The Bad Boy Is A Loser

18. || crash into me

     I hate myself.

     I fucking hate myself.

     The loathsome phrase rang through Troy's mind over and over again as Isabella's Prius parked on the ghostly empty pavement.

     "So, this is it..." Isabella spoke softly, killing the engine on the vehicle by taking the keys out of the ignition.

     Tearing his glassy, pale eyes away from the foggy, passenger window, Troy couldn't manage to give her a polite response.

     "Just leave me here," He said, angst and envy rising in his hoarse voice, "Like I said, I know you're probably used to staying at only the finest hotels. I won't make you stay in this shit hole with me."

     Looking over at him with what appeared to be disappointment, Isabella frowned deeply.

     "Troy, I told you I could find us a nice place to stay and you said you didn't want that," She defended herself quietly, "I don't care where we stay... I just wanna be with you."

     Her red, smeared lips quivered with sadness as her hands fell from the steering wheel.

     "I can't tell you how sorry I am. I thought we were over this!" She continued, slow and heavy tears glistening down her soft cheeks. "I promise you, I'm not like them. I don't care about your social or economic status... I love–"

     "Okay! Okay, fine! I get it." He cut her off briskly.

     He knew what she was going to say.

     I love you.

     The sting of rejection filled Isabella's demeanor. She collapsed at the wheel in a fit of sobs, grasping at the leather surface.

     "This is all my fault! I'm the stupid one, not you! Please, forgive me..."

     A heavy sigh lifted from Troy's chest. He swung open the car door and threw his feet onto the concrete below them.

     "It's not your fault. Let's just drop it... Anyways, we should get checked in, Izzy. Stay close to me."

-------

The most embarrassing moment of the night was when the woman at the check in desk knew who Troy was.

She was an older woman, somewhere in her early sixties. Smeared, red lipstick and panda-like eyeshadow covered her leathery face. Her yellow toned hair was fried from excessive bleaching and a cigarette hung from her knobby fingers.

"I need a room, Wanda," He stuffed a hand in the pocket of his slacks and fumbled around for his wallet.

Through the cloud of gray smoke, the woman scrunched her face in confusion. She looked to Isabella with bloodshot eyes.

"You're gettin' around these days?" She asked him, voice raspy from all the cigarettes she smoked.

"Yep," Troy replied with a tight-lipped smile, placing approximately thirty dollars on her dusty countertop. "Can I get a key?"

"Sure." She placed the cigarette back between her lips and rolled her black desk chair backwards. Reaching in a file cabinet under her desk, she rummaged around briefly.

A jingle sounded and she handed him a key with a white tag on it.

"Room 234. Ain't nobody stays here enough for me to keep a log anymore," She stated dully as he took the key from her hand, "Oh, and watch out for that hobo, Lenny. He's on the second floor too. He's got a knife tonight, I hear."