When I stand, so does she.
When I climb into my truck, so does she.
I don’t say a word.
Despite heading toward home, I know I’d never bring her there. I’m going to have to cut her loose eventually, but doing it right this very second isn’t really a concern for me.
She doesn’t attempt to turn on the radio. She doesn’t complain when I roll down the window because the scent of her skin is driving me absolutely insane. She doesn’t try to torture me with small talk like she did before. It’s as if the woman is a shell of herself, as if getting drunk and laying all her bad shit at my feet left her completely empty and she’s in no rush to get any of it back.
When I have to stop for gas, I find myself waiting to see if she’s going to get back in the truck or wander off again.
As I near Mission, Texas, the place I’ve decided to call home for now, she’s still with me, still silently riding in the passenger seat unexpectantly.
I don’t head to my house. It’s my sanctuary, and I know myself. I could bring her home, fuck her past her telling me to stop, but I’d never find the same peace there I have before. She’d ruin that for me.
Instead of telling her to get the fuck out of my truck, I end up at a local motel just as the sun is fading in the sky.
I don’t ask her to join me or offer to let her stay with me, and when I climb out of the truck, she doesn’t follow me. By the time I make it back out of the front office with my room key, she’s gone.
Without bothering to search my truck for another AirTag, I head into my room, wondering just how long it’ll take her to pop back up. I’ve thought before, more than once, that she was done with whatever sick game she’s playing with me, only for her to reappear. I know better than to think we’ve said goodbye.
I’m anxious to get back home so I can use my computer software to find my next job. I purposely keep an older phone, one without all the bells and whistles in order to prevent people from tracking me, so that means I have to be home with my state-of-the-art firewalls to use facial recognition software that helps me match missing persons with women for sale online.
I learned my lesson about using physical infiltration in a sex trafficking cell to find my client’s loved ones. Doing that landed me in El Salvador.
I guess I have Lauren to thank for forcing my hand toward more modern technology so I don’t find myself once again strapped to a wall.
I’ll never voice that, however. A punishment seems more fitting where she’s concerned.
My shower is quick, and I do my best to ignore the swirl in my stomach when I walk out of the bathroom and she isn’t taking up space in my motel room.
Dinner is up next, and because I refuse to use any form of credit, it means I have to leave the room to find something to eat. After being sequestered to the truck all day, I walk the handful of blocks to the nearest fast-food chain.
I keep my head down but eyes open. I may be in the city that I live, but it would be foolish to think I’m safe here. With the Mexican border less than twenty miles away, everyone in town has to be aware of their surroundings. I’m less likely to end up victimized by anyone than, say, a woman would be, but there are always idiots who want to press their luck.
It takes ten minutes longer than it should to get my food, but letting teenagers run businesses seem to be the norm these days.
I know she’s back before I even step inside the motel room.
This woman left the door cracked, uncaring if someone other than me stepped inside with her.
I have no idea why I want to shake her until her brain gets back online when I step inside to discover she’s not only inside, but in the shower and completely vulnerable to any person with the hint of evil inside of them.
Chapter 18
Lauren
I don’t know what’s real and what’s just another way for my mind to fuck with me.
My memories have never been a fluid thing.
I don’t know if my head made things up when I was younger to protect me from what was really going on around me, or if the things I “remember” actually happened.
It’s a weird thing to not be able to trust your own mind.
As I shower, I have no fucking clue if he made confessions last night or if I dreamed of him doing so.
I can’t ask. It opens the door for him to talk about my history, and that’s the very last thing I want happening.