I heard somewhere that there’s a little truth behind every joke, I think Freud might have said it. Maybe I need to get over myself and just admit that I want to fuck Remy. The thought makes my insides turn to ice. “So this is the secret hideout,” I say, hoping he doesn’t hear the slight tremor. He winks. “Super secret.” He unbuckles his seatbelt, then turns to me. “Uh, you’d better stay in the car.” “Oh. Right. So they don’t think I’m your underage Lolita prostitute,” I say. His cheeks turn a slight shade of red. “Yeah. Something like that.” He gets out of the car and shuts the door behind him, only a wisp of cold air invading the warm interior. I’m glad my awful sex jokes make him uncomfortable. They make me uncomfortable. Why can’t I keep my stupid mouth shut around him? I watch him walk to the hotel office, and realize I’m checking out his ass. Great. This is one of those motor lodges like the one my mom and aunt were staying at when I got back, where a balcony allows for all the rooms to exit outside instead of into a hallway.
