Re: Motel 77: Cris & Sam
The motel was seedy, definition of. It was ulcerous neon lights bleeding argon out into the night, and Cris knew lotsa places like it. He'd dealt drugs. He knew what these places looked like. He took in the details with a rakea dark eyes, and he went to find the door with the five on it.âIt was propped and that flared another gutter-spikea worry in him, but it was Sam's Doc, and in spitea the blarea the TV, some soap set atta wedding, he thoughtâassumedâshe was alone. Maybe cause he knew, the way he was now, his gun on his hip, he'd kill whoever was with her, and that was brutal, huh? It was wrong, but it was true. At that moment, he'd do whatever he had to do to make sure the girl was safe. Regret was for later.
He heard the spitta the shower, door openâand, closing the door from outside and dropping the lock, he moved toward the bathroom. He didn't shed the bag. It didn't even occur to him to. The water was coming down hard, the lights were off, and he felt his way in. It felt small, like the bedroom from before, but the heat didn't stick to the skin the same way, it didn't stuff cotton down your throat with a clammy hand over your mouth. The shower had to be cold, he realized, mista it on his face, catching like dew in his eyelashed. He didn't stop to think. All he did was get ridda that jacket, the bag, his gun, and he stepped into the shower, maroon t-shirt soaking like deep-born blood and his black hair washing down flat.
"Hey, mami," he said, low, steady, groping til his hand found the spinea that wifebeater, knobsa vertebrae wastrel-thin beneath his fingersâlike the lighthouse, he thought without wanting to. His touch moved up, to seaweed hair beat gold, and he was fully in with her now, close on his knees, and he sat. He opened his knees around Sam and reeled her in to his chest, fingers in her hair, on her cheek. Soft, he spoke real soft, lips just there by her ear, and he didn't even notice the temperaturea the water from here. "Hey, baby." And stupidly, "It's me."