The Second Chance (Inferno Falls Book Three) (9 page)

He’s still watching me. I manage a “Hey” back, but the silence that follows is more damning than words. Because the way we’re posing here in the middle of this busy restaurant, me standing and him sitting, it’s clear there’s something between us — or something begging to be.
 

I need to say something. I need to move on.
 

But he’s watching me with his knowing, come-on look. Sly. His teeth seem very white. His eyes are outwardly friendly, inwardly predatory in just the right way. He can see through me. Right through this stupid little waitress uniform that someone like me, if I hadn’t got pregnant, should have no business wearing. Right through the sensible undergarments beneath, worn by a woman who’s practical, not flighty, always responsible.
 

My wild days are supposed to be behind me. I’m not like that anymore.
 

But it’s as if Chadd, looking at me now, knows none of it.
 

He’s looking at me like an object worth desiring.
 

He’s looking at me like he doesn’t know what a good person I try to be.
 

He’s looking at me like he has no clue that I’m struggling hard with the right way to break it to my daughter that yes, she could join Brownies, but no, there’s no real way I could ever take her to enough meetings and events to matter.
 

It’s as if I’m just a woman to him.
 

It’s as if I have no worries. No challenges. No hurtful past. No scars.
 

Just a woman.

I drop my pad. It falls from my hand and hits the floor, as if my fingers have forgotten how to grip. Chadd goes for it before I can. He takes his time on the way up, following the contours of my leg, lingering where they vanish below my skirt. When he’s upright again, his face is right at my middle. Everything in me is on fire, and I’m sure — I’m
begging
— that he’ll reach beneath and touch me. That he’ll simply lift the front of my skirt here and now, pull aside my sopping panties, and put his tongue to use.
 

“I … I … ”
 

“Maybe you should go splash some water on your face,” he tells me.
 

I turn to go. I turn to obey. I get a look or two from my tables, who probably need their water refilled or a general check-in. But a second later I’m in the ladies’ room. It’s a single-occupancy so I almost press the lock out of habit, but then remember why I’m here and don’t.

I look in the mirror. I see the same red hair. The same wide lips. The same face that everyone looks at and thinks I’m a good girl. The same face that volunteers so often. The face I found it hard to look at in the mirror after the first few times I had sex because I was convinced that intercourse was something to be ashamed of. The devil’s work.
 

My heart is pounding when the door opens again. The way the mirror is angled, I can’t see who enters without turning, but this time, I hear the lock click.
 

Hands find my skin, below my hips, below the fall of my skirt. And when I look up, I see Chadd’s smooth, charming face for a few seconds before I stand tall and he leans in, pushing my hair aside to kiss my neck.
 

I can still stop this.
 

Oh, God, I don’t
want
to stop it.
 

I know it’s wrong. I know it’s terrible. I know that every time I’ve done something like this in the past, it makes me into a hundred things I don’t want to be: a slut, a whore, a tramp, easy. But I don’t stop it. I seek it out. I drew a line in the sand years ago, ever since those first shameful, rushed, sinfully exciting encounters, and put half of myself on each. It’s like I’m two women. One is good. The other is bad. And the idea that there could be any overlap — that someone like I should be could ever enjoy the things I do — seems absurd.
 

And still, I want him to kiss me more.
 

I want him to slide his hands higher, bringing my skirt up with them. And he does, making me cold and hot at the same time.
 

He cups my breasts. Then his hand is below my shirt, under my bra, pawing them for real, rubbing my nipples, bringing me to life.
 

Stop it.
 

But now, all I want is to make it happen. Now, of all times, I need this, even knowing how badly I’ll regret it later.
 

I turn in Chadd’s arms. I push him back against the wall. I doff my shirt and bra and toss them on top of the lidded trash can. My hands are on his fly, opening it, unzipping it, reaching down for what I can already feel wanting me as much as I want it.

His cock parts my lips, sliding across my tongue. Chadd sighs above me, and his pleasure makes me hotter. I take him deeper, adding a hand, yanking his pants and boxers down then palming his balls. The way he starts to breathe unleashes a torrent, and now more than anything, I want release. I want him inside me. But I want more of this first, and I want him to see it. I want him to want me. To
need
me.
 

With his cock still in my mouth, I spin the skirt around to unbutton and slide it down, then off. I look up at him, licking the shaft, as I slide my panties aside and slip two fingers into me. As he pants, I move faster, on him and me. My fingers move up, on the throbbing button of my clit. Ten seconds later, I come with his dick down my throat.
 

His breath heavy, Chadd pulls me up. But I’m in charge here, not him. I’m pursued; he’s the pursuer. I have what he wants, so I slide my panties down as he shoves his pants to his ankles, not bothering to remove them. Then I’m up on the sink, the porcelain cold against my ass. I spread my legs, showing him what he’s missing. I’m throbbing with need, in the honeymoon between orgasms. I’ll be blushing hard, the way his shaft is, the way his balls are up tight against him as everything clenches, his length coming closer and touching me until I can feel its heat at my entrance.
 

“Fuck me,” I say. Hating the sound of my voice. Hating that I want it, that I want him, like this. Hating the way things have turned out. Hating what I’m helpless to resist, and who I’ve become.
 

When he doesn’t do as I say, I grab his shaft with one hand while I wrap the other around to grip his firm ass. I guide him inside, then tip my head back against the mirror, eyes closed, as he fills me.

Chadd pulls off his shirt. He’s as built as I’d imagined, a six-pack visible and hard when I touch it. I trail my fingers down, touching his root, feeling the back of my own hand slap my clit as he thrusts. I can tell he’s almost already there — and just like that, thinking about it, I come hard as he runs his fingers across my bare breasts. And as I clamp down on him, he moves faster and breathes harder, and then he pulls out to finish, apparently at least a little wiser than the encounter that got me in trouble the first time.

He moves to grab paper towels, but I already have them and am wiping myself clean. Because the lust lingered for a few seconds, but only that. Now that it’s over, regret descends like a hammer. Yes, the tension is gone, for now. But the shame of breaking my oh-so-recent resolution for minutes of pleasure won’t be going anywhere.
 

I won’t look at him. I get down from the sink, practically rummaging like a blind woman. My hands find my clothes, but he’s already at the door. I hear a click, knowing that if he opens it now, anyone coming out of the opposite men’s room will see me in all my splendor.

“I’ll go first,” he says.
 

The door opens a crack as I flinch back, but then something must hit Chadd’s conscience because he turns, puts an arm around me, and kisses my cheek.
 

“Thank you,” he says then slips out to leave the door unlocked behind him.
 

Thank you.
 

Like I’m a hooker who was kind enough to give him a freebie, and gratitude is only polite.

CHAPTER 11

I pull off I-94 just north of Madison and decide to spring for a motel. It’s not a great one, because my income is never predictable and I like to think I’m smart enough not to blow my parents’ meager inheritance without thinking ahead. But when I get to Inferno, I’ll be staying at Ernie’s rent free. I hate the idea because the place will be rank with memories, but at least I can console myself with the fact that the bastard is finally dead.
 

The place is tiny but clean enough, and I don’t see any druggies or prostitutes hanging out looking for a good time. Really, it’s just another bump on the long American road. That’s something I discovered when I started rambling away from my old home: Most places are just places. If you’re sheltered, you’ll see anything off your normal center as suspect. But I’ve been everywhere now, and I’ve seen it all. The old me might have questioned a place like this, but the new me understands that the people who run it and the people who live nearby are just people. Everyone gets on as well as they can, and it’s not for me to judge them.
 

I pay, and then after I find my room, I cover Carl’s cage with a shirt from my backpack and sneak him inside. He’s a loudmouth in the car, but so far has settled down when we’re not moving. He’s also either loyal or frightened, and every time I’ve let him out he’s stuck by me like a dog. It’s as if he gets what this is, between the two of us. Carl can be my ward as long as he needs me, but the minute the cat decides he’d rather be on his own I’ll be inclined to agree and let him go.
 

I let Carl out inside the room, placing his litter box in the bathroom. I get him a bit of water, lay out some food, then get my backpack from the truck and settle in. My digs here don’t need to be luxurious. The room just needs to have a bed that’s clean and comfortable, and it’s got that. It needs to get me through tonight and into tomorrow. I’m in no rush. There’s still half a country between me and my destination, and I’m used to drifting. I won’t arrive before tomorrow’s done. Tomorrow will be like today, with another motel at the end. A carbon copy of the same day.
 

I kick off my boots then sit on the bed with my back against the headboard, one leg bent up, and the other straight out in front of me. I stare at the TV for a while without turning it on, as if entertainment might magically appear. Then I succumb to what’s been nagging at me all day, and slip the phone from my pocket.
 

I download the LiveLyfe app. I don’t want to set up shop here myself, but it turns out I can browse without having an account. So, after spending a few seconds pretending I’ve done this to check on my old buddy Brandon, I type in
Maya Holland
.
 

There are a bunch of them. I scroll down, trying to see enough of the tiny photos that go with the names to see which might be my Maya — the girl who
used
to be my Maya. Annoyingly, a lot of people have used photos of things that aren’t their faces. One of the Mayas is using a watering can as her image. And it looks like just about anyone who has kids uses them as their photo, which seems pretty stupid to me. It’s not the kids’ LiveLyfe account, gals. It’s yours.
 

I’m about to give up and start clicking Mayas at random — surely, one of these kids could be Mackenzie — when I see her.
 

Gorgeous red hair. Bright, wide smile.
 

It feels like I’ve been kicked in the chest. We’ve swapped those few emails, but I could probably count on both hands the number of times I’ve heard from Maya since I’ve left, and this is almost for sure the first time I’ve seen her. I’ve sent plenty of postcards, but those are missives, sent into the world without expectation (or possibility, in my case) of a response. I’ve even addressed a bunch of the cards to both of them, hoping it’s not somehow overstepping a line or insulting. Kids like postcards, don’t they? I loved to get them, once upon a time. The idea of being somewhere else — somewhere not the little one-horse town Inferno Falls used to be — made my spirit fly. I always wanted to see the world, and the postcards I got from friends and relatives only made that wanderlust stronger. I haven’t seen some of the more exotic places yet (London, Cairo, even one from Taipei), but I’ve owned the continental US and have sent enough of my own postcards to prove it.
 

I click on Maya’s name. Her profile comes up, and I click again on her photo to fill the screen.
 

My heart seems to skip.
 

We were inseparable, until I left. Looking into her digital eyes now, it’s like no time has passed. I can remember every detail of our last encounter. I remember how furious I was. And, in turn, I remember how furious Maya was with me. Given the decade between then and now, I find myself recalling it with fondness, not bitterness, as if that final fight was something I’ve spent all these years pining for.
 

I remember her green eyes flashing. Her red hair jumping as she swore at me, as she stalked, and finally as she sobbed.
 

I remember how terrible I felt. How anxious. How … how fucking
righteous
I felt as the selfish young asshole I was back then. We were both seventeen, Maya on the cusp of graduating with her hard-earned scholarship and her ill-fated pregnancy. I hadn’t stuck around to see how big her belly got. She was barely starting to show when I split. I wouldn’t be graduating anyway; deciding that school wasn’t for me was just one more thing that made my asshole uncle decide I was worthless.