She was lying on the bed in David’s motel room. It was typical of an inexpensive roadside motel: double bed, a small but clean bathroom in the back, outdated wooden paneling and one of those combination heater/air conditioners that ran continuously. David was sitting at a tiny round table by the front window. He was leaning back in his chair, staring at the ceiling, his right leg propped up on the table. He was working on his third glass of scotch, and was prattling on about selling high-end fishing gear to visiting tourist. “I’m sorry,” he said finally, glancing over at her. “All this shop talk is probably boring the crap out of you.” “No, not at all,” she lied. The vodka combined with the room’s soft lighting was only making David look more handsome, and all she really wanted him to do was shut up and take his shirt off. Jesus, Rachel, when did you become so easy? She’d only slept with a man that she’d just met once, back in her college days, and a small voice in her head said: hit the brakes girl, this is a bad idea.
