Total pages in book: 166
Estimated words: 160042 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 800(@200wpm)___ 640(@250wpm)___ 533(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 160042 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 800(@200wpm)___ 640(@250wpm)___ 533(@300wpm)
Let alone a stranger I didn’t like.
But he so casually asked me about it when most people don’t care. I don’t want them to, either, because I don’t want to talk about it, but the fact that he could gauge things, read between the lines from miles and miles away, made me feel like he deserved an answer.
Not to mention, it was a good thing he was a stranger because the stakes were low and I was safe.
He made me feel safe.
So crazy but no less true.
And I realized today at the café that he had always done that before, made me feel safe, because at the time, he was doing the exact opposite. He was scaring me.
Which is why I’m doing this, I think.
Roaming the streets in the middle of the night when I should be in bed like the good girl I always claim myself to be. My roommate and best friend is passed out on our couch, but instead of going to bed myself, I’m just outside the café where we met, and I’m turning the corner to go to a motel two blocks down.
Because that’s where he is.
Or at least that’s where I saw him go earlier today.
I never told Peyton this because I knew she would’ve hunted him down and given him a piece of her mind, but when he demanded that I leave, I did, but I didn’t go too far. I barely made it outside before I had to find my balance and catch my breath. Everything happened so suddenly, so unexpectedly, that my whole body was shaking. So there I was, leaning against the brick wall just outside the café, trying to find my bearings and willing this deep ache to stop, when I saw him leave.
Something possessed me to follow him, and I did.
To this very motel I saw him disappear into.
To this very motel I’m walking into now. Because I’m angry, okay?
I’m angry at him for behaving the way he did. For taking away my sense of safety. No man, not one single man, in my life has ever made me feel the way he did, all safe and cozy. Like I could tell him anything and he’d listen. And then he took it away like it didn’t matter. Like none of the things we shared mattered. And maybe they didn’t, not to him.
Maybe he just wanted someone to kill time with while he was stuck on the inside. Maybe it was all fun and games until he saw me and cast me aside because I didn’t meet his expectations. But he isn’t getting off that easy. Not until I tell him exactly what I think about him.
Stupid asshole criminal cowboy.
The guy at the reception desk greets me with a smile that I’m not sure I return with equal enthusiasm. “Hi, I’m here to see Bo Porter. Can you tell me what room he’s in?”
“Sure, give me a second.” I watch him type things into his computer before he shakes his head. “Uh, Bo Porter, you said?” I nod and he shares, “We don’t have any Bo Porter currently booked in.”
“Are you sure?”
He keeps looking at the computer screen. “Yes. No Bo Porter. Are you sure you got the name right?”
I don’t know why, but his seemingly friendly and normal question makes something move in my belly. Something uncomfortable and heavy.
“Uh, I think so,” I say, swallowing. “I met him at the café just two blocks down this morning, and…” I stalked him and saw him enter this building, my brain finishes for me. “Are you absolutely sure?”
“Yup,” he says, watching me.
Again, there is nothing in his gaze that should scare me or make me feel not at ease. But I am scared, and I’m not at ease. I shift on my feet, my hands getting clammy. “So no tall guy wearing a trucker’s cap with a fancy R on it?”
I see recognition go through his features as soon as I say it, but he responds, “No, I don’t think so.”
“You’re lying,” I say, surprising him.
Surprising myself.
I’m not confrontational. At all.
But this, I need to know.
“I don’t…” He takes a breath. “Is there anything else I can help you with?”
“Tell me his name.”
It seemed like the most important question to ask. For obvious reasons and for reasons I don’t understand yet.
His eyes widen a little bit, but he says, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“You do know,” I insist. “You’re lying.”
“I’m—”
“Look”—I lean over the desk a little and his eyes go even wider—“I understand you may not be allowed to give out this information. Believe me, I do. I understand. But I need you to do this for me, okay? I need you to tell me. I need you to…” I swallow thickly, my emotions sitting right in the center of my throat. “You don’t know me but I’m very smart. I am. And I’m telling this to you so you know how stupid I’ve been. So, see, I’ve been writing letters to this man, right? For the past six months and I knew it was a bad idea. I knew it was crazy and insane and… And then he told me he wanted to meet me and so I went, right? But then he…”