"So where did you come from? They don't have guys like you around here."

The blonde bimbo sitting next to me at the hotel bar keeps rattling in my ear. I'm at a shitty Days Inn by the airport in Arkansas, mingling with a crowd I'd rather not be involved with. Soft, cheesy music plays in the background, and a few traveling-businessman types in suits sit around the bar area here by the hotel restaurant. One or two of them have a woman at their table, but most of the women in the bar keep stealing glances at me.

But I didn't come here to get attention from women. The opposite, actually. In a shithole like this, I thought I could get away for a while and not have to deal with anyone's shit. No such luck, though.

"Where I'm from isn't important, it's where I'm going, and I'm getting the fuck out of here."

"You ride a bike?" She spots my helmet, sitting at the feet of the barstool. "Got room for another?"

I side-eye her. "Absolutely not."

"You don't want a beautiful woman riding bitch with you? What are you, gay?"

I shake my head. "Yeah. That's it. I'm completely gay." I just put down the rest of my gin and tonic, and completely tune her out.

I'm not even interested in hooking up with this chick. Or any chick, for that matter. The only chick I can think about right now is Tess. I can't stop thinking about how her body felt pressed against mine, how she felt when I slipped inside her, and what she's doing right now. She blows my fucking mind, but I'm no good for her. I don't have what it takes to be in a committed relationship. She's fucking right. I do let her down when it counts the most. Saving a dumb fucking puppy from a storm drain isn't an excuse to leave her high and dry. I'm just completely dysfunctional.

The bartender brings me another gin and tonic and I go to work on it. At some point the blonde gets the message and leaves me the fuck alone. Just me by myself. The way I fucking like it, and the way it should have been all along. I should never have stopped by Maple Ridge. No good could have come of it, and it didn't.

My crappy-ass old flip phone buzzes, and I yank it out of my jeans pocket. The outside screen says it's a text message from Eddie, and I groan. Not because it's Eddie, but because I can't fucking type a reply on this tiny piece of shit to save my life.

What the fuck are you doing man? says the message.

Another message comes through. The cafe is shutting down. You skipped out on your brand new marriage. Fuck is wrong with you? Marriage is a commitment, as much of a piece of shit as it is.

I grimace and slam the phone shut, then chuck it into my helmet on the floor. I don't need any more grief over this.

Last call rings out, but I don't bother. I gather up my helmet and riding jacket and head straight for my room. This Days Inn is the grungiest-ass hotel I've ever been to. I feel like settling down into the tub for a long bath, but I run a finger over the porcelain surface and feel all kinds of crusty particles hanging on. Fucking nasty. Trying to clean myself in this dump will probably only make me dirtier.

Instead of just grabbing a shower, I rip the comforter off the bed and chuck it in the corner of the room. Pretty fucking sure that's what everyone does with this thing. Everybody knows that hotels don't wash their comforters.

My sleep is all twisting and turning and nightmares.

* * *

In the morning, I feel like absolute shit. Should have fucking drank some water. I squeeze my temples hard, then fish around on the nightstand for my phone. The battery fucking died overnight, so I have to haul my tired, aching ass out of bed to plug it in to the wall charger. When I do, it automatically turns on and starts blowing up with missed voicemails and text messages.

They're from Oscar, Eddie, Tess's friend Meg, Jason, and a whole bunch of other numbers I don't even recognize. The common theme is: you fucked up, Hunter. But the one that really gets to me is the last message from Eddie. It reads: If you really do this, don't come back again. You won't be welcome.

My jaw twitches at the message. Everybody in the damn town thinks I broke Tess's heart, like this was a real marriage. And shit, that's what they think it was. And they all hold me responsible for the café permanently closing its doors barely a month into operation.

Maybe it is my own fault. I'm sure as hell not a perfect man. It's just the wrong time.

I down a cup of water from the hotel sink and it tastes like fucking shit. I scrub myself clean as best I can with a wet washcloth, and then I ditch this fucking joint.

I hit the road on my hog, heading west on I-40. It's hot out on the blacktop today, and the heat comes off the road in waves as I ride. The heat usually clears my head and lets me think straight, but right now I'm all screwed up. By eleven in the morning, I'm drenched in my own cold hangover sweat, and I have to pull off at a rest stop to refuel and grab a damn bite to eat from a vending machine.

I sit on a concrete table at the rest stop, letting my bike cool off. I chew on a protein bar. My phone sits quiet in my pocket. Looks like the town gave up on me responding. I run my thumb over the contour of my phone.

It's not too late to go back. I mean, shit, it might be too late for me and Tess. She hasn't contacted me in days, and if I were a betting man, I'd bet she's damn tired of me by now.

But I could at least go make things right with the rest of the town. I hate to see that asshole Wilkinson get away with this. He does it to Oscar, he does it to Tess, and he's going to do it to other people in the future. Maple Ridge won't amount to anything as long as that bastard is mayor.

Fine. I decide to fucking turn around and go back. Maybe this can be the last good deed I do. I'll help Tess get her shop open if she wants to have anything to do with me. I'll patch things up with my old buddies, and I'll leave on good terms instead of like this. Even if it means everybody thinks I'm a fucking asshole, at least I can try to make my final act a good one.

Then I'm getting my ass to Alaska. For real.