in applications at various places, cheeks heating more than once when the managers laughed me out of their front door when I told them I had no work experience. Two places seem promising, a restaurant and a business in need of a receptionist. The latter probably one I wouldn’t take even if I did get a call back because of the way the guy talking to me seemed to think my eyes were a few inches below my chin.
Walking away from my parents held true. I’m nearly flat broke, and as much as I want to worry about tomorrow, well tomorrow, I know I can’t do that. My account won’t be replenished until I make that happen myself. The limited money I have—mostly squirreled away a long time ago to buy drugs—won’t last very long, and the one credit card I have that I don’t think my parents know I have will need to be used strategically and for emergencies only. I can’t risk using it to get a hotel room despite knowing I’m going to end up somewhere tonight that’s going to be less than desirable.
With heavy feet, I climb out of the cab that carried me from downtown to a small motel near the highway, trying not to feel guilty for only tipping a few extra bucks. Gone are the days of tossing people more than double the bill without care.
“Have a good evening, honey. Stay safe.” The cabbie’s eyes sparkle, the corners a web of lines that speak of the happiness in his life that put them there.
“Thank you,” I whisper before shutting the door behind me, his kindness threatening to make the tears burning the backs of my eyes fall.
The bored desk clerk at the motel barely looks up at me when I walk inside the lobby, and a sense of anonymity I’ve never really had the pleasure of experiencing is startling and nice all rolled into one. The room is cheap, not even a hundred dollars a night so I book it for the rest of the week.
Staying in St. Louis isn’t a long-term plan. Being close to Flynn and not going to him will be a challenge no matter where I am, but an easier one to satisfy if I put some miles between us. My bank account, however, is screaming to be fed. I can resist the temptation of him—the memories of his constant rejections making it possible—for a while before moving on to a less expensive city or rural area where I’m just Remington, a girl making it on her own rather than Carla and Charles Blair’s daughter, the train wreck who can’t keep her hands off the men hired to work for her family.
“Do you have a room service menu?” I ask the desk clerk as he hands me the key to my room, a smile on my face that doesn’t come close to reaching my eyes.
I feel like a jerk for not even being able to fake gratitude right now, but I’m exhausted, the day started by arguing with Reginald about leaving New York and the promise that he has to notify my parents. I didn’t tell him where I was going, and funnily enough, he didn’t ask. He’s a smart man, and I have no doubt he already knew the direction I was heading.
“Sure. We keep them just down the hall, right next to the elevator for guest’s convenience. Room three-seventeen Ms. Blair. I hope you enjoy your stay at Riverview Motel. Please call down if there’s anything you need.”
I nod, pleased with the service before grabbing the handle of the single backpack I loaded with care before walking away from home.
My mood changes, drifting back, questioning everything in my life when I turn the corner down the dingy hallway. I didn’t expect luxury at seventy-eight dollars a night, but I also didn’t expect the stench of cigarette smoke and worn carpet either.
My jaw is hurting from clenching my teeth when I make it further down realizing that this place not only doesn’t have an elevator, but the room service menu is actually a fucking vending machine—a half empty one at that.
I was the butt of that guy’s joke and I didn’t even know it. I’m sure he’ll have a grand old time telling his friends just how ridiculous I am for asking in the first place.
Shaking my head and taking a deep breath, I remind myself that others’ opinions no longer matter. I’m not here to please anyone.