I notice a new tear in the seam of the suitcase and I sigh. First my family tree, then my job and home, and now my suitcase?

Is there anything in my life that isn’t falling to pieces?

I shake my head and silently scold myself for being so dramatic. I will not be a whiney baby. Sure, life has thrown a few fastball lemons at me lately, and sure, I’m broke and homeless, but I’m also an intelligent adult who can figure this out. My life. My future. My money. I will figure it out. All of it.

I swap the skirt on the bed for an old pair of jeans with holes in the knees—from years of wear and tear, not for fashion purposes—and my stomach rumbles again.

But before I figure anything out I’m going to eat so I don’t faint on the disgusting motel carpet. God, I’m hungry. All I’ve had today is the granola bar I scarfed before heading to the lawyer’s office for the will reading.

Just thinking about my father’s ridiculous will brings back all my irritation from earlier. The man doesn’t speak to me for five years and when he finally does, he wants me to go on some kind of weird letter hunt with the town’s biggest playboy? What was he thinking? Why couldn’t he have just given the letter directly to me without involving any bondage playtime with Daren Ackwood? And why on earth is Daren Ackwood a part of this equation anyway?

He was my dad’s gardener, for crying out loud. He was an egotistical rich kid who probably only kept the gardening job so he could afford to buy condoms for all his sexual conquests. And my father deemed him worthy of his will? It doesn’t make sense.

Just how chummy were Daren and my dad? Were they drinking buddies? Were they football friends? I never saw them have a conversation that lasted longer than two minutes so how close could they have possibly been?

I tug my old jeans on with a scoff.

Pretty damn close, I guess, if my dad felt comfortable leaving that stupid letter to us both. Ugh. And what could he possibly have to say to us in one silly note?

Dear Daren and Kayla. I’m holding your baseball cards hostage and screwing you over one last time, hee-hee?

The whole thing is ludicrous.

Pulling a gray T-shirt from my tattered suitcase, I yank it over my head and flip my hair from under the collar with a huff. I look in the mirror and relax a little.

The formfitting blouse and skirt served their purpose today but I’m far more comfortable in loose clothes. Or relatively loose clothes. My curves are still noticeable in this outfit but at least I don’t feel like my breasts are on display.

I grab my purse, let myself out of the motel room, and walk to the lobby—if you can even call it that. The Quickie Stop’s lobby looks less like the registration desk of a motel and more like the drive-thru at a liquor store.

It’s no bigger than my motel room, with walls that were probably white at one time but are now more of a grimy yellow color, and gray laminate flooring that’s heavily scuffed, stained, and peeling up where the glue has lost its hold. The registration desk is eight feet wide and topped with a matching laminate counter, scarred with scratches and a few sections of penned graffiti. And the wall behind the counter is lined with shelves of cigarettes, small bottles of alcohol, and an obscene amount of condoms.

The man sitting behind the desk looks the way you’d expect the night shift employee of a seedy motel to appear. Mid forties, overweight, mustache, stained polo shirt, and a lump of tobacco chew bulging under his bottom lip.

His face brightens when he sees me walk in and the corners of his mouth curl up to reveal yellowing teeth. I try to ignore the way his eyes peruse my body as I approach, but seriously. Guys are pigs. It’s not like I’m dressed like a hooker here. Yet this guy is slowly sinking his eyeballs into the most private places on my body.

“Well, hello there,” he says eagerly as he straightens in his chair. He probably doesn’t mean to come across like a creep, but I can’t help but be reminded of every scary movie ever when his grin grows bigger.

“Hello,” I say politely, taking note that his name tag reads OWEN. You know, just in case I need to dole out details to the police later.

“How can I help you?” He ogles me and spits into a plastic cup. Gross.

“I was wondering if there was a place nearby to grab dinner. Something… affordable?” I hear the pathetic hope in my voice and want to slap myself.

It’s not like I’m starving. And it’s not like I don’t have a penny to my name. I just don’t want to blow twenty percent of what little money I do have on a crappy sandwich and a side of droopy fries.

The only reason I’m asking for eating suggestions at all is because the Quickie Stop is on the opposite side of town from where I grew up, so I’m not familiar with the food prices around here, and I don’t feel like driving across town just to eat.

Ogling Owen leans in, happy to help. “Your best bet is Latecomers Bar & Grill. It ain’t nothing fancy, but they got really good food and lots of booze.” He wags his eyebrows, like he’s hoping I’ll get hammered tonight and beg him to take me to bed.

Seriously. Pigs.

“I can give you directions,” he says, reaching for a pen.

“No, that’s okay. I can look it up.” I wiggle my phone at him so he sees that I don’t need help—and that I have a way to call 911 if he decides to get extra creepy on me.

I might be dirt-poor, but I always find a way to pay my phone bill.

And besides, I already know where Latecomers is. I’ve never been inside before but I remember the area well enough to know how to get there.

“But hey, um…” I shift my weight and try to muster up the courage to ask my next question. “Do you have any discounted room rates here? Like, buy two nights get the third night half off or anything?” My voice shakes, actually shakes, on the last word. Super pathetic.

He looks intrigued. “You thinking about staying longer?”

I try to keep my face neutral. “Possibly.”

His gaze roves over me again as he spits back into his chew cup. “We don’t have nothing like that here. Weeknights are fifty-five a pop. Weekends are sixty-five. But”—he leans in and gives me another yellow-toothed smile—“I could probably make an exception for you.” His eyes graze over my chest. Again.

“That’s okay.” I take a step back. “I don’t want you to bend any rules.”

Men who offer you favors simply because they find you attractive aren’t offering you a favor at all. They’re offering you a silent contract with a dozen strings attached. I don’t do strings.

Desperation crosses his face. “It wouldn’t be any trouble at all—”

“No really. It’s fine.” I smile tightly. “Thanks.” I spin around and speed-walk out of the drive-thru lobby without another word.

Ogling Owen and his greedy eyes unsettle me. And the fact that he knows where I sleep is unnerving as hell. A shiver runs down my spine as I get in my car and lock myself inside before pulling out of the parking lot. I cannot wait to get out of this town.

When I reach Latecomers, the bar is packed so I have to drive around the parking lot for five minutes before finding a free space.

The moment I step inside, the aroma of savory dishes greets my nose and my mouth starts to water. But looking around at all the people waiting to be seated, my excitement wanes. I probably won’t be getting a table anytime soon.

Four middle-aged men at a table near the door halt their conversation when they see me, but not in a slimy way. In fact, they seem to be trying not to look at me as they shift in their seats and take gulps of their drinks. But they’re men and my DNA was designed to draw male attention.

I turn away, facing the other side of the restaurant where two women seated by the front window glare at me. I give them a nervous little smile. Their eyes travel over me and they look away with disgust. Like I somehow forced my boobs and butt to curve out the way they do and pranced into this restaurant with the sole purpose of displaying my beauty. In a baggy T-shirt and ratty jeans.