I’m screwed. But that’s nothing new.
5 Kayla
My stomach grumbles. I’ve barely eaten today. And yesterday all I had was an apple and a bag of Cheetos. Dinner is a must. If I can grab a full meal tonight then maybe I won’t have to worry about breakfast or lunch tomorrow when I’m on the road.
I hate driving alone, especially at night, so I’m not heading back to Chicago until morning. Though I’m not sure what my rush is. It’s not like I have anything to return to—except for Big Joe and his demands.
I’ve had to work so many shifts these past few months just to stay ahead of my bills that all of my friendships back in Illinois have faded into acquaintanceships. So much so that I doubt anyone even knows where I am. Or that I even left Chicago.
Wow. That’s an unsettling thought.
But it’s probably for the better. If Big Joe found out that I took off, he’d probably send his goons to come drag me back to the diner. Maybe it’s best if I never return at all.
There’s nothing and no one waiting for me back in Illinois. No home. No family… My heart drops to the floor as I realize, for the first time, that I’m technically an orphan.
I’m twenty-one and I can take care of myself but there’s something very lonely about not having loved ones waiting for me anywhere in this world. In recent years, my father wasn’t much of a parent but he was still somewhere, aware that I existed. And deep down, in the back of my mind where I let hope run free, I knew that if I needed him—if I really absolutely desperately needed my daddy—he would come through for me.
I had no reason to believe such a thing, but the little girl inside me refused to think otherwise. Even when I hated him, I still hoped for him. And maybe that’s what hurt the most. More than the rejection. More than the abandonment. The deepest cut was the relentless hope I carried, and it bled endlessly. Even now, with him dead and gone, it’s still bleeding.
I swallow back the lump in my throat and change out of my outfit.
Aside from the gray dress I wore yesterday, the royal blue blouse and black pencil skirt are the only “nice” clothes I own, so I’m careful not to snag or rip anything as I take them off. I slip out of the skirt, set it on the bed, then gingerly undo the buttons of my top before sliding it off my shoulders and folding everything neatly back into my suitcase.
I notice a new tear in the seam of the suitcase and I sigh. First my family tree, then my job and home, and now my suitcase?
Is there anything in my life that isn’t falling to pieces?
I shake my head and silently scold myself for being so dramatic. I will not be a whiney baby. Sure, life has thrown a few fastball lemons at me lately, and sure, I’m broke and homeless, but I’m also an intelligent adult who can figure this out. My life. My future. My money. I will figure it out. All of it.
I swap the skirt on the bed for an old pair of jeans with holes in the knees—from years of wear and tear, not for fashion purposes—and my stomach rumbles again.
But before I figure anything out I’m going to eat so I don’t faint on the disgusting motel carpet. God, I’m hungry. All I’ve had today is the granola bar I scarfed before heading to the lawyer’s office for the will reading.
Just thinking about my father’s ridiculous will brings back all my irritation from earlier. The man doesn’t speak to me for five years and when he finally does, he wants me to go on some kind of weird letter hunt with the town’s biggest playboy? What was he thinking? Why couldn’t he have just given the letter directly to me without involving any bondage playtime with Daren Ackwood? And why on earth is Daren Ackwood a part of this equation anyway?
He was my dad’s gardener, for crying out loud. He was an egotistical rich kid who probably only kept the gardening job so he could afford to buy condoms for all his sexual conquests. And my father deemed him worthy of his will? It doesn’t make sense.
Just how chummy were Daren and my dad? Were they drinking buddies? Were they football friends? I never saw them have a conversation that lasted longer than two minutes so how close could they have possibly been?
I tug my old jeans on with a scoff.
Pretty damn close, I guess, if my dad felt comfortable leaving that stupid letter to us both. Ugh. And what could he possibly have to say to us in one silly note?
Dear Daren and Kayla. I’m holding your baseball cards hostage and screwing you over one last time, hee-hee?
The whole thing is ludicrous.
Pulling a gray T-shirt from my tattered suitcase, I yank it over my head and flip my hair from under the collar with a huff. I look in the mirror and relax a little.
The formfitting blouse and skirt served their purpose today but I’m far more comfortable in loose clothes. Or relatively loose clothes. My curves are still noticeable in this outfit but at least I don’t feel like my breasts are on display.
I grab my purse, let myself out of the motel room, and walk to the lobby—if you can even call it that. The Quickie Stop’s lobby looks less like the registration desk of a motel and more like the drive-thru at a liquor store.
It’s no bigger than my motel room, with walls that were probably white at one time but are now more of a grimy yellow color, and gray laminate flooring that’s heavily scuffed, stained, and peeling up where the glue has lost its hold. The registration desk is eight feet wide and topped with a matching laminate counter, scarred with scratches and a few sections of penned graffiti. And the wall behind the counter is lined with shelves of cigarettes, small bottles of alcohol, and an obscene amount of condoms.
The man sitting behind the desk looks the way you’d expect the night shift employee of a seedy motel to appear. Mid forties, overweight, mustache, stained polo shirt, and a lump of tobacco chew bulging under his bottom lip.
His face brightens when he sees me walk in and the corners of his mouth curl up to reveal yellowing teeth. I try to ignore the way his eyes peruse my body as I approach, but seriously. Guys are pigs. It’s not like I’m dressed like a hooker here. Yet this guy is slowly sinking his eyeballs into the most private places on my body.
“Well, hello there,” he says eagerly as he straightens in his chair. He probably doesn’t mean to come across like a creep, but I can’t help but be reminded of every scary movie ever when his grin grows bigger.
“Hello,” I say politely, taking note that his name tag reads OWEN. You know, just in case I need to dole out details to the police later.
“How can I help you?” He ogles me and spits into a plastic cup. Gross.
“I was wondering if there was a place nearby to grab dinner. Something… affordable?” I hear the pathetic hope in my voice and want to slap myself.
It’s not like I’m starving. And it’s not like I don’t have a penny to my name. I just don’t want to blow twenty percent of what little money I do have on a crappy sandwich and a side of droopy fries.
The only reason I’m asking for eating suggestions at all is because the Quickie Stop is on the opposite side of town from where I grew up, so I’m not familiar with the food prices around here, and I don’t feel like driving across town just to eat.
Ogling Owen leans in, happy to help. “Your best bet is Latecomers Bar & Grill. It ain’t nothing fancy, but they got really good food and lots of booze.” He wags his eyebrows, like he’s hoping I’ll get hammered tonight and beg him to take me to bed.