Chapter 5

Wendy’s POV

“You can’t stay here,” he says. His eyes scan the lot, sharp and alert, seeming to track some danger I can't see. 

I’m unreasonably relieved to see him. He’s still a stranger, still very possibly dangerous, but I have the inexplicable feeling he’s on my side.

I try to play it cool. Try not to come across like a totally helpless damsel in distress. “This is where I have reservations.” 

There’s a flicker of distaste across his harshly beautiful visage.

“You seeing the same things I am?”

I am. I see the dinginess of it and it just makes me feel… well, defeated. Like this is as good as it gets for me. Driving my old beater of a car to the worst motel in town. Knowing I’ll have to check my bank balance before buying a box of cereal for dinner. Wondering, for the millionth time this week, where Dad has disappeared to without any warning. 

He’s always been absent-minded, but this is a whole new level. 

I sigh. “It isn’t the Ritz, that’s for sure.”

As we stand outside talking, a skinny guy with a shaved head and a teardrop tattoo below his eye passes us. He looks me up and down in a way that gives me the creeps. 

Please don’t let this be my neighbor.

The mysterious stranger clocks it right away. His eyes narrow and he moves in front of me, blocking me from view. I can’t see the look he gives the other guy, but the other guy quails, lowering his eyes and all but scurrying away with his tail between his legs. 

I’ve never had a man stand between me and danger. It’s like having a temporary bodyguard. A surprisingly comforting feeling. 

“You don’t have to stay here,” my mysterious rescuer says.

I look down at my scuffed sneakers. Try to concentrate on something other than his presence, his captivating eyes.

“This is the only place in town in my budget.”  

Maybe pity is what’s making his voice softer when he speaks next. “Look, you’ve been driving for hours, right? When’s the last time you ate something?”

I glance up at him. His expression is still impassive. I have no idea why he’s asking. 

“Do peach rings count?”

His look tells me they do not.

“Come get a bite to eat with me. I know a place.”

I waver, torn between temptation and suspicion. This guy’s just as much a stranger to me as the one who just passed by, but I don’t feel unsafe with him. If he’d wanted to do bad things to me --actually bad ones, not the kind that filled my head when I looked at him—he could have done it already.

I want to say yes.

But then I remember all my instincts lead to bad decisions, and I take a step back. 

“I don’t even know your name.” 

I watch him silently clock the step back.

“Desmond.” He holds out his hand. This one doesn’t have a rose tattooed on it. 

There’s–gulp–a wolf’s skull inked there instead. 

After a moment’s hesitation, a little longer than is quite polite, I reach out to meet it. 

“Wendy.”

His hand closes over mine, warm and rough. A jolt of something wild flickers through me at the contact. He doesn’t shake my hand, just holds it, his grip steady and warm. 

“Wendy,” he repeats.

It’s just my name. The same one I’ve heard a million times before.  But it’s different when he says it. 

In his mouth, it feels like a caress. It tingles across my skin. 

The fact that I’m drawn to this guy should probably be a red flag in itself. I’m the first to admit I have a bad track record with men. I lost my virginity to a frat boy who asked me to leave his dorm room two minutes after he filled the condom. My first boyfriend wanted a half-open relationship—as in, I should be exclusive to him, and he could be open to anyone else. And my latest boyfriend—former boyfriend, now—was a worldchampion gaslighter and manipulator. 

In short, I'm not a great judge of character.

“Please tell me you’re not really a serial killer," I blurt. 

“Not a serial killer. Just a guy who wants to buy you dinner.”

I hesitate. I could say no, and scrounge together something at the grocery store to bring back to this crummy motel room before getting started on Operation: Track Down Dad tomorrow morning. Or, just for tonight, I could have a hot dinner at a real restaurant.  With an even hotter companion. 

“Okay,” I say softly. 

“I’ll give you a ride.”

His chivalrous streak continues as he opens the passenger door for me to climb in. The inside of his truck smells like leather and is so tidy and clean it looks as if it’s just been detailed. 

I sneak a glance at Desmond. He drives with one hand on the steering wheel, the other on the gear shift. It’s a manual, and he handles it like it’s second nature to him. 

There’s something about his casual competence that’s doing it for me. He seems like the kind of guy that, when shit hits the fan, you could trust to handle himself. To take care of what’s his.

It doesn’t hurt that he’d be nice to look at, either. He’s got a great profile, with that strong, straight nose and high cheekbones. The mouth that’s lush and firm at the same time—

“Something you want to ask me?” He must have felt me studying him.

I have to come up with something to deflect from the fact that I was rather blatantly checking him out.

“Just observing.” I gesture around the truck. “You’re a neat freak.”

“You sound surprised.”

“I don’t know you well enough to be surprised.” 

“Dinner’s a good start to changing that.”

I smile teasingly. “Nah. I’m just in it for the free meal.” 

“Fair enough.” The corner of his mouth lifts in an almost-smile.

“I’m just in it for your company.”

My cheeks feel warm. It feels strange to flirt with a stranger like this, but good too. It’s been a long time since I felt like someone wanted me, in any way.

“If it’s good company you’re looking for,” I say, “You’re taking quite the risk. I might be an awful conversationalist.”

“You’re doing okay so far. Besides threatening to knife me and implying I’m a serial killer, you’re perfectly charming.”

“Oh, but that’s all part of my charm.”

There it is again—almost a smile. 

Whatever had Desmond so on edge the first moments we met has evaporated. 

I like this version of him even better, relaxed and familiar, like it’s the most natural thing in the world for us to be driving in his truck together, on the way to grab dinner. 

It’s making me relax too, letting the stress of getting lost and staying in a shady motel and the quest to find Dad ease its grip inside my chest. 

For tonight, I can leave all of that behind.

It’s not like I’m ever going to see Desmond again once I leave town–hopefully, with Dad in tow. This might be my one and only evening with him. 

You only live once.