“I shouldn’t have left my car at the bar,” the girl mumbles as she stumbles off the back of my bike in front of the motel.

“Don’t worry about it,” I reassure her, and catch her arm so she doesn’t fall. “I know Rosie, the owner. She’s not the type to have it towed overnight. You can pick it up in the morning.”

This motel’s only about a mile and a half away from the bar, so the girl can easily walk it tomorrow once she’s sobered up. Keeping my hand clutched around her bicep, I get off the bike and put my other arm around her shoulder to stop her swaying. She weaves on her legs but manages to stay upright. Together, we make it to the door she says is hers: number seven.

Once we get to her room, I prop her up against the outside wall next to the door and fish in her little purse until I find the key. She’s so out of it that she doesn’t do anything to protest that I’m digging through her bag. The lock’s kind of fussy and I have to jiggle the knob to get the key to work. Eventually, I manage to open the door and help her through it.

I’ve passed by the Parkside Motel probably hundreds of times on my bike, but I’ve never actually been inside the place. Even for a run-down looking hole like this, the room is dingy. Ugly brown carpet shows the wear of the high-traffic areas in the dim light from the small lamp by the door. Everything smells like stale cigarette smoke and old dirt. It’s not the kind of place a girl like her should be staying. Not by a long shot. There’s gotta be better places around here than this dump, I start to think, but stop myself. None of your business, Gun. Get her inside, make sure she’s safe, and get on your way.

Inside the room, I notice that apart from a single small backpack sitting unopened on one of the beds, there’s no sign that it’s even occupied. She must have just arrived today. It looks like she checked in, tossed her bag on the bed, and then immediately went straight from here to the bar.

Which means she’s either an alcoholic, or a girl on a mission. And she sure as hell doesn’t look like an alcoholic.

The girl’s practically sleeping against my shoulder, so I drag her over to the nearest bed and sit down on it with her. As soon as her ass hits the mattress, she gives an audible sigh of relief and collapses, flopping onto her back and closing her eyes.

“I’m so tired,” she complains. “My head hurts.”

“I know. That’s the drug,” I tell her.

Even lying there like that, legs kind of splayed out off of the bed, she’s fucking beautiful. I can’t help but take a few seconds just to look at her. Her face is pale, almost translucent. I’m guessing that’s partly because she’s exhausted. There’s a faint flush to her high, delicate cheekbones. Her lips are parted slightly. They’re soft-looking, and plump. In another situation, in another, less shitty motel room, I’d fucking love to see them wrapped around my cock. As if in agreement, my dick jumps to attention in my pants. Down, motherfucker. This ain’t the time or the place.

It sure as hell could be the woman, though. I’d fuck her in a heartbeat.

My eyes glide down to her breasts, which are rising and falling slowly and evenly. She’s probably about to fall asleep. Shit, she’s fucking lucky I’m the one who came across her tonight and helped her out. Helpless as she is right now, a lot of the fucking pigs in that bar would have taken advantage of this situation. Personally, I don’t get my rocks off fucking a chick who isn’t all there to enjoy it.

Apparently, the piece of shit who drugged her doesn’t feel the same way.

As I sit there, watching the girl fall asleep, I wonder again what the hell she was doing in that bar tonight. Now that I know it looks like she came to town specifically to go there, I can’t help but try to imagine the scenario in my head. She probably went there to confront that asshole. If he hadn’t tried to roofie her, I might have assumed she was a jealous ex-girlfriend. She sure as hell doesn’t look like the kind of girl who’d get involved with a dirtbag like that, though. I’ve seen stranger things, for sure. But I can’t imagine why he’d drug her if he could have just fucked her without it. So that doesn’t seem like it’s the story.

Why the fuck are you here, little girl?

I don’t even know her name. I would have asked her once we got here, but I didn’t have time before she fell asleep. And she’s looking so peaceful I don’t want to wake her up now. Gingerly, I stand up from the bed, being careful not to jostle her too much, but it looks like she’s down for the count. I slide her body up on the mattress, so her head’s on one of the pillows and her legs aren’t hanging over the side. Pulling off her sandals one by one, I toss them on the floor over by the nightstand. Then I grab her purse and lift her up enough to pull the strap over and off of her. She frowns in her sleep and moans a little in protest, but quiets when I lay her back down on the mattress.

Inside the little bag, there’s an older model cell phone, a small wad of bills, and a driver’s license. I take the license out and walk over to the dim lamp to hold it under the light.

Alix Andrea Cousins.

From Virginia.

Huh. So she definitely isn’t from around here.

I toss the license back in her bag and put it on the floor next to her sandals. Then I take a deep breath and look around the room.

My work is done. She’s here, she’s safe. She’ll be hung over but mostly fine tomorrow.

I should go, and let her get her sleep. Maybe leave a note reminding her what happened, and where her car is. Just in case the drug fucks with her memory.

But for some reason, my feet don’t seem to be moving me toward the door.

Fuck.

I know she’ll probably be all right if I leave her here by herself. I’m pretty sure we got at least some of the Rohypnol or whatever it was out of her system. But I just can’t quite do it. I want to make sure she’s okay when the drug wears off.

Goddamnit. Looks like I’m spending the night in a shitty motel bed. And for all the wrong reasons.

I walk over to Alix’s bed and pull a corner of the bedspread up and over her. She stirs and sighs contentedly.

Then, with an irritated shake of my head that I’m such a fucking dumbass, I grab the room key from the table by the door. It’s still pretty early. Not nearly early enough to go to bed. I know there’s a convenience store half a mile down the road in the opposite direction from the Smiling Skull. I’ll grab myself a couple beers, and come back here to drink them until I’m tired enough to go to sleep.