CHAPTER 34
I searched the motel room floor for blood, the nightstand for Sam's gun. Nothing.
Max barked. Ducking near the window, I peeked under the curtain. Max jumped back and forth in the empty field below, the parking lot's lamps spotlighting his dance. Play barks.
Below, Sam stood with his coat wide open, his bare chest braving the crisp fall. One hand was tucked into his jeans pocket, the other held a tennis ball in midair. Max stared intently at the ball, backing up in anticipation till Sam lobbed it into the field. Max bounded over the grass tufts like a gazelle, sniffed out his target, and returned to drop the ball at Sam's feet. The scene repeated. My heart leapt with each throw.
Laughing, I pulled Sam's extra dress shirt from his bag, smelled his skin, his sweat—scents I associated with his intensity. His determination that helped him brave a threatening world, while I snuck up to a moldy motel window.
Max skittered backwards as Sam arched his arm, holding the ball in the air. I stood up straight to watch. Catching my movement in the window, Sam looked up. The ball remained suspended in his fingers as he stared at me. I could almost hear his thoughts. What do I do with her now?
I let the towel drop. My skin rippled against the crisp air seeping through the glass, my nipples tightening to buds. Then I pulled on his shirt and left the window and waited for him.
But Sam didn't come up right away. Maybe he doubted my intentions. Doubted me. The wait shredded my nerves, what was left of them. That wave of euphoria vanished, and my courage short-circuited. The more time passed, the deeper that dark hole sucked me down.
When Sam finally entered, he hung his coat over the chair and set to unlacing his boot on the bed, ignoring me.
"Where's Max?" I asked finally.
"In the car. He's our alarm system right now if anyone approaches the building."
I fidgeted with the top button on the shirt, pulling the collar closed. "Maybe he could be our alarm system in here."
Sam watched my nervous hands. I tucked them under my arms for warmth.
He went back to work removing his other shoe. "You need to get something off your mind, say it now."
"Nothing. Just... you weren't here when I finished my shower," I said, biting my lip. "But there wasn't any blood, or signs of a struggle, so I shouldn't be so jumpy. Just my nerves. You remember those friends."
"Ah, shit." He dropped his boots to the floor. "Thought I was giving you space, not a panic attack."
I faked a laugh. "You'd think I'd be used to this life and death shit by now. Why can't I be more like you?"
"Because I wouldn't want you to be." He sat on the edge of the bed, thinking.
"Aren't you going to check your gun or the perimeter or something?"
"Not in front of you. That sets you off more." His voice was mellow, even as he reclined with one arm tucked behind his head. "Everything that can be done is done. You're looking to feel safe. Safety is an illusion. What you need now is rest." Sam rolled toward his bag, extracted a water bottle, and tossed it to me. "And you need to flush the toxins. Keep pounding fluids"
"This better be vodka." I wished he'd packed a seltzer and Tums. Between the adrenaline and Malta's cooking, my stomach was rebelling.
But what I really needed was warmth. I sat on the chair and brought my knees to my chest, sipping the cold water. Hours earlier, I'd been ready to take on the world, fight off Troy and James. Now I hovered in the middle of a motel room in Sam's shirt, shivering. And the heater was on full blast.
