Page 16 of Ride or Die

I wasn’t comfortable leaving Tom and Billie at the motel by themselves. Tom’s a mature ten—more mature than any ten-year-old should have to be—but he’s still just ten. He’s stayed at home with Billie before, but only for a few hours, and never at night. But I couldn’t say no. It was either this, or… sell my ass. And although I should probably be ashamed to admit that I absolutely would if I had to, I knew this was the safer option for all of us. The last thing the kids need is my ass in jail.

Last weekend went smoothly. Tom had assured me that when I was gone, there’d been no issues and Billie slept peacefully the whole time. I worked two five-hour shifts, and I made a couple hundred bucks in tips each night—enough to pay for groceries, put some money aside, and pay for another week in the motel, despite how disgusting it is.

The first thing I did was buy a mop and a bottle of bleach from the Stop and Shop and I scrubbed the hell out of the ceiling. And although I know the mold is still there, and the place is rife with questionable people, it’s a roof over our heads, one with bars on the window and sturdy locks on the door.

I’ve been feeling a little lighter in the chest, slightly more positive, like perhaps things are starting to look up for us. A few weeks working here, and we’d be able to get back on the road to wherever the hell it is we’re going. Plus, it’s calving season. Whatever that is. Maci, one of the other servers, told me that at this time of year, there are more traveling cowboys in town than locals, and they’re cashed up and ready to spend big. And she wasn’t wrong; the tips have been coming in thick and fast. Unfortunately though, so have the pinches on my scantily clad ass. Price to pay, unfortunately.

I follow the dimly lit corridor to the dressing room for my only break of the night. The clear plastic, six-inch platformed heels I’ve been forced to wear are killing my back, and I have a bruise on my thigh from one of the more overzealous pinchers who was deservedly tossed out on his ass quickly after becoming a little too handsy with me and Kendra, one of the other servers.

“Blondie?”

I pause at the sound of Bruce’s booming voice coming from his office. My jaw clenches tight at the nickname he’s bestowed upon me and almost every other woman who works here on account of our hair color. Turning, I stop in the open doorway.

“Clara,” I correct him.

“No personal calls at the club, y’hear?” he practically barks, not daring to look away from the small television in the corner of the room playing some baseball game on mute.

My eyebrows tug together as a low murmur of panic bubbles in my belly. “Excuse me?”

“Personal calls,” he grits out, slowly, like I’m an idiot, his gaze lifting only to spear me like daggers. “I don’t want your damn kid callin’ my club.”

My drink tray slips from my grip, falling to the floor with a loud clang. “M-my kid called?”

Bruce grunts in response.

“W-when?”

When he doesn’t grant me an answer, I storm into his office, slamming my hands down on his desk, causing his head to snap my way, his ruddy, sweat-beaded face inches from mine.

“When did my kid call?” I bite out each word, steadying him with a no-bullshit look.

“A few times,” he says with a dismissive shrug.

I place a hand against my stomach, bile burning as it rises up the back of my throat. Stumbling, I turn and bolt for the door, Bruce’s voice drowned out by the deafening thud of my very own heartbeat pounding against my ears.

Tears mixed with mascara are stinging my eyes, streaming down my face. I can barely see in front of me as I pull into the motel parking lot. Hell, I don’t even remember driving here, I’m that worked up.

When I see a big, unfamiliar truck parked out the front of our room, a sob bubbles up the back of my throat, and I’m out of my car without even shutting the damn thing off. But as I roundthe truck, I’m stopped in my tracks by a fierce blue gaze that cuts through the darkness, spearing me hard and rendering me frozen.

Him.

The cowboy.

Cole…?

“W-what are you doing here?” My voice trembles with fear as I look from him to the door of our motel room and back again, my heart racing so fast it feels like it’s about to burst right through my ribs.

He just sits there on the metal seat chomping on gum, elbows resting on his knees, gaze hard as it trails up over me slowly, no doubt taking in the ridiculous stripper heels, the knee-high socks, the tiny shorts, before settling on the tank top with Meow’s emblazoned across the front in rhinestones.

He scoffs, the sound bitter and emphasizing the look of disgust that’s written all over his face. It’s a look I know well. One I’ve been on the receiving end of plenty of times. A look that makes me cower because it usually results in a hard smack right across my face.

Shaking his head, Cole looks down at the ground and removes his cowboy hat, raking his fingers through his hair before rising to his full height.

“You left your fuckin’ kids here, alone,” he spits out through gritted teeth. His words are a statement, not a question.

My head clouds with fear, guilt, remorse, and panic. Gone is the carefree, slightly cocky, dimpled cowboy from last week at the Stop and Shop. Suddenly he’s taller than I remember, and so intimidating. When he takes a step closer, I swallow hard, trepidation rooting me to the spot.

“In this seedy-ass motel,” he continues, taking another step closer. “Full of drunks, and crackheads, and fuckin’…whores.” I don’t miss the way he looks at me as he says that last part,accusingly, and shame causes my shoulders to shrink even more. I don’t know this man, but the way he’s looking at me, I can’t remember a time I’ve ever felt so small.