I’ve been so bored with my own company lately that I was foolishly looking forward to dinner with Mr. Mysterious for about five minutes. Then I realized all the problems that would follow.
What if he figures me out then expects something in return to keep quiet? Could I do it? I don’t think so.
My thoughts spin out of control at this point, so when my phone rings, I actually scream and dart into the closet I was about to refill my supplies from.
Seeing an unknown number flash as it rings, I hit the end call button. I don’t answer numbers I don’t recognize. If they can’t tell me who it is, I don’t need to speak to them. Plus, it could be Landon trying to call me again, and I don’t want to deal with his questions right now. Once my heart is finally under control, I feel my phone vibrate with an incoming text message.
Unknown: Pick up the damn phone, woman.
I hesitate. Maybe they think it’s someone else?
Ashley: You have the wrong number, sorry.
Unknown: No, I don’t. Come outside, Ash ;)
It can’t be him, can it?
Unknown: I’ll wait as long as you make me…
I think it might be him.
Leaving the stupid broom closet, I make my way towards the side exit. Stepping out and around the building, I see him. Sitting atop the sexiest machine a man can ride, in dark-wash jeans, a Henley t-shirt with a leather vest over top, sunglasses, and a cocky smile, he watches as I slowly walk towards him.
“That’s a shitty fucking uniform.” There’s laughter in his voice, but geez, what a way to make a girl feel good.
“Yeah.” I look down at the plain black pants and ugly beige top with the hotel’s name on it. “It’s itchy as hell, too.”
“Go change. Let’s get out of here.” Because I can just leave.
“I can’t take off whenever I like. I’m on parole. They could send me back if I fuck up.” I sure hope he doesn’t hear the abject terror in my voice.
Hot man doesn’t say anything, just gets off his bike and reaches for my hand which I pull away before he can grab it. I can’t let him touch me; he can’t know my secret. Frowning at my dismissal of his contact, he tells me, “You won’t go back. You served your time. The worst they can do is threaten you because losing your job isn’t part of your parole conditions.”
“You know this how?” Why must he be logical? Why can’t he just accept that I don’t want to be around people?
“I have your file,” he reminds me.
Right.
“Look, I don’t want to, okay. I have a system, and I prefer not to fuck with it.”
“You have a dinner break, right?”
“No,” I stubbornly lie.
He laughs like I told some funny joke. “C’mon, Ash, we’re going.” Grabbing my arm, he pulls me behind him, forcing me onto his bike. I’m as tense as I’ve ever been, terrified he’ll feel the scars under my shirt. Which is illogical because they’re so tiny.
Looking from him to the hotel and back, I can’t decide. I want to go, but that ugly voice in my mind keeps rearing its head saying he’s bad news. “I don’t even know your name,” I point out, again.
“Hop on, and you’ll find out.” It’s a dare. I know it is.
“I have to tell my boss I’m taking my dinner break,” I try to argue.
“I’ve already done that.”
“Oh.” I’ve got nothing else.
“C’mon, Ash. What have you got to lose?”