My Darling Bride(3)

Around the motel, tumbleweeds blow and grass pokes through the asphalt. It’s like something out of an old western movie. Last night I heard wolves howling, the lonely sound echoing in the silence. Perhaps I wouldn’t feel so solitary if my headspace were clearer.

There’s a diner across the street and a gas station down the road, yet the motel is far enough from Tucson to see miles and miles of desert. I stood at the edge of it this morning, looking out into its emptiness. Being a city girl, I’d never seen such a sight, and its beauty made my heart swell with appreciation for nature, but there was also fear. It’s a harsh and ambivalent place, one that could swallow me up and never let me go.

Like Kian.

Like any man, really.

Just as I think that, my phone vibrates with a text from him.

Pick up the phone and talk to me!

Bastard. I scroll back. He called me over twenty times while I was in the pool. Guess he knows I left him.

My gut twists, part of me getting a rush that he’s frantic, the other side of me sickened by my response. This thing between me and Kian feels too much like the relationship my mom had with my dad.

Texts pop up, one after another.

Come on, talk to me.

I’m sorry. I fucked up. I never should have put my hands on you. It’s been a hard year, you know that. With you by my side, I’ll be better.

Be better by yourself, jerk.

Yes, he’s had a tough year. He got two DUIs and was removed from the team’s roster, then put money into a restaurant with a friend that later failed. He actually asked me to marry him this weekend. My stomach swirls with anxiety. Doesn’t he know who I am? Marriage is the last thing I want.

Emmy. I was there for you when you needed me. I sat by your side when your gran died. I held you. I didn’t leave. I’m sorry, baby. It will never happen again.

Oh, Kian. That’s what they all say.

Come on, call me. You’re messing with my head.

Nope. I’m done riding his roller coaster. I’m getting off and saying “See you in hell” to his amusement park.

I ram my phone in my bag but miss, and it skitters across the open-air walkway. Cursing, I bend down to swipe it up.

“Hey, gorgeous,” a voice murmurs from behind me, and I whip around in surprise to see Clint Eastwood—not the real one, but a cheap knockoff.

Fake Clint showed up in the motel honky-tonk bar last night in a legit black leather duster, boots, and a hat. He lurked in the shadows cast by the flashing neon lights while I drank at the bar. He made the rounds, chatting up every woman in the place, and I left before he got to me. If he’d been interesting and less of a creep, I might have fooled around with him. Just to get over this awful feeling Kian has left in the pit of my stomach.

Gran said it best: Darling, if he’s no good, pick another pony. Of course, she was talking about the racetrack, but still, it’s a good reference for men as well.

I want to snap back a reply to Fake Clint, but an image of the last time I saw Kian flashes in my head, the shocking sound of his fist hitting the wall next to me, the pieces of drywall that flew into my hair, then the awful press of his fingers against my throat. I couldn’t breathe. I could only fight and slap and scratch at his face. Nausea bubbles as I recall the smell of lemon and butter from the fish we’d had for dinner.

He shoved me away, overturned the room service tray, then stomped out of the door.

I glance around the empty breezeway as my unease rises higher. A knot forms in my gut, and my breathing quickens. I’m alone here. Best to not engage with Clint. I make a noncommittal sound and start to my door.

“Hey, wait, don’t run off,” he says as he follows on my heels. “I saw you at the pool. You were swimming laps like it was your job.”

His eyes linger on my breasts, and I groan inwardly, regretting I didn’t pull on a shirt. I’m in a black rash-guard shirt and bikini bottoms I bought from the dollar store in town.

“Thought I’d join you, maybe get a few laps in, but now you’re done. Too bad.” He holds up a longneck beer. “I’ve got more of these in my room if you want one?”

“I’m in for the day,” I say as I rummage in my worn patchwork bag, searching for the motel key.

“You’re alone here, right?”

My warning radar spikes. “No,” I reply slowly. “My boyfriend is asleep in the room.”

“I didn’t see him last night.”

“He doesn’t like crowds. Or guys hitting on me.”

“Hard to believe he’d let you drink alone.” He stares at my navel ring peeking through my rash guard, then gives me a smarmy grin. “I noticed your room is next to mine. Talk about some cardboard walls. I heard you crying this morning. Did you have a fight with him?”

Play nice, the angel on my shoulder says, while the devil . . .

I find the motel key and grip it tight. “Should I wake up my boyfriend and tell him you’re being a dick?”

“I like your spunk, but I’m just trying to get to know you. No need to involve your man. If that’s even true.” He eases around me until he’s blocking my door.

His bloodshot hazel eyes hold mine. He’s older than my twenty-eight and reeks of beer. Today he’s wearing cutoff shorts, a faded shirt, and flip-flops. I guess the duster and boots were too hot for day attire. With a buzz haircut, a weak chin, and beady eyes, he looks like a mean hamster. And now I’m picturing a hamster in a cowboy outfit riding a horse in the desert and having a gunfight with Darcy the Iguana.