Page 13 of Diesel's Perseverance
“I’m just trying to help you. You know, make sense of all this. I’m figuring you’re using a burner phone.”
“Right. I gotta go.”
“Wait, tell me what I’m supposed to do.”
No answer. This time, Freddy had ended the call.
Exhaling a long breath, she tossed the phone beside her and massaged her throbbing temples. She glanced at the clock radio on the floor: 4:00 a.m. Was it too early to contact Diesel?
“Why wake him up when there’s nothing he can do now?” she said aloud.
The conversation with Freddy weighed heavily on Myla, and she knew sleep would elude her. She pushed out of bed, padded over to the mini fridge, took out a bottle of tea, then curled up in one of the cushy chairs.
Freddy was downright hostile toward her.If anyone should be pissed, it should be me. Actually, I am pissed.And why wouldn’t she be? Myla’s life had been upended, and she had that creep Peter looking for her. She didn’t doubt for one second that he wouldn’t try any means possible to get information out of her. The kicker was that she didn’t haveanyinformation.
“I was such a dumbass. How could I have been so naïve?” she said.
Had she been that desperate for stability? Maybe. As far back as Myla could remember, she always felt that she was living on shaky ground. She’d been born into a family mired in conflict and chaos that lacked any structure she and her siblings desperately needed. Inconsistency was the only constant in their household. Her mother was completely self-absorbed, and her father was non-present most of the time until he never returned.
The phone rang again.
“Hello?”
“Tell me where you are,” Freddy said.
“I told you.”
“Not the town, the name of the motel.”
“Does it matter?”
“You act as if you don’t trust me,” he spat out the words.
“I don’t know how I feel right now. Everything’s surreal.”
“So you’re not going to tell me?”
“No.”
He snorted. “Glad to know I have you in my corner.”
Threads of anger weaved through her. “That’s not fair, and you know it. You won’t even tell me where you are. Don’t twist this around and make it my fault.”
“I told you why I can’t tell—”
“It’s a lame reason,” she said.
“Whatever. I gotta go.”
Before Myla could reply, Freddy hung up on heragain.
She drew her knees to her chest, wrapping her arms around them. She rested her head on her knees and waited for sunrise.
The thin sunlightawakened her as it filtered through the partially closed curtains, making a pattern of light and shade on the tan carpet. Myla rubbed the sleep from her eyes, then pushed open the window coverings and watched the sun spread its copper hues across the sky. Several cars drove down the street, and a delivery truck turned into the hotel parking lot and pulled into a space adjacent to the building. A few people stood by their vehicles as bellhops loaded their luggage.
Turning away, she glanced at the digital clock on the nightstand. It read 6:48 a.m. After a big yawn and stretch, Myla pushed up from the oversized chair and padded to the bathroom. She looked into the mirror and shook her head.
“I look like hell,” she muttered under her breath as her gaze skimmed over puffy eyes and smudges of mascara under her lashes. She grabbed her facial cleanser and scrubbed all the remnants of yesterday’s makeup from her face.
