Theresa Weir - Bad Karma

“I want you.”

She had to admire his directness. And yet she knew the words were a confession, something that came with reluctance, something he wasn’t proud of.

Remnants of her dream still lingered in her mind. The next day she was going to leave, money or no money. She’d had it with this town. She’d had it with Daniel Sinclair. But there was something so enticing, so decadent, about making love with someone you hated. There would be no worry over whether she measured up, because what difference did it make? She didn’t care what he thought. She knew what he thought. That she was trash. That she was devious. That she existed only for herself.

Let him think it.

She hated him.

She picked up the packet he’d dropped on the bed. She waved it a little, as though she were shaking down a packet of sugar. “I hope you brought more than one.”

He reached into the front pocket of his jeans and tossed two more on the bed. “I’ve had a hard-on ever since I had my fingers inside you.”

She swallowed, her hands hovering over her top. Should she just strip? He solved that problem by reaching for her jeans. He unbuttoned and unzipped them. They dropped to the floor. “Wait,” she whispered, slipping out of her sandals, then kicking free of the pants. “The light.”

Instead of turning off the light, he said, “I’ve waited too long.” He unzipped his own pants, freed his erection, grabbed a packet, opened it, and slipped on a condom, all in a flurry and whirling and heart-racing breath. With one hand, he tugged at the front of her underwear, practically ripping them from her. She fell to the bed, her feet still on the floor. He followed her down. Then, without removing any of his clothing, without kissing her or touching her, he entered her, his arms braced on either side of her head.

If not for the night in the other hotel, she might have given him the benefit of the doubt. But he knew how to bring a woman pleasure. He just wasn’t bothering.

She hated him. Oh, God, she hated him.

She stared at him, at his face, her anger shimmering around her. He thrust his hips against her, his eyes closed, his breath hard and fast, a lock of hair hanging over his forehead.

“Pig,” she said, calmly, clearly.

He hesitated.

“I hate you,” she added, as he drove into her one final time before collapsing on top of her.

“Was that supposed to be like a vaccination?” she asked while he was still inside her, his chest rising and falling, his breathing ragged. He was hot and sweaty, while she felt cold everywhere except where their bodies touched. “An unpleasant job you had to do in order to get me out of your system?”

She shoved his shoulders, pushing him away. Scrambling from the bed, she grabbed her pants and put them on. She heard the strike of a match then smelled cigarette smoke.

She swung around and grabbed the cigarette from his mouth. It was bent and smashed, as if he’d found it under a sofa cushion. Thinking about it made her feel sick. Thinking about what they’d just done made her feel sicker.

Before he had a chance to get the cigarette back, she ran to the bathroom and tossed it in the toilet. It hit the water with a sizzle, the paper becoming transparent, the tobacco seeping out, turning the water a yellow-brown.

She reached for the lever to flush the toilet. She had to get rid of the slimy cigarette. Her stomach heaved. She squeezed her eyes shut, but that wasn’t any better. With her eyes closed, she could see the cigarette butt as if it were still there.

In the bedroom, Daniel ran shaking fingers through his sweat-soaked hair. What the hell was the matter with him? He’d wanted to get back at her for her stinging insults to his manhood and sexual prowess. He hadn’t wanted her to think he was softening toward her. And she was right, he’d wanted to get her out of his system.

Sure, she’d come there with the intent of taking the town of Egypt for a ride, but that didn’t justify his treating her like that. No woman should be treated like that.

She’d been in the bathroom quite a while. Probably waiting for him to leave. Instead of leaving, he got to his feet, knocked softly on the bathroom door, then pushed it open.

She stood with her back against the wall, her eyes closed. In the weird light cast by the small fluorescent bulb, her face looked colorless, except for bruises beneath her eyes. He started to reach for her, but his hand stopped a few inches from her arm. She’d probably prefer he didn’t touch her.

“Listen,” he began. How had this happened? What a hell of a day it had been. Or two days-it would be morning soon. “I’m sorry.”

“Go.” The word came on an exhalation of air, as if she hardly had the energy to get it out.

He frowned. How many days had she been in Egypt? Three? Four? It looked as if she’d lost weight in the short time she’d been there. He thought back to that first day, when she’d eaten with them. She’d thrown up.

Yeah, but she ate breakfast at the hotel, he told himself.

But had she? Really? Had he seen her eat anything? No.

His stomach plunged. Was there something wrong with her?

He reached for her again, and this time he touched her, his fingers wrapping lightly around her arm. “You’ve got to get some sleep.”

Surprisingly, she didn’t argue. Like a zombie, she let him lead her from the bathroom to the bed. Once there, she sat down, then rolled away, her face to the wall, her back to him, her knees drawn close.

He pulled the sheet over her, then looked around for a spread and spotted a piece of orange fabric protruding from under the bed. He pulled it out and started to drape in over her when she said quite clearly, “Nothing orange. I don’t want anything orange.”

He looked at the spread clutched in his hands. You couldn’t get much more orange than that. He turned on the lamp, turned off the overhead light, and sat down on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees.

It wasn’t long before he heard her steady breathing.

He should go home, he would go home, but he couldn’t make himself leave. He opened the drawer under the phone, expecting to see the usual Gideon Bible. A brown pill bottle rolled to the front. He picked it up and read the label. Cleo Tyler. Take one four times daily for anxiety.

The address was Seattle. He didn’t know she’d lived in Seattle. But then, he didn’t really know anything about Cleo Tyler except that she hated him. And had every right to.

Cleo came awake in stages, awareness gradually filtering in. The room was dark, but she sensed it was morning, possibly late morning. The air conditioner clanked away, blowing musty breath around the room. She remembered Daniel had been there before she’d fallen asleep, but he must have left sometime later.

She checked the bedside clock. 9:30 a.m. She let her head drop back on the pillow. Had Daniel said something about Jo wanting her to come in for another reading? She couldn’t go through that again. And she didn’t want to see Daniel. Ever.

She got up and showered, trying to keep her bare feet away from the shower drain. There was no telling what lurked there. Afterward, dressed in jeans and a black top, she didn’t feel a whole lot cleaner, the odor of the motel room having seeped into her pores. It was hard to say how long it would take to get the stink out of her system once she left, which would be soon.

Someone knocked. Through a crack in the louvered windows, she peered out. Daniel stood in front of her door, a cardboard carryout tray in his hands. Behind him, the sky was dark and threatening.

She pressed her back to the wall.

He knocked again. “Open up, Cleo.”