The Man: a dark romance story

Part One

I feel the vehicle slow for the first time since we left the gas station in Montalba.

The slight change in momentum is enough to snatch my mind away from my hands, where I realize I have been staring for a very long time. It dawns on me that I don't know how much time has passed or how far we have traveled, either; not exactly a smart move on my part in the event I end up making it out alive. I won't have much to give the cops if I do.

We pull into a shitty old dive motel lost to time and seemingly bereft of life. A lone Chevy Malibu—a late 90s model by the state of it—sits near the office doors, reflecting the only illumination from the building I can discern: a sign which reads VACANCY in bright neon pink letters.

As we cross the divide from pavement to concrete, the vehicle hits a well in the parking lot and a dull thud thumps from the trunk. The driver's expression doesn't change in the slightest. It's too dark to make out most of the details of his face, but there isn't even the mildest hint of emotion there.

I lower my gaze to my hands again, studying the splotches of fresh crimson, knowing full well I'm the reason behind the thump in the trunk.

"Are you going to kill me?" I ask the man. The only sound uttered between us since Montalba.

He doesn't answer right away. We drive around to the back of the motel and pull up to a peeling blue door that says 38, skidding to a halt in front of it. He immediately kills the engine.

He turns to me. "You'd be dead already if I wanted to kill you. Instead, I did you a favor. Am doing you a favor. Now, get out," he says, his tone quietly commanding.

I do as he says, unbuckling and getting out of the car as he climbs out of the driver's side door himself.

The whole of the parking lot surrounding the motel is devoid of adequate lighting, but it's even darker back here, with only a single light post located at the far back corner of the parking lot.

There are no other vehicles. Not even a barbecue pit or dumpster. Nothing but a sea of bleakness.

The man retrieves a key from his pocket—the old fashioned kind—inserts it into the lock housing of number 38 and turns it to unlock the door. He pushes it open and holds an arm out, silently gesturing me to go ahead of him. I can see the faint outlines of furniture but there are no lights on within the room.

My heart starts to hammer in my chest and I feel my muscles going taut. I freeze. Every single fiber of my being is suddenly telling me I need to fight this man or run.

My mind begins to replay what he did to Tyler at the gas station in Montalba. I was in shock initially after it happened, running on auto-pilot, but now the memories are flooding back to me in full HD.

I look down at my clothes and discover I'm even more covered in blood than I had originally thought. And something else. Something chunky. I have to work to keep myself from wretching at the sight of it.

I recall the loud pop of shattering skull, followed by an explosion of brain and bone. Then, Tyler's body slumped on top of mine as the remaining life drained out of him right in front of my eyes.

Does it matter that Tyler was most likely going to end MY life had this man not intervened? Does it matter that, although I had stabbed him twice, Tyler still managed to get both fists tightly around my throat somehow?

Of course not. Regardless of what happened, the man who saved me is still a killer. And judging by the silencer I saw on the muzzle of his gun, this was not the first time, nor will it be his last.

I swallow back the urge to vomit, inwardly contemplating my next move. Whatever I decide, I need to decide it now.

"You don't want to do that," the man warns, noticing the subtle change in my body language. "Whatever you're thinking. It will end very badly for you. Very, very badly."