Page 131 of The Bad Husband

Damon is even quieter than before. Broodier. And more concerned.

He is worried about something.

Something other than Henrietta, my boyfriends, or the fact that someone might see me at the pool naked in the middle of the night.

I fuss in my seat, not knowing what to say as we’re heading back. He doesn’t look at me or talk to me.

I’m convinced we’re going back, but right before we’re supposed to enter the main road, he veers left and rolls his car onto a secondary road.

We move across an area with a few homes before the scenic view becomes a little busier, and we stop in front of a motel.

“Wait here,” he says, turning off the engine.

He climbs out.

Maybe he needs to pick up something or to meet someone.

He vanishes inside the lobby while I freeze in my seat and peer out the window.

It’s not exactly a raggedy place. It has a manicured lawn and a pool that looks clean and inviting under the strings of lights dangling from the trees.

No one is outside, though.

The door to the motel opens, and Damon walks out.

He signals to me to climb out, and I set myself in motion, harboring mixed feelings.

Are we doing something for work? What exactly is this?

I catch up with him as he walks to what looks like a bungalow. It’s a separate structure with a small lawn, a couple of stairs, and a nice front. He slides a card through the reader, pushes the door open, and invites me in.

I walk in, not knowing what to expect.

It’s a small, cozy place with a big comfy bed, clean sheets, a fully stocked bar, and a table and two chairs.

The AC is on, and the sheets and covers smell like flowers. It’s like we’re in someone’s home. The wooden floors are polished and creak under our steps.

A pang of apprehension floats in my chest.

This can’t be only about work.

And it can’t be about me only.

It makes me think it’s about what he just said to that old man, about him being worried about something that might or might not happen.

About him needing some reprieve. And that reprieve might just be sex. Fear nibbles on the edge of my awareness when I turn around to face him.

“Are we spending the night here?”

He nods, already removing his suit jacket and unbuttoning his dress shirt.

Evading my eyes, he moves to the bar.

“What would you like to drink?” he asks.

“Nothing for me. I need to use the bathroom. Can I use the bathroom?”

“Yes, sure. You can shower, too. Make yourself comfortable,” he says absently.