"Just a guy? I don't buy it. You like him."

"I don't like him."

"No, you don't like me. But you do like him."

He bites her earlobe. Not hard enough to draw blood. But hard enough.

She pushes him away. He laughs. His hands hold her hips.

"I don't give a shit about that guy. I don't give a shit about anybody."

Ashley searches her face. She feels his eyes on her. The way his gaze roams, it's like a pair of hands. She gets a rush. Her heart flutters like a bird with a broken wing.

"Something else is going on here," he says. His thumb undoes the top button of her jeans. His fingers play idly around the waistband. His eyes widen. Revelation. "He's your mark."

"Fuck you. Get your hands out of my pants."

She says it and doesn't mean it.

He asks her the big question.

"When does he die?"

His hand slides down deeper. His fingers tease at her. She's getting wet like a hot summer day, sodden like a swamp, and she hates it.

"Go to hell."

His fingers move up inside her. She gasps.

"Let me help you."

"I don't need your help." She wants to moan. She stifles it.

"He's a trucker. Truckers have lots of money. I'll help you get it."

"I said, I don't need–" He does this thing with thumb and forefinger. She shuts up. She feels weak. Controlled. Like she's a robot and he's got the remote control.

"You definitely need something."

His fingers thrust harder.

He laughs.

Motel room. Floral print bedspread. Gold-rimmed mirror with the old showbiz-style lights marking its perimeter. A painting of a magnolia tree on the wall. The room is clean, but smells of mold ill-concealed by disinfectant.

Miriam sits at the edge of the bed, smoking. She eyes the metal suitcase, wondering what's in it.

Naked, she massages the carpet with her toes. Another motel. Another fuck. Another cigarette. Circles and circles, the spinning snake, the endless carousel. She wants a drink to drown in.

Ashley comes out of the bedroom, brushing his teeth with one hand, hiking on a pair of boxers with the other.

"Rapist," she says.

"Can't rape the willing," he snaps back with a wink.

"I know. Besides, I could've broken your jaw. I just want you to feel icky, is all."

Around the toothbrush, he gleefully mumbles, "I don't."

"I know that, too."

Back in the bathroom, he swishes, spits, and swishes again.

"No means no," she calls after him.

"Not usually," he calls back, before exiting the bathroom. He wipes toothpaste froth from his chin with the back of his hand. "So let's hear the deets."

"The deets."

"Of the trucker's death."

"Louis. His name is Louis."

"Uh-huh. Whatever. His first name is Mark. His last name is Victim. He's got money, I know that much. Truckers always have money. They get big paydays but don't have the time or the place to spend it – unless they're married. He married?"