memory comes back to me like a blast of wind, rattling my soul before the stack of money on the nightstand catches my attention.

I move my stare back to the bathroom door and simply listen, still holding out hope he's here with me.

Not gone.

Not sleeping in some lavish hotel suite downtown.

My heart beats faster as my mind puts him in the bathroom, shirtless, running a strong hand through his hair, a towel hanging low on his muscular hips. His blue eyes trained on the mirror. His stare blank, or maybe filled with dirty thoughts, primal satisfaction, hungry anticipation, and more lusting after my body.

He got what he wanted.

The money on the nightstand attests to that, the lingering pleasure in my body proof of that.My thoughts connected to that.

And for a second… I wonder.

Does it feel different now that we have done it this way?

Is this the end of us?

Of how we were?

Is this a milestone? A crossroads? A new chapter?

Are we getting closer or farther away from the truth?

But what if he stares in the mirror and something feels off as he studies himself with a critical eye, and a persistent, almost irritating ‘what if' takes up residence inhis mind?

And instead of the satiating physical pleasure, a dull pain throbs in his chest, making him notice, perhaps for the first time, the void where happiness once used to pulse?

Or what if he looks in the mirror with the eyes of someone who is no longer a stranger to me? Because I'm no longer a stranger to him.

What if he was… again … David, my fictional husband? And we just had make up sex in a motel, away from our beautiful home?

Maybe we wanted to forget about our problems by dipping deep into each other, letting our bodies talk, and tasting that magnificent high only our flesh could give us.

Perhaps we fought over nothing in our big, soulless house before he followed me here to make sure I wasn't meeting someone else or encountering some terrible fate.

Maybe he was jealous or angry or both, and we initially hate fucked because we couldn't ignore the argument we had before.

Or maybe we had sex, and things felt so much better, the tension morphing into nothing, the argument dimming away.

And here we are now.

I'm lying on the bed, sore between my legs, my fictional husband alone in the bathroom, thinking about me, weighing his options.

Pondering whether to come back and fuck me slowly or grab his clothes, put them on, and walk out like we've never run into each other in this lifeless, grayish motel room.

But what if he's gone?

What if he only needed to take a sip of me and dull out the pain lingering in him before going back to his fancy world?

The question is… Am I alone in this?

With my eyes fully open, I take in the room. The space is quiet, and no one moves in the bathroom.

Yes, he's gone.

Maybe I wasn't the refuge, the safe haven, the break he needed in his life. The secret meant to fix his chaos.

Maybe I'm just a cute redhead who likes to play this game with him, which, by the way, has been the setup from the beginning.

No biggie.

Sex is good.

What am I saying?

I roll to my back and spread my legs against the cold sheets.

Sex is out of this world.

I lost count of how many times I moaned out his name, coming like a wildling.

He ate me out like a pro and hammered me until my deepest depths rebelled and sent powerful spikes of pleasure through my frame.

I breathed raggedly and fast for him, more than grateful for the pleasure he had given me.

Too bad he's gone, and I'm still in the middle of nowhere, longing for his touch and still having a riddle to solve.

Who is the real David Moore?

Time drips away in figments of silence. No one will answer this question for me.

‘You've got that right,' the voice in my head mutters, rolling her eyes, and if there were a bar behind her, she'd probably turn her back to me and reach for a bottle of scotch and a clean glass––still rolling her eyes.

"Fuck off, will you?" I say quietly, a slow smile tugging at my lips. "You can blabber all you want. Nothing will ruin my mood."

She whistles dismissively, driving me nuts, yet I still manage to laugh.

Chuckling, I roll to my side, hug a pillow, and look out the window.

A splash of light grows over the horizon.

"No way…" I murmur, realizing it's still early.

I push up a little and look for my phone.

‘You'd need to get off your butt, princess. If you want to find that little bugger.'

"Shut up," I rasp, waving her off.

She turns up her nose at me in defiance. No surprise there.

Clutching the sheet against my chest, I push upright.

The room spins, and I wait for a few good moments before trusting my legs again to carry me to where I left my phone.

Well, it's not exactly where I left it. Or I remember leaving it. A lot of stuff happened last night, and I don't recollect half of it.

I finally spot it and pick it up from the edge of the sink.I don't remember putting it there.

Anyway, it's powered off––the way I left it––and he can't get into it because it's locked, but why would he do that?

It doesn't matter.

I have no secrets.

Hmm…

The thought gives me pause.

Maybe that's the problem.

He has tons of secrets.

Besides me, I mean.

His past is a dark blur, buried deep in the archive of time, and everybody knows and accepts that.

But why would I?

I make a mental note to do some investigative work––my favorite kind––grab my phone and return to the room.

The sheet falls to the floor before I power on my phone and lower myself to the bed.

Absently, I scoop up a bottle of water, untwist the cap, and take a drink.

My smile is rather wilted.

No, David wasn't in the bathroom. Too bad I fell asleep before he snuck out.

I wish I could've seen him put on his clothes, glance at me one last time, and vanish in the dark.

Randomly, I tip my gaze in the direction of the window when something catches my eye, and my mouth falls open.

I abandon my phone on the bed, put the bottle on the floor, pick up the sheet, wrap it around my chest, and walk to the window.

The car… It's still here.

Holding my breath, I scan the parking lot.

A couple of cars have left, but his ride is still here.

Is he still here? But where exactly?

Sucking in some air, I spin around and make a beeline for the bed, where I snatch up my phone and tap the screen.

A bunch of notifications await me. Random stuff. And a few messages from Chloe that reek of concern.

A bad feeling gallops through me.

Please don't tell me that she alerted my mother.

I scroll down.

More urgent messages follow.

They're all from Terry.

Can you imagine that?

Terry: Chloe called. She said she talked to you, and then you went silent. Please tell me you're all right.

Terry: Liz?

Terry: Okay… I assume you're asleep. Chloe and I chatted about the wedding, and I told her you must've been exhausted and fallen asleep .

I'm sure that didn't work.

Chloe rarely buys that kind of flimsy explanation. She knows me well.

I move farther down.

Terry: Liz? I've called you several times. Please get back to me when you receive these messages. I'm worried sick, but I'm not ready to alert everybody else or call the police. I can't imagine something bad happened to you. And honestly, I'd hop into my car and come check on you if I didn't hate waking you and facing your resentful face. I just want to make sure you're all right. Please call.

Her messages are increasingly panicked, and I glance at the time before I type.

It's not even six o'clock in the morning.

Me: Everything's fine. Sorry about that. Fell asleep. My phone was powered off. We'll talk.

I'm hoping she's asleep, and my message will find her when she wakes up.

Her reply arrives immediately.

Terry: Thank God. I couldn't get a wink of sleep. You know me. Lol. Talk to you later. Get some rest.

Me: I sure will.

I feel bad. Ugh. Why did she have to call her? I don't blame Chloe. I would've probably done the same.

My phone pings with another notification.

Terry: Don't forget to call Chloe and tell her you're all right. And also, we're invited to Thea's house this afternoon. We can go together if you want to, or I can meet you there. Just let me know which way it is.

Me: I'll stop by your place first.

Terry: Good.

I switch my focus to Chloe.

Checking the time again, I realize I could call her. But then, she might want to have a video chat, and I don't want that right now, so I type a message instead.

Me: …

My fingers hover.

What should I tell her?

I suffered an attack of narcolepsy and fell asleep in the middle of the conversation?

I have to come up with something believable.

In the meantime, I need to leave this place and head home.

Me: Can I call you in twenty minutes?

And then I add.

Me: I can't talk right now.

I wait for a few seconds, hoping to hear from her and learn whether I need to come up with a lengthy story or not.

My phone stays silent.

Okay, I need to move.

I put the phone on the bed, lose the sheet and collect my clothes.

Sunk in thought, I put them on.

‘Where is he?' the annoying voice in my head blabbers.

Yeah, where is he?

Ignoring her, I look around the room. There is no sign of him. I wouldn't even know he was here if it wasn't for the cash on the nightstand.

That and my sore thighs.

I fluff up my hair and shrug my jacket on. What a night.

And today, I'll need to face him again––perhaps––if he's been invited to Thea's house.

He must've been, I muse, checking the room so I don't forget anything.

Out of habit, I make my bed.

‘Good thinking,' the voice mutters, her arms folded over her chest.

"Shut up," I snap.

‘Oh, someone didn't get enough.'

Her mocking chuckle makes me zip upright.

"I got enough," I murmur, pivoting to the nightstand and grabbing the roll of cash.

‘Aren't you going to count the money?' she tosses at me.

‘I'm not using it, dumbbell,' I retort in my head.

‘Oh, oh… Stop the presses. Feeling the weight of guilt already?'

‘I am not discussing this with you. Besides, it's none of your business.'

Her laughter grates my nerves.

‘You're forgetting who you're talking to.'

‘Not in the slightest, Pain In The Ass.'

I grab the stash of cash and start counting it.

Her hands hit her hips, a derisive smirk on her face.

‘Pain in the ass? Do you know who you're talking to?'

‘Of course I know. My stupid conscience. Now get lost.'

I refuse to engage with her for the next few seconds as I restart to count the money since I lost track while chatting with Miss Nuisance in my head.

It's a lot.

A lot of money.

I give up at three thousand dollars. It must be five grand. Man, is that the going rate these days? I know there's inflation and stuff, but still.

Have I picked the wrong career path?

That's kind of obvious.

Would I do it with anyone else for cash?

No fucking way.

Like with some guy treating me like a warm hole with legs?

No. That would never happen.

Besides, those men come with a host of issues. Repressed feelings, inadequacies, powerlessness, insecurities.

Yeah, yeah… I imagine there are other men like David. They like to pay and play, and whoever gets picked up by them enjoys a lot of benefits.

Like me with him last night.

Bust still…

Is he like them?

Like those men who can't get it up without shedding cash for a willing woman?

Did it turn me on?

Yeah… It did.

Do I find it satisfying now?

Honestly, I feel nothing.

And I won't use his money. I have no need for it. It's not like I've become wealthy overnight. I have a host of problems, but I won't use his money to fix them.

No way.

It would hurt me more than help me.

‘Righteous silly girl,' the voice in my head comments, and I grind my teeth.

‘I thought you were busy,' I shoot back.

‘I am busy listening to your stupid chatter. You could use some of that money to pay off that high interest credit card debt you keep forgetting about.'

‘Mind your own business. I'll pay it off. Don't need his money for that.'

‘Yeah. Because you're rich or something.'

"Ugh…"

My voice echoes in the room.

"Stupid thoughts," I grump.

‘Excuse me. I'm your inner voice. And I have rights.'

‘You have the right to remain silent, yet you don't use that right very often.'

With that, I flip the bird to my imaginary friend in my head.

"Enough of you…" I mutter, shifting my focus to what I was pondering before.

The thought that he might be one of those Johns makes me forget about being stranded in a motel room with his arousing smell between my legs, despite the showering and scrubbing my skin and dozing off for a few hours.

My heart tells me he is not.

He is not that kind of man, but like them, he has a reason for doing it besides wanting to turn me on.

He has smoothly talked me into doing it with him––getting paid for sex––but I'm no fool.

There is a reason he is how he is, and I've been tasked––or rather self-appointed myself––to find that reason.

A glinting piece of metal distracts me for a moment, and my focus shifts back to the nightstand where his car keys sit.

Okay.

The car keys are here, and the vehicleis still outside, so he's still here.

The thought suddenly makes me aware that something other than my deep sleep and ruminative thoughts must've happened.

I grab my phone to call him. I'd rather do that than march outside dressed like this.

A warm feeling curls up in my chest.

Maybe he waited for me to wake up so he could take me home.

Do I really believe that?

No, not really.

He is the kind of man who values his time. He won't just sit idling by, waiting for me to get my beauty sleep.

My thumb slides across, waking my phone when I notice a missed message.

David: I'll see you next week.

Oh… That's it?

That's all he's got?

I need to sit for a moment.

Dumbfounded, I stare blankly at my phone, going back in time and trying to remember our last moments.

Were they good?

Bad?

Was he absent?

Have I done something wrong?

‘Maybe that's why he needs this arrangement,' the voice in my head offers as if I needed her opinion.

‘What the fuck are you talking about?'

‘Money keeps the women––and now you––out of his real life. He can't commit to anyone because he has nothing to offer. He's a busy man who travels a lot. He runs a business empire. Think about that. Things were not that different when he met Rain.'

This is the most that she's talked to me in one breath.

And she continues.

‘It's in her book,' she says as if I needed the reminder. ‘She didn't describe it as such, but you can figure it out.'

‘I know. I know,' I say, flabbergasted. ‘But he was married then.'

‘Do you want him married now? To someone other than yourself?'

‘No need to be nasty. That was a cheap shot.'

‘Sorry.'

She's not sorry.

And she drones on.

"If I were you, I'd be more concerned with who he's paying to satisfy his needs when you're not around.'

‘I said no cheap shots.'

‘It's the reality, babe.'

She crashes back into an imaginary rocking chair and starts filing her nails, seemingly fascinated with the process.

‘We have an understanding.' I argue .

‘Sure. How do you know he's keeping his end of the deal?'

Yeah, how?

I'm assuming he'll honor his word.

‘Mm-hmm. Honor his word. As if that ever works with a man like him.'

‘Stop eavesdropping.'

She puts the nail file to the side.

‘All I'm doing is trying to keep you humble. You need to adjust your expectations so you don't get hurt.'

"Go away," I say a little too loud, quickly becoming aware that I'm alone in the room, the walls are thin, and it doesn't look good to talk to myself after almost making the building collapse from so much wall banging last night.

‘Fine, you're on your own,' she says. ‘And by the way, the car is yours. And he's gone. Anyone can tell.'

With that, she turns her little perky butt to me and vanishes into the nooks of my memory.

The car. The fucking car. I clutch the keys and my phone, scoop up my bottle of water, and after making sure none of my belongings are misplaced and left in the room, I head to the door.

My stare roves over the parking lot as I step outside.

The sky is brighter, the night still having a strong hold over the celestial vault arching over the hills.

It's cold outside, the gusts of wind swirling across the concrete slabs only making things worse.

Holding my jacket closer, I look to my left.

The openneon sign still glows in the window, but the front desk area is dim as if no one is there.

I need to give the room key to that woman and check out. But first I want to make sure he's left the car for me.

Cold from the early morning breeze, I sprint to the black car. It looked inconspicuous last night, yet now it shines like a Christmas present.

So he probably left it here because he wanted me to get home safely. How did he get home?

His driver must've picked him up.

I walk around the dark beauty. This isn't any kind of car. It isn't to me, for sure.

First off, it's new.

I mean used but new, if you get my drift.

I've never had a low-mileage car or one that hasn't been at least a decade old.

This is a new model. Sleek and sturdy yet agile by the looks of it. With shiny rims.

A shiver of anticipation sidles up to me.

I bet it's a pleasure to drive it.

I'll need to buy a car like this when I make some money. Or I can afford a down payment on it. Or the monthly payment. Or the insurance.

‘Keep dreaming."

The voice makes a reappearance, wearing reading glasses like she's some sassy librarian.

I wish I were her for a day.

Doing nothing, fucking with other people's lives and dreams and insecurities.

‘I wasn't talking to you,' I mumble in my head.

She sighs.

‘Okay. Got it. There's no need to be rude, though.'

"I wasn't––"

I stop as it dawns on me that talking to no one while standing next to the black car reflects poorly on me.

‘What are you waiting for? Hop in and take it for a spin. Test the vehicle to learn what a good car feels like.'

‘You talk like a cop.'

She scrunches up her nose.

‘I am a cop, dummy. I'm policing your thoughts.'

‘Tell me about it. Now, keep your mouth shut. I don't want to put a dent in it.'

‘You can't put a dent in it if you're still gawking at it, keys in hand.'

I make a clipped dismissive gesture and growl a curse under my breath.

‘I saw that. And heard that,' she says.

I choose to ignore her.

The door opens with ease after I press the button and unlock it.

The lights come on.

Oh, my.

It smells like a new car.

Let me rephrase it.

How I imagined a new car would smell.

Careful not to scratch anything or put dirt on the floor mat, I slide into the driver's seat and run my fingers over the steering wheel before reclining the chair and sliding it closer.

I get used to the interior and the dashboard, my focus lingering, perhaps too much, on them before the voice in my head starts yapping about me checking the glove box.

I reach over and open it. I notice the car manual and an envelope. I pick it up and look inside, curious about the car's information.

'It must be registered to his firm,' the voice inside my head opines, and I ignore it as if it's static noise.

I find the car registration and insurance before stumbling over the title. It's rather unusual to keep here.

My mother and I keep ours in a small box with other important documents back at home.

But this… This is not any kind of title. My eyes tilt down, and my awareness gets quickly rattled, my hand flying to my mouth.

He signed the title over to me?

I check my information. It's all there. Correct. No errors. He's done some research, this man.

And just like that, I have officially become a sugar baby.

Does he know about my beat up car?

Certainly not. I hope not. If he did, I'd be majorly embarrassed. Although, why would I be?

I never pretended I was something other than I was.

He just gifted me a car.

Wow…

Okay, okay… I need to let it sink in.

And then, I need to come up with a plan. Whose car is it? What am I gonna tell my mom? Is this a friend's car? Am I borrowing it?

Will it work? Probably not.

I'll come up with something else.

I always do.

My muse might not be that helpful when it comes to writing romance, but it surely knows how to put a spin on anything that happens to me in real life.

"Cat ate your tongue?" I murmur, sliding everything back in, closing the glove box, and turning the engine on.

The voice in my head looks at me with a stoic expression on her little face. As if her shoes were too small and her feet were full of blisters.

"No judging, please," I say quietly, adjusting the rearview mirror and scanning the parking lot one more time before maneuvering my way out of my spot and making a beeline for the motel entrance, where the glowing sign feels like a good omen.

The car is magnificent.

Smooth and powerful like him.

The night couldn't have ended better, and not because I have some money in my pocket and a brand new car to my name––to me, it's new––but because this signals that what's happening to me is more than simply coming into a windfall.

My life won't change because of all these gifts and money, but I surely trust him that he'll come back to me.

It's shallow thinking at its best, but I won't ruin my morning with deep thoughts that could put a damper on my mood.

I pull to a smooth stop, the voice in my head finally silenced, and a smile grows on my face.