NEVER TRUST ANYTHING THAT BLEEDS 5 DAYS A MONTH AND DOESN’T DIE.

He slapped the flap shut and raked her with those half-lidded eyes. “Are you ready to call Mommy and Daddy yet?”

Chapter Three

THE SPACE BETWEEN THE TWO double beds was no wider than the battered nightstand that separated them. Lucy chose the bed closest to the door in case she needed to run screaming into the night.

The room smelled of cigarette smoke and cheap pine air freshener. Panda plunked the six-pack on what passed for a desk. He had a bad habit of looking at her as if he could see through her clothes, and he did it now. No one ever looked at her like that. They had too much respect. But he was a primitive life-form. He scratched, belched, grunted. Focused on food when he was hungry, on beer when he wanted to drink. And when he wanted sex, he focused on her.

She tried to watch him without his noticing. He grabbed a beer. She waited for him to snap off the bottle cap with his teeth, but he found an opener somewhere. His jeans fit a lot better than hers. If he weren’t gross, stupid, and scary, he’d be hot. What would it be like to have sex with someone like him? There’d be no finesse. No courtesy or consideration. No insecurities over whether she was as good in bed as her Texas beauty queen predecessors.

She’d nearly forgotten what sex felt like. Three months ago, she’d told Ted she didn’t want them to sleep together again until their wedding night so it would be more special. Ted said he’d go along with them not sleeping together—as long as it didn’t interfere with their sex life. But in the end, he’d done as she’d asked with only a minimum of complaining. Now she wondered whether she’d put him off out of sentimentality or because her subconscious was sending her a message.

She took her things from the duffel. Panda kicked off his boots, carried the beer to his bed, and picked up the remote. “I hope they’ve got some porn.”

Her head shot up. “Tell me more about your life in prison.”

“Why?”

“Because … I’m interested,” she said in a rush. “I used to be a social worker.”

“I did my time,” he said. “I don’t believe in looking back.”

Surely he was lying. “Has … your prison record impeded your career goals?”

“Not so as you’d notice.” He flicked through the channels. Fortunately, the motel didn’t seem to offer porn—the cross on the wall might explain why—and he settled for NASCAR.