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“How much does that thing weigh? You’re going to fall over carrying it around.”
“It has a name. He’s about twenty-five pounds, but that’s normal!” I get defensive. My mother always made jokes about my weight. I’d never do that to Tigger. “He’s a Maine Coon. They’re big.”
“He looks like a damn mini lion.”
“That’s why I named him Tigger.” He shakes his head at me.
“Go change,” he orders me.
I make my way across the gravel parking lot, running across the road to the motel that sits directly across from the bar. Once there, I head to my room.
“Home sweet home.” I sigh, putting Tigger down on the bed. “How times have changed.” Tigger circles around on the bed, finding a comfortable spot. “I’ll find us a place soon.” I scratch under his chin.
My motel room is smaller than my old closet at home. Though it never felt like home. I don’t mind the size. I spent most of my life living in dorm rooms. They were small.
If my mother saw this motel room, she’d die. I’ll admit the sheets are kinda scratchy and the decor is from the later '90s. I tried to spruce it up with some flowers and a few pillows and a fluffy throw blanket, but that can only go so far. It’s not perfect, but I feel more at home here than I have ever at my parents’.
When my family vacationed, it was on yachts or in hotel rooms that were as big as this whole motel. I always knew we lived a very lush life. I just didn’t know how different it really was. It’s all been a bit jarring.
I’ve never had to think or worry about money before. I had a card, and I slid it whenever I needed or wanted something. That was it. That’s all in the past now. I left all that behind and took what cash I could get together quickly. I realized pretty fast how easily money goes.
I have no regrets leaving that life behind. With all that money came so much control. I thought I was going to be free when I came home from college. Oh, how wrong I’d been. My parents had their own plan for me. They tossed me back in time, saying they had arranged a marriage for me.
Like what? Is that still a thing?
It most definitely is.
I spent a month planning a wedding that I was trying to get out of the whole time. When I realized that wasn’t happening, I ran. There was no freakin’ way I was marrying Bentley Bloomberg.
He has always given me the creeps. A chill runs through me thinking about him. His family was always at big events we’d all have to attend. Bentley has a major staring problem. He can be handsy too.
I thought for a while it was just me, but whispers had spread through the girls in the inner circle about him. Bentley didn’t like being told no. I knew without a doubt that I would be miserable and lose myself if I married that man.
Not wanting to think about him anymore, I head into the bathroom to get ready for my shift. Colt pays me cash plus my tips. I never had a job before this. It was frowned upon in my family. So I was shocked when he hired me on the spot, but he said something about needing something new and shiny around.
I pull my hair out of the messy bun on top of my head and shake it out before I put on some mascara and my red lipstick. My mother hates it. Anytime I put it on, she’d make me remove it, saying it made me look low class. I hated that she thought that money made her better than everyone else. I promised myself that I would never be like that.
My uniform is okay. I’d only packed a few pairs of jeans when I took off. I cut them into shorts. Cole gave me a black shirt with the bar's name on it. It feels like a second skin these days. The V cuts deep. It’s the most skin I’ve ever shown in public, unless you count the beach, and those were always private.
The alarm for my glucose monitor goes off. I check my phone, and my stomach tightens when I see my numbers. Eating healthy isn’t easy when you live in a motel room. I open the cooler I bought to keep my insulin pens in. Injecting one, I count how many I have left. I let the lid fall closed. Out of sight, out of mind.
“We’ll figure it out,” I tell myself. Tigger meows, calling me on my bullcrap.
3
JACKSON
My sister lets out a high-pitched scream when she sees me. She rushes over, launching herself at me. “What are you doing here?”
I give her a tight hug. A pang of guilt tugs at me. I should come home more often. There is almost ten years between June and me.
“Got some things I need to handle.” I release my hold on her. She bounces on her heels, full of energy, making her cowboy boots click on the wood floor.
“So it’s not because you missed me.” June gives her best innocent expression.
“I’ve missed you, brat.” I ruffle her hair. She bats my hand away.
“I just did my hair. I’m going out tonight.”
