"We need a room for tonight," I say, weaving my fingers through hers and tugging her close to me so that we look like a couple. But hell, she's thirteen years my junior and barely fucking legal.
He grins lewdly, and I want to wrap my hands around his scrawny neck. "Suite with one king?"
I huff out a breath I didn't know I was holding, pull out a wad of cash, and hold it in my fist.
"I need a double."
"No doubles," he chants, but his eyes are on the bills. "The suite has a pullout couch, though, a flat-screen TV, and includes the continental breakfast in the morning."
"Fine," I tell him.
He has me fill out the paperwork. I use a fake name and hand him cash.
He takes my money, then hands me a key. "Room 492," he says. "Enjoy your stay."
I thank him and pull her along with me, eager to get out of his sight. We should have some time before anyone's looking for her, but I don't want to push my luck. She trots beside me, thankfully quiet, until we get to the elevator.
"That guy was terrified," she says, her voice awed.
I look at her in surprise. It's the last thing I expected her to say. I'm used to others being scared in my presence and don't give it a second thought. Every one of the members of the Bratva, every one of my brothers, is physically intimidating, tattooed, stern. We command the largest, most formidable underworld army in America.
"Wish he wasn't the only one afraid," I mutter.
A beat of silence passes while we wait for the elevator. "He isn't," she says quietly.
Good. And she doesn't even fucking know what I'm capable of. I need her to do what I tell her, not to fuck around with her safety and mine.
Alright, mostly hers. I can take care of myself, but Marissa...
I'm not in the mood for small talk. "What did I tell you about being quiet?" I remind her. With a pout, she bows her head. Hell, I love the way she looks like this, all submissive and obedient.
My mind races with possibilities, where we need to go next and what needs to happen. I need a plan, and so far I don't even have food or clothes. I've got a destination, a car, and soon the hounds of fucking hell at my heels.
The elevator smells dank and musty. The carpet is threadbare, the overhead lighting dismal and yellow. She should have luxury and opulence, and I hate her being anywhere near this miserable hell hole. We’ll do what we have to, though. We ride the elevator up in silence. I hope to fucking hell the bedroom is clean.
She taps her foot on the floor, fiddles with her hair, then finally bites her lip when she catches me looking at her. I don't give her any reassurance. Nothing. My primary goal right now is keeping her safe.
We cruise to a stop on our floor, and when the doors open, I take her by the hand. Our room is only a few steps away but still, I check both ways, still leery of anyone following us. Still on guard for anything at all that would pose a threat to her. Always watchful.
Marissa stands in silence when I open the door. It takes three times before the damn door opens, stupid cheap locks, and when I finally get it unlocked, I drag her in the room with me.
"Oh, charming," she says when I flick the light on. I scowl at the "suite" before us. It's the size of a postage stamp, the "pullout sofa" no more than an arm chair that supposedly pulls out, a tiny table with two chairs beside the bed.
"Son of a bitch," I mutter. I'm fucking exhausted and ready for sleep, not knowing what awaits us next. I glance at Marissa. I don't even know if I can trust the girl. I toy with the idea of tying her up or restraining her in some way, but she needs her damn rest, too. I take the cushion off, only to find the bed portion of the sleeper chair is missing the actual mattress. It's otherwise passably clean.
"So... any chance this place has free toiletries? Cable?" she asks, going to the bathroom.
The nonchalance baffles me. Does she have no idea the danger we're in? Why would I take her the way I have without good cause?
I go look with her, but there's only a slim bar of soap and shampoo. I don't like that she's so carefree, like we're here for a little mid-week getaway, but what does she even fucking know? I haven't told her anything, because I don't trust her not to fuck up our escape.
"We can try the desk," I suggest, picking up the phone and dialing. I dump the contents of my pockets out onto the bedside table before I lift the receiver, and dial. The phone rings seven times before someone answers it. I pinch the bridge of my nose, my vision blurred from all the driving.