Chapter Three

Isabelle

I closed the door behind me, falling against it with a deep breath and tried to rub the sting out of my eyes. Squeezing them shut as tight as I could. I tried not to cry, but the sobs came out slowly at first, and once the tears started falling, I couldn't stop them. I fell to the floor, sliding down the door and pulling my knees into my chest. It was like the dam inside of me broke and the flood of tears was unstoppable.

My mind played back the events from earlier, rolling them over again and again in my head like a video feed stuck in a constant loop—a video feed of pain and misery.

“Who is she?” I’d asked, holding up his cellphone. “Who's Amy?”

“She's no one,” Scott said, reaching for the phone.

But I was too quick, I pulled it back and continued reading the texts.

“'I can't wait to see you again' 'I had soooo much fun last night, Scott'” I read the texts back to him in a sarcastic voice.

“Sure sounds like she's someone to me.”

That’s when the first blow landed.

Scott had a temper, I'd known it from the day we arrived in Palm Springs. But so did I. We fought, often going at it for hours on end but then making up with the best sex imaginable. He was always sorry, he always made it up to me. But this time, I wasn't sure I could forgive him, not so easily. Fighting was one thing—cheating was something I could never, ever forgive.

Little did I know, there was more pain where that came from.

I managed to stop torturing myself with the bitter replay and opened my eyes, gawking at the room around me. The place was a dump. Like no other place I’d ever seen. Didn’t they have health codes out here? More than that, how the hell did I end up here? Did I piss off one of the gods?

The smell of stale cigarettes made my stomach churn. I glanced at the door, wondering if I should open it to let some fresh air in and hopefully—some of the acrid air out. On second thought, I figured it’d be better to stay locked up. I didn’t know who this Jameson character was, and if Scott found me—there would be hell to pay.

Maybe Milling wasn’t such a bad idea. At least I was safe from Scott’s angry fist.

I blew out a long breath and once I looked down at the carpet beneath me, I quickly jumped up on my feet. “Oh my God! It’s sticky!” I stared in disgust at my hands that had touched it.

I rushed over to the bathroom sink, turning on the tap—a cold rush of brown water came flowing out at top speed, spraying me and my $200 dollar top. “Damn it!” I grabbed a towel and dried what I could, but the stain was there on my white silk blouse. I waited for the water to clear up and finally after about a hundred gallons of wasted water, it did. I slid my shirt off and washed it out in the small sink using the cheap motel soap. That’s when I caught a glimpse of my face in the mirror—my sorry, pathetic face.

“How could you let him do this to you?” I asked myself, staring at my reflection. “You're better than this.”

Obviously, I wasn't.

With my shirt as clean as I could get it with nothing but cold water, I turned off the faucet, wrung it out and hung it across the towel bar, trying my hardest not to look at myself again. I had nothing else to put on and would have to wait until it dried before I could stick my nose out the door. I’d left Palm Springs with nothing, not even a toothbrush. Well, not with nothing. I still had my life, and my sanity.

The room was, well, interesting to say the least. I don't know what I expected for a small town like this, but it was certainly worse than anything I’d ever imagined. The fact that my window stared out into the parking lot should have told me everything I needed to know. But I'd never stayed in a place like this before.

“You're a long way from home, sweetheart,” I said to myself.

As soon as the word sweetheart came out of my mouth, I felt the need to wash it out with soap. That's what that man called me, the one who'd driven me to this shitty little motel.

Jameson.

What kind of name was that, anyway? I mean, sure, he looked damn good—most bad boy types do, right? But Jame-eh-son? James? Jamie? Jim?

I cranked up the air conditioning, the noise blurring out any outside sounds. Brand new my ass. The thing moaned and grunted like it was about to explode—but it did kick out some frosty air. I tugged the biohazard blanket off the bed and plopped down, pulling off my heels and tossing them to the floor. My feet cursed me for my poor shoe choice when running for my life. It wasn't the first time I’d run, but it definitely was the first time I had to walk on a gritty, deserted road. I probably should’ve gone right at that stupid intersection. I’d be in a better place than I was now.

Maybe if I closed my eyes, I could pretend I was somewhere else. Somewhere beautiful and peaceful. With kind people who didn’t want something from me.

It's only for one night. I told myself. One night. I could stay here for a night, it wouldn’t kill me. Staying with Scott? That might have killed me. But a nasty, old roach motel out in the middle of a land that time forgot certainly wouldn’t.

My mind moved from one thought to the next. One minute, I was on the verge of tears—the next—I was disgusted by my surroundings. But at least I wasn't falling apart. No, I wasn't falling apart. Not yet.

There was an old phone in the room, so I dug out a phone book and looked through it for the list of tow trucks. None in Milling, just as Jameson had said, but I called the first one listed. It went straight to voicemail so I left a message.

My poor car, left on the side of the road overnight. I'd be lucky if it wasn't up on blocks and stripped before morning. I'd be lucky if it was still there, actually. But there was nothing else I could do.

Nothing but leave a message and hope they could pick it up bright and early and have it fixed by tomorrow afternoon. Then I could be on my way again.

Where would I go? I had no idea. But getting out of Milling was my priority now.

Getting out of Milling and putting as much distance between Scott and me as I could.