Who Do You Love - Dean Ambrose

Living The High Life

The motel Dean chose was by no means inspiring but after nearly six hours behind the wheel I guess it was fair that he got to pick and if cheap and run-down was his kind of thing then – for one night only – it could be mine as well.

I could handle it. I'd been camping.

"Why don't you go grab us a couple of rooms?" Dean suggested, slinging us up alongside the entrance, "I'll park up and bring the bags in and no, before you ask, I won't drive off and leave you but if I did, I'd make sure to leave your shit – tampons and hair straighteners ain't really my deal you know?"

I rolled my eyes and flung the door open, peering intently down at the ground. Dean's gaze narrowed,

"Now what are you doing?"

"Looking for chalk outlines. This is totally the sort of place a person would get murdered,"

His expression darkened,

"Princess, don't tempt me – just go and get us some rooms."

I clambered out and slammed the door behind me, listening as he revved the rental across the parking lot. Clearly he was trying to show that he was pissed at me, but in reality he just sounded like an asshole instead. In the intervening hours since what I was calling pee-gate, it was safe to say our relationship hadn't bloomed. In fact we'd barely spoken two words besides when we stopped for food and I'd asked him to make the monumental decision between a baloney or tuna fish sandwich. To be honest after having been with him all evening, the prospect of my own space sounded brilliant and with a whoosh of the electric doors – one of which someone had clearly tried to kick through – I stepped across the threadbare carpet and up to the wood-clad reception desk.

The lobby was about as inspiring as the outside of the little place had been, with the whole thing generally feeling run-down and it not helped by the guy behind the counter. He looked like he stepped out of a cheap porno from the seventies and that was by no means an attractive sight. Tall and thin with a greasy black comb over and aviator style glasses that went out with carpet tiles. The final straw however was the sleazy little moustache; hanging limply over his lip. It looked like he'd forgotten about a long piece of licorice and the thing had embedded itself into his skin. In short, he was exactly who I expected to see behind the night desk of motel in the middle of nowhere. It was like I was living out a road trip movie and on seeing me staring he actually checked his breath.

"Hey sweet cheeks, what can I do for you?"

Sweet cheeks?

Wow. Just actually wow.

His voice was nasally, like he had severely blocked sinuses and there were so many teeth jammed into his jaw that I couldn't help but wonder if he was storing them for friends.

"Uh, yeah," I blinked, snapping myself out of it in case he mistook my staring for lust, "Could I possibly get two rooms for the night? Doubles if you have them, or twin, or – whatever."

The gaze of his thin little eyes behind the glasses was starting to get just a little unsettling and he didn't take them off me as he tapped at the computer. How he could he even see what he was doing? I wasn't sure that his fingers were making contact but forgot all about it as he licked at his lips. It wasn't enticing like it had been when Dean did it, instead it made my skin prickle and kind of crawl.