12. Charlotte

12

CHARLOTTE

B y the time we get to the shitty motel we're spending the night at, basically a cut-out copy of the ones we've stayed in before, the bravado I had at the store has deserted me. I walk into the small bathroom with the two boxes of hair dye, look in the mirror at my thick, dark brown hair that I've so carefully taken care of all of my life, and promptly burst into tears.

A few minutes later, I hear a soft knock at the door. "Charlotte?" Ivan's voice carries through, and I wipe my hands across my face, not wanting him to know how upset I am.

"I'm fine." My voice comes out a little cracked, which makes it pretty clear that I'm not fine, but I don't take it back. Even if he can tell that I'm crying, I don't want to admit it.

I should say something else. I can feel Ivan on the other side of the door, waiting for something else. But I can't think of anything to say, and after a long moment, I hear him walking away.

I wipe my face again and start going through the motions. I wish I had my cell phone to put music on to distract me, or that I didn't mind Ivan watching me do this so that I could open the door and listen to whatever is on TV, but instead, I just clench my teeth and bulldoze my way through it, feeling a little dizzy from the bleach fumes halfway through. By the time it's done and I turn on the hot water to wash the first round out, I start to wonder if the combination of steam and bleach is going to fry more than just the ends of my hair. By the end of the second, I'm coughing a little bit, and my eyes are watering.

My hair feels sticky, like straw. I pour all of the conditioner that came with it into my palms, slicking my wet hair back against my scalp and running it all through, for once ignoring the ‘from the ears down' advice that I've followed with conditioner my whole life. I wait ten minutes, resisting the urge to sit down on the shower floor—the tile is yellowed, and the idea of sitting naked on it makes my stomach turn a little bit—and then wash it all out.

I wrap a bathrobe around myself, get out the cheap-feeling hair dryer that's under the sink, and start to dry my hair.

There's something that feels final about this. According to Ivan, my life as I knew it is destroyed. I won't be able to go back home for a long time, if ever. Every time I remember that, I feel like a yawning pit has opened up in my chest, a feeling so dark and sad that I have to constantly yank myself away from it and not think about it for too long, or else I won't be able to keep going.

But there's something undeniably thrilling about all of it, too. If I ignore how real it all is, I feel that shifting adrenaline in the pit of my stomach, the hint of excitement at how different things suddenly are. The slumming it in motels, the cheap food, the new hair color, even the stolen car—all of it is something out of a movie, something that I'm just playing a part in, is exciting. The kind of thing I never, ever, imagined happening to me.

It's a coping mechanism, I'm well aware of that. It is real. It is happening. But I have to cope with it somehow, and if letting myself pretend that it's all temporary and feeling that thrill helps, I'm going to just have to go with it for a little while.

The reality hits again when the steam clears from the glass as I finish blow drying my hair, and I see it in the mirror for the first time.

I'm blonde. Not salon-blonde—that's impossible for a brunette to get from a box dye, but the toner I bought helps. It's not as orange as I feared. But it doesn't exactly suit my skin tone, and the bad motel lighting doesn't help. I sink my teeth into my lower lip, fighting back tears again. My hair doesn't look too damaged—I still have an expensive cut, and dried, it still looks thick and fairly shiny. But I don't look like me .

I feel ugly. My eyes burn again, and I hear Ivan's footsteps, just before he knocks on the door again.

"Charlotte? Did you pass out in there from the fumes? I can smell the dye out here."

I swallow hard, searching for the courage to open up the door. I can tell myself all I like that I don't care if Ivan wants me, that there should be nothing between us any longer, that it would be easier if he didn't want me anymore. The thought of opening the bathroom door and seeing alarm, or worse, disgust in his eyes, makes my stomach turn over, and my chest tighten.

"Charlotte. I heard the blow dryer, but I'm still worried. Can you say something?" He sounds anxious, like he genuinely cares, and I force myself to ignore it. The worst thing I could let myself believe is that Ivan actually cares about me. That he wishes he'd gone about this all differently, because he has real, genuine feelings for me.

I grab the handle of the door and shove it open, almost hitting him in the process. I cross my arms over the front of the thin bathrobe, glaring at him in a way that dares him to tell me it looks bad. But the way he's looking at me tells me in an instant that he thinks anything but.

He takes a step forward, one hand on the doorjamb as if he's afraid that I'm going to slam the door closed on him. His gaze sweeps over my face, over my hair, and I see his throat move as he swallows.

"You've always been gorgeous," he murmurs, and his hand tightens on the doorframe as if he's trying to stop himself from reaching out and touching me. "Nothing about that has changed."

"You don't have to lie." The retort comes out sharp and bitter. It would be so much easier if he was lying. If there wasn't this thick, raw feeling in the air that springs up every time one of us comes close to the other, that tells me without question that he isn't lying. The way he's looking at me, his blue eyes darkened, the way his muscles tense as he holds himself there in the doorway—it all tells me that he wants me as much now as he did two days ago. As much as he did last night. As much as he always has—to my ruin.

And, arguably, his as well.

"Charlotte." His voice drops, rough at the edges, sending heat washing over me. I take a step back, and he steps forward, on the verge of following me into the bathroom. Alarm flares sharply in my chest, because I know what will happen if he does. I can feel the spreading desire washing over me, and I'm painfully aware of just how little clothing I have on. The thin bathrobe is nothing. He could push me against the wall, and then?—

I glance down, and I can see how hard he is, straining against the front of his jeans. He pushes away from the doorframe, reaching out to touch me, to slide his hand into my hair and pull me in—and on reflex, almost desperately, I slap his hand away, hard enough that he recoils.

In that split second, I duck under his arm, darting away from him and out of the bathroom. I shove the door as I go, and I see Ivan turn, his mouth opening, in the instant before I slam the door shut hard behind me, cutting him off.

I stand there on the other side of it, breathing hard, my arms wrapped tightly around myself. I wait for it to open, for him to burst out, to grab me, to back me up to the bed and start all over again what happened between us two days ago, when I woke up in that first hotel room.

But the door doesn't open. There's silence for a long moment, and then I hear the sound of the shower turning on, and the curtain being opened and closed. And I feel almost—disappointed.

That's ridiculous. I can't be disappointed that Ivan didn't burst out and ravish me, because that's not what I want. What I want is for him to leave me alone, for me to find a way out of this as soon as possible, and I'm getting the first part of that. I didn't tell him no, but my actions spoke pretty loudly, and he respected that.

I should be happy about it.

The other question, the one of why a man who stalked me and lied to me would suddenly start respecting my unspoken refusal, I ignore. I stand there for another few beats, listening to the sound of the shower, and then I go over to where the bags with my new-to-me clothes are sitting on the bed, pulling out a pair of jeans and a loose t-shirt that ties in the front, with a dinosaur skeleton etched on it. Not my usual style, but I get dressed, biting my lip as I look out to the balcony just outside our room.

I know Ivan wouldn't want me to go outside. But I need fresh air. Not just from breathing in bleach and dye fumes for the better part of the last hour, but because of—everything. I remember what happened the last time I left the room while Ivan was inside, and right now, he wouldn't be able to help me, while he's in the shower. But that thought isn't enough to stop me from grabbing the room key and stalking towards the door.

On the desk near it, Ivan's pack of cigarettes is sitting next to his now-useless car keys. I pause, and, on impulse, reach for the pack and his lighter, slipping one of the cigarettes free before I step out onto the balcony.

The nights are getting colder now, closing in on the end of October. I shiver a little as I lean up against the wall, looking at the slim cigarette in my fingers. I've never smoked before, and I think of my regrets earlier, about not having as much fun with my friends as I could have when I had the chance.

I flick the lighter, raise the cigarette to my lips, and take a deep breath.

The acrid scent and burning sensation instantly hit my lungs, making my chest feel tight and making me cough. Stubbornly, I take another drag, just as I hear the door open behind me.

"What the fuck are you doing?" Quick as a snake striking, Ivan snatches the cigarette out of my fingers, tossing it to the concrete and stubbing it out. "That's a shitty habit to start?—"

"Don't tell me what to fucking do!" Some of that anger I've been repressing bubbles up, as acrid as the smoke still in my lungs. I go to push past him and go back into the hotel room, but Ivan shifts, blocking me in as he presses both of his hands to the wall on either side of my head, his large body looming over me.

My heart thumps, my skin prickling as Ivan looks down at me, his dark blue eyes catching mine with a promise. A promise of finishing what he started just a few minutes ago, in the bathroom.

His gaze holds mine, and I feel myself freeze, like a deer caught in headlights. And then, before I can think or move, he darts in as quickly as he knocked the cigarette from my hand, his lips covering mine.

The kiss is rough, demanding, hard . His mouth presses against mine, his tongue sweeping over my lower lip, pushing into my mouth as he groans. He breaks it for the briefest moment, stopping almost as quickly as he started, a ravenous hunger in his dark eyes as he looks down at me.

"You taste like me," he growls, and then he's kissing me again.

Every part of my body wants to give in. He surges against me, hot and hungry, and I feel myself arch into him for a moment, wanting it. I know how good he can make me feel, the things he can do to me, and I feel particularly susceptible to it tonight. The stress, the upheaval of my life, the changes that keep hitting me hard and fast, all of it makes me feel like I'm hovering on the edge of a precipice, and the feeling of Ivan's hot, hard body against mine makes me want to fling myself off of it, even if I know I'll have to crawl back up afterward.

"Charlotte—" He groans my name against my lips through the kiss, and I feel it vibrate against my skin. His hips press against mine, his hard length grinding into my thigh, and I'm suddenly viscerally aware of where we are—on a walkway outside of a motel room, in full view of anyone who might walk up. We're also an inch from the door that goes into our room, and the temptation to tell him to take me inside is strong. To spill me back onto that bed and let me sink for a little while into the fantasy that all of this is something I want . That it's just an adventure I'll wake up from eventually.

His tongue slides along my lower lip again, teasing. One of his hands is still braced against the wall next to my head, but the other drops to my hip, pushing under the fabric of my shirt to run his thumb over the strip of bare skin just above the waist of my jeans. His pace has slowed, almost savoring me now, but it still feels just as hungry. Just as desperate.

And if I give in, it will be harder to say no next time, and the time after that, and after that—all the way to Vegas, where I have to decide what my new life will look like.

How can I do that if Ivan is confusing me, distracting me, fogging me up like this?

Is that what he wants , to drag me under with pleasure and lust until I can't make a clear decision to leave him at the end of all of this?

The thought shoves my rising arousal aside just long enough for anger to flood in and take its place. I plant my hands against his chest, shoving him back away from me. He's bigger than me, but he's so lost in the kiss that I catch him off guard, and he stumbles back.

"Charlotte—" His eyes are dark, his mouth reddened and slightly swollen from kissing me, a look of such need on his face that I feel that lust threatening to sweep in again, and I almost give in. No one has ever looked at me like that. Like if he doesn't kiss me again, he'll die.

He's manipulating me. Trying to make me forget what he's done.

I shove myself away from the wall, grabbing for the key in my pocket and opening the door. "I might have to rely on you for my safety right now," I spit out, wedging myself into the room as I look at him standing there. "But you are never, ever going to touch me again."

I slam the door, leaving him standing out in the cold. And I feel hot, damp tears, sliding down my cheeks as I hear it shut behind me.