Darlin'

4| Shake N' Bake

"Wake up, Looney Tunes™." So rude! "Hey!"

"Will you stop rattling me?!" I groan, fluttering open my weary eyelids. I glance up to find Jesse hovering over me. His presence is a depressing reminder that this is indeed my reality, not some absurd dream. "I'm not a flipping Shake N' Bake™!"

"What are you still doing here?" he asks as my vision adjusts to the dark, eerily silent night. Jesse raises an impatient brow, waiting for an answer as I release a yawn. "Yoo-hoo? Lady? What're you doing?"

"Will you please shut up," I grunt, swatting at his shins as my temples ‌pulse. Unanswerable questions are the worst types of alarms. How do I snooze him? "Give me a second..." Street lights flicker around us as I peer up at him, somewhat mentally receptive to a conversation. Or a fight. The pendulum for my reaction could swing either way at this moment. "What do you want, Jesse?"

A ghost of a smile graces his shadowed face, and for the first time, I notice that he's got a diamond stud in his nose. Maybe he hopes if people are visually drawn to his slender snout, they won't notice the dried cuts on and around his lips. I wonder how often he bleeds.

"Why aren't you at the motel?" He cocks his head. "Get lost on the way?"

"Maybe I figured that this filthy sidewalk would be much more sanitary than a motel room," I jeer, resting against the lumpy fence, my back sore from slouching for God knows how many hours. "If it's anything like your clubhouse, I'm saving myself from having to get a tetanus shot."

"Probably," he agrees with a grin, leaning his right shoulder against the gate as he crosses his arms. "But you should still go." He nods down at my luggage. "People have killed for a lot less around here."

"What?" My eyes widen with fear as I yank on my Louis Vuitton™ carry-on. I'd like to see them try. "You're just trying to scare me."

"Nah, I'm just telling you how it is," he says matter-of-factly as his keen gaze flits across my face. "Pretty girl, empty streets, couple grand worth of luggage." He shrugs. "You do the math, babe."

"I'll be fine." I swallow, immediately fishing a pink spritz container out of my purse. "I've got pepper spray."

"Pepper spray?" Jesse snorts. "Jesus..." Shaking his head, he holds out his hand. "Come on, get up. I'll drive you there." He rolls his eyes as I don't budge. A sassy one, I see. "Listen, I'm not gonna stand here and play babysitter all night, 'kay? Get the fuck up, Savannah."

I glower at him. "Don't cuss at me."

"Or what?" he asks, smirking. "You'll pepper spray me?"

"Don't tempt me with a good time," I snap back. "There's nothing I'd like more than to see you cry."

"The only person crying will be you if you stay out here alone," he states with an edge as his posture stiffens. "It's not safe. You need to go to a motel."

As if on cue, a terrifyingly loud and powerful gust of wind howls through the barren mountain ridge, sending a ripple of trepidation down my spine. Distant shouting and cursing—and oh, God, was that a gunshot—fill my ringing ears.

"I can't leave," I mumble, angry at myself for not having a backup plan. "You don't know how much I wish I could..."

"You can't?" he asks, looking down at me, confused. "Why not?"

"Because I can't afford a motel," I whisper, tugging my cardigan shamefully around my chest as I physically shrink in size. Momma would be so pleased. "Damn it."

"What?" he asks. "Didn't quite hear that."

"I said..." My jaw tightens. Oh, he heard me just fine. "I cannot afford a motel."