When she looks back at me, her eyes are burning and sharp, and it’s almost startling if I didn’t expect it.
“Let me go.” I release her. She walks down the steps, putting distance between us. “Come on. We’ve got an actor to fetch.”
I sigh and rub my face. Fucking hell. Maybe sleeping with her was a bad idea after all.
But no, I won’t accept that.
It felt too good to be wrong.
* * *
She’squiet on the drive over. I keep up a steady stream of worthless small talk and she makes the requisite grunts and nods, and that’s about all. Not that I mind—I can talk for the two of us if she’s so determined to ice me out. The drive isn’t long though and soon we pull into the parking lot of a dumpy-looking motel on the edges of the northern suburbs built to resemble a castle, or at least it probably did twenty years ago, but now it’s falling apart and in need of serious repairs.
“He’s this way,” she says heading over to the nearest stairs.
“Been here before?”
“No, but I can read the signs.” She points at a directory next to the steps.
I laugh softly. “You know, Webb, if you didn’t look so goddamn good riding my cock, I might begin to think it was a mistake.”
She grimaces, but says nothing.
We reach the second floor, walk around the balcony, and reach room 110. It’s quiet inside and when I knock, nobody answers. She peeks at the windows, trying to see in past the blinds, but they’re closed tight.
“Should we come back?” she asks, looking around awkwardly.
I hold up the key. “We were given this for a reason.”
“Last time we barged in somewhere Cowan sent us, some old lady nearly shotgunned us to death.”
“We’ll announce ourselves this time.” I bang on the door harder. “Hey! Rodrick! Tony Cowan sent us, we’re coming in. Please don’t shoot me in the face.” I swipe the card, turn and handle, and push Blair gently out of the way as I open it up.
I fully expect to get blasted in the chest but nothing happens.
“That’s a good start,” Blair says quietly and I’m almost touched by the relief in her voice, like she cares whether I get murdered in cold blood.
I step forward into the hotel room. The stench hits me in the face and I cover my mouth. It’s not overpowering, but it’s a noticeably stale, ugly smell, like body odor and old fast food. The lights are off and the place is dark, and it takes me a second to find a switch.
It’s covered in trash. Cigarettes float in water glasses, empty bags from McDonald’s cover the bureaus and the floor, and beer bottles are scattered all over. For a second, I think it’s empty, until I spot the body lying in bed.
He’s not moving. The sheets are wrapped around his skinny frame and he’s slumped to the side, his eyes closed.
“Oh, shit,” Blair says, grabbing my wrist. “Is he dead?”
“Stay here.” I step inside gingerly and Blair doesn’t listen. She follows, staying close at least. “Look.” I point at the nightstand where a used needle sits next to a long rubber tube, the sort of gear a junkie keeps nearby at all times.
The body in the bed is definitely alive. He’s breathing, though shallow, and he looks completely zonked out. He’s wearing shorts and a tank top, his arm studded with track marks and tattoos. His eyes are sunken, his cheeks a mess of stubble, and I can almost see a handsome man beneath the strung-out wreck of a human he’s become.
I stand there staring at him and curse.
“Cowan,” I say through my teeth. “This has got to be a fucking joke.”
“This is probably why he sent us,” Blair says, getting closer. I feel her body more acutely than I should and thoughts of the night before drift through my mind. “He’s too high to get himself to the hotel.”
“What are we supposed to do with an addict for a lead?”
“Cowan did say he wanted to make this as realistic as possible.”