41
ALEXA KING
-Present-

Ruby Motel
October 21, 2018
12:03 p.m.

THE SIGN BLINKS DOWN on me, barely red on my skin. Despite it being daytime, it's left on, a constant flickering that only surrounds a few letters.

Ruby Motel stands in front of us as Christopher parks the car. It's a decent-looking motel that's divided in two buildings: the main "office" with a clerk visible behind a wooden desk, and a building with a cluster of rooms, one beside the other. The wooden doors stand beside large, crystal windows with curtains drawn to hide what's happening inside. My eyes trail through the golden numbers, until they stumble upon a golden eight.

It became our golden eight, a place where we could be ourselves and reflect those dark selves with sex.

An hour ago, we passed a sign that read 'YOU'RE NOW LEAVING LEVITTOWN' in bold, white letters. It felt strange to leave the town behind, if only for a few hours, but it also felt liberating. We already visited the first of the two motels that are mentioned in Melody's letter, a crappy place that called itself 'The Golden Motel'. Room number eight was just a damp square of a place containing a single bed, some nightstands to match, and an old television with crappy cable.

There was no golden eight on its door --- which is ironic, to say the least --- no hideous painting of our town in front of the bed, and no trace of Melody's next letter. Needless to say, we came out empty-handed and a little more hopeless.

"Are we okay?" Christopher says, side-eyeing me with a nervous smile on his face. "It's just... you're not saying much, and I love to hear you speak."

He loves something about me.

"Of course," I whisper, but we both know that it's not entirely true.

"Ready?" he says, unbuckling my seat belt. His warm fingers brush against the exposed flesh of my hip, making me tremble.

"No," I mumble, trying to smile. "I hope something comes out of this."

"What are you trying to find, anyways?"

If you're smart, you won't say anything about these letters to him. To ANYONE. He's the worst possible ally and trust me when I say you'll be in real danger for the first time. He knows more than he lets on.

I shrug, averting my gaze. "Anything, really. She mentioned it in her letters, so it must be important. I mean, she said to go to Becky Rivers, and I found out⸺" I stop myself and clear my throat. "That room is a clue. I just know it."

Christopher nods, his smile faltering. We step out of the car and walk to the main office in silence, keeping our distance. The only sound between us is of our steps on the asphalt, a constant scratch that reminds us that our bodies rarely keep away from each other. It seems that we're always finding ways to touch the other's body, to find the other across any place. Why is it so weird now?

There's a faint ting when we enter the air-conditioned space. A pudgy man stands behind the front desk, tall and looming as he flicks through some magazine. An elbow rests on top of the desk, while his chin rests in his pudgy hand. When he hears us come in, he only gives a brief glance before he returns to his rather meaningless task. Business must be slow today.

Christopher touches the brass bell that's sitting on the edge of the desk, the constant ting ting ting echoing around us. Joe, as his nametag says, sighs and looks up at us with absolute boredom. He closes the magazine and stands straight.

"'Come to Ruby Motel. Name's Joe," he says gruffly, signaling to his name tag with a pudgy finger. "What room are ya lookin' fo' today? We gots all types he'."

"Room number eight," Christopher says, frowning at the man.

I hide behind him and look over his shoulder, afraid that someone we know might come in and see us renting a room. How will we explain it? The immediate thought is sex. The thought warms my cheeks and ignites a fire that's always been reserved for Christopher.

"Room numba eigh', eh?" Joe says, looking at us more closely. "Haven' seen ya folks 'round he' befo'."

"Do you need to?" Christopher says, irritated now.

"I ain't mean to get ya so defensive, boy," he mutters, holding his hands up in a mocking way. "It's jus'... ya new he' and 'redy talkin' 'bout room numba eigh'. I gots lots of otha rooms he' in this fine motel."

I snort a laugh, earning a glare from the man and a raised eyebrow from Christopher. Excuse me if I don't think this is a fine motel.

"Well, we specifically want room number eight. I don't care for the rest." Christopher takes out his wallet and grabs a few twenties. "You should mind your own business."

"Fine. Fine," Joe grumbles, rolling his eyes. "That'll be ninety bucks."

"Ninety dollars for a crappy motel room!" Christopher shouts, hitting the desk with his large, open hand.

Joe shrugs. "Room numba eigh' is a fine room, little boy. I said we have otha rooms, didn't I?" He looks at me now, making me flinch. "Right, little girl?"

"Fuck. Fuck," Christopher mutters, taking a few more tens and twenties out. "Room number eight better have a golden toilet or something. It better have fucking God somewhere inside."

Joe smirks. It's a greasy kind of smirk, the one a predator knows how to make. "What do ya need God for in the'? Seems to me you's gonna have a nice time, eh?"

Christopher is trembling with rage now, but he still laughs a sarcastic laugh. He throws the money at the clerk, pieces of green paper floating in the air, falling to the desk and the floor. Joe doesn't look so happy about that, but I'm guessing he can't say shit because he doesn't own the motel.

"Look at her again and I swear I'll fucking end you, you fat piece of shit," Christopher mutters lowly, snatching the room key from Joe's grasp and walking away from the desk.

Something flutters violently in my stomach, sending different vibrations throughout my body. For some reason, I don't move away from the desk. Christopher shakes the golden key and beckons me with his head, a warm smile on his handsome face.

He always chose room number eight, so much that the motel's clerk knew what key to give him every time we came by...

"Wait," I whisper, searching through my bag for my phone.

"What is it, Alexa?" Christopher walks over to me and rests his chin on my naked shoulder.

I don't answer but instead go to my picture gallery, flicking through pictures until I find the one I took of Melody before her disappearance --- the same one the police used for her missing person's flyer.

I stare at the picture for a little longer and then turn the phone toward the clerk. "Have you ever seen this girl around here?"

He squints a little, comes forward to have a better look. When realization strikes him, he leans back and folds his arms on top his round stomach. "Who's askin'?"

"Are you fucking serious, you fat fuck?" Christopher grumbles, making the situation so much worse.

"Please," I mumble, nudging Christopher with my elbow.

"Fine," he says, taking out his wallet again. "How 'bout I pay you thirty more dollars. Does that sound good?"

"Make it fifty, little boy."

"I can't believe I'm paying a hundred and forty dollars for a crappy motel room," he mutters under his breath, placing the money on the desk.

Greasy Joe counts the money, wetting the tips of his fingers from time to time as he flickers through each piece. "Haven' seen her fo' a while now."

"But you have seen her before, right?"

He nods, adjusting his baseball cap. "All the time, little girl. She was a regula' he'. Always picked room numba eigh' like you's ova' he'. I dunno what that damn room has, I tells ya."

A spark of hope blossoms in my chest. "She came with the same man, right?"

If this turns out well, I can get a physical description of U; her secret lover.

"Yeah, yeah. Some guy that was clearly not from 'round he'," he mumbles, already bored with us. "Say, why do ya wanna know?"

I stuff the phone back in my bag and brush some curls behind my ears. "I just want to know. She's my friend --- my best friend --- and this guy just up and dumped her, the bastard."

This monster murdered her as if she was nothing and left her on the floor of her room, bleeding to death. He used and manipulated and dumped her, as if she was a ragdoll he could toss around until he was bored enough to not care.

The nausea comes up to my throat, threatening to come out. My body begins to tremble as flashes of that night come to me --- red staining everything. It's on my hands, on my body, coming out of her body. It's all white and red.

Christopher puts his warm arms around my body before walking in front of me to shield me from this disgusting man. "We just want to know what this guy looks like, if you remember him at all. After that, we'll stop bothering you."

Greasy Joe scratches his bushy eyebrow with his thumb, a mannerism I'm guessing he does every time he thinks hard about something. "Brown hair, brown eyes, white skin. Looked 'lot olda' than your friend, but I ain't discriminate or care. Dude looked rich, always carried a wad of cash with him. Muscular, I think. Tall. I can't rememba' his face. That's it, little boy."

So, it can't be my father. Not that I thought it was him, but still. A sigh of relief comes out of my lips. Finally, we found something crucial. The description is very generic, though. It can literally be anyone in Levittown. If I had a penny for every white guy with brown eyes and brown hair who lives in town, I'd be rich. But still, still, I can put features to a face that was unknown.

"Anything else?"

He arches an eyebrow. "You said you'd leave me 'lone."

"We will. Just want to make sure."

As we walk away from the clerk, a sense of accomplishment washes over me. Now all that's left is room number eight. Christopher opens the glass door and lets me step outside first, the hot air making the cold that's attached to my skin melt.

"Wait!" the motel clerk says, making us both look over our shoulders. "He had a cross thingy on a strin' 'round his neck, I think. And some word tattooed to his chest. Ain't remember the word, but it started with a U and ended with a D, I think. Tell your friend to come 'gain with some otha' fella, will you?"

Idiot.

"So, what do you think it means?" Christopher says as we walk to the room, his arm brushing against my shoulder.

"It can literally mean anything," I mumble, slumping my shoulders. "It makes my head hurt."

We stop in front of the wooden door, the golden eight glinting back at us.

"How about we search for a list of words that begin with U and end with D on Google?" Christopher says, looking down at me. "We can do it on our way back to town, if you want to."

"That's a great idea," I whisper, keeping my gaze on the golden eight.

How many times did Melody look at this number, excited to know what was about to happen behind this closed door? How many times did this number witness the intimate moments between Melody and her killer? How many times did Melody sighed his name, claiming to love him under the influence of her ecstasy? How many times did he made her feel safe, pretending that his arms were home? How many times did he think of killing her, right after making love to her or even during the act?

These thoughts render me paralyzed. I gulp down the lump that's growing in my throat, taking a hesitant step back. Behind this door is just a simple room, that much I know. But it's a room filled with deadly memories, recollections that are not mine and still have their mark in it. Melody's essence will be all around it. I guess that the essence of her killer, too. I've come so far to discover the truth, but now that I'm so close to it, I don't want to know it.

Christopher grabs my hand, our fingers interlacing and fitting like perfect puzzle pieces. His skin is warm against my own, hand soft as he squeezes mine gently. I look down at our joined hands, then up at him, finding his smile before I even find his eyes. We nod to each other. He puts the key on the lock, twists it and, just like that, it's open.

The room is completely different from the red façade of this entire motel. All its walls are a pastel violet that match with the white nightstands, the white loveseat, the white bed header, and the white carpeted floor. The only thing that's not white is the orange bed sheet, its vibrancy contrasting horrendously with the harmony in the room. A wide window stands on the other side of the room, some beige curtains preventing the glare of the sun from coming in on its entirety.

Soft music is heard all around the room, while there's the faint sound of a woman moaning. The small bathroom is to the left as soon as you walk inside. On the surface, it looks clean and sanitized, but no place where random people come to fuck is ever this clean. It looks like a normal room so far.

When we step to the main room, I notice a plasma TV on a corner. There's a porn video playing, setting the mood for couples who come to have a good time. I roll my eyes and turn it off. Why watch porn if you're already going to have sex?

I walk around the room, touching the bed, the nightstands, the blinds. Taking my shoes off, I wiggle my toes on the soft carpet and skim my eyes around everything. Meanwhile, Christopher is standing near the entrance, his back resting against the wall as he looks at me intently. I try not to feel the tension that's rising between us, try to ignore this tingling sensation that's growing in my body.

Now that we're alone, in a motel room no less, my body wants to be closer to his. No distractions.

After being like this for a while, just touching everything in search of Melody's essence, I sit on the edge of the bed. There's nothing in here that reminds me of her or that gives me a clue of who her killer is. This room just tells me that they didn't want to be seen by anyone from Levittown. Why else would they pick a motel that's half an hour away?

"You're looking for something," Christopher says, kneeling in font of me.

"I thought..." I look around this unfamiliar room and sigh. "I don't know what I thought."

"What's wrong?" he whispers, opening my legs to rest between them. His arms are now on my exposed thighs, chin resting on one of them as he looks at me.

"I thought I could find Melody in here. Something of hers. Anything, really," I mumble, brushing a strand of his hair back. "There's nothing. Not even of U."

He nods, planting a kiss on my thigh. I shiver. "Motel rooms are constantly being cleaned. If they left something behind, it's long gone."

He's right. Why didn't Melody think of this when she left the painting here? What am I supposed to do now? I feel hopeless and tired and restless, a complete failure. I'm failing her again, this time in death. What kind of friend am I? Why can't I feel her essence in this room? Why can't I tap into her emotions, the way she felt when being with him? I know Melody enough to form an idea of who she was when being in this room, so why am I not able to? Why can't I cry if I want to do so?

"I lost my mom. I lost Melody," I whisper, caressing the side of his face. "I don't want to lose you."

He smiles, kisses my open palm. "You won't lose me, ever. I'm here to stay."

Please don't lie to me.

"I trust you, Christopher," I mumble, my voice trembling. "I want to trust you again. Please don't lie to me ever again."

Ask him.

No.

Ask him if he saw Melody during her disappearance.

I can't.

He did.

I don't care.

He straightens his back, my legs now surrounding his slim torso. He cups the side of my face with his hand, lets the bud of his thumb slide down my bottom lip before capturing my lips with his own.

At first, it's slow and gentle, an exploration of one other. His lips are soft and moist against my own, his tongue tasting of cigarette residue. I bring him in even closer, grabbing the back of his neck to deepen the kiss and pushing his torso to my pelvic area with my legs.

"I won't ever lie to you again," he whispers against my lips, panting a little before deepening the kiss.

"Liar." I giggle, intoxicated with him, feeling like I don't have enough of him to feel complete; satisfied, sedated, controlled.

He pushes me on the bed gently, the mattress bouncing with me as he gets on top of my body. I play with the hem of his shirt before taking it off, my eyes roaming through every inch of his bruised skin. There's this fire growing in me, a passion blossoming in my sensitive area. The walls are closing in on me, the room is too hot, his body is so hot and, oh God, I want him inside.

Our kiss becomes hungrier, sloppier, dirtier. Our mouths want more flesh, more patches of skin to explore. His hands are roaming everywhere, setting each part he leaves marked on fire, in need of his touch. I'm hungry for him, hungrier than I've ever been before. My hands roam through his body --- his strong chest, the muscles of his back, the nice swell of his butt, his ever-growing bulge.

He rips my shirt open, leaving me in my black bra and revealing my panting chest. As his kisses lower to my neck, in between my breasts, my trembling stomach, I unbutton his jeans and pull them down to his knees. I need to see it, right now. I need him inside of me, damn it.

Mine.

"I want you," I whisper, taking it out from his black boxers.

He looks up at me, his face flushed a vibrant red. "I-I don't have a condom with me right now."

"I don't care. Just put it inside, please." I'm begging for it, almost crying with need. Is this Melody's essence, reflected in my own need of Christopher?

He kisses the inside of my thighs. "Let me warm you up," he mumbles, pushing my skirt up and taking off my panties.

"I'm dripping," I whine, feeling hot, on fire.

This is not me, but I can't stop.

As Christopher's warm lips reach my sensitive spot and begin their magic with the help of his tongue, I notice the hideous painting of Levittown. It's staring back at me, an ugly picture that perfectly captures the horror that is our small town. She looked at this painting while he made love to her. What came to her mind then?

The thought is knocked right out of me when I feel the orgasm coming, my entire pelvic area and stomach warming at the different sensations created by his tongue. I hold in my breath, my eyes closing involuntarily. My legs are now shaking, hands clutching the orange sheet tightly.

Then it hits me, just when the orgasm comes in full force. I moan as loudly as I've never done before, thrusting my hips up, up, up. My body soon relaxes, lying on the mattress like dead weight. Despite it being cold inside, I'm sweating as if I've been going through some workout. Christopher smiles up at me, and I smile back, and it's all so good. It all feels good. We're going to be all right.

The mattress. Why didn't I think of that sooner?

"I got it," I shout, sitting up on the bed.

"What? An orgasm?" Christopher says, smirking. "I know, baby."

I snort, nudging him. "No. I mean yes, but I'm not talking about that." I push him off me and stand up, my ass and vagina in full display. "The mattress."

"What about the mattress?"

I beckon him to stand up. "Before her death, Melody used to hide things underneath her mattress. Things that were very private, that she didn't want anyone to find." I round the bed a couple of times, lifting the mattress without finding anything. "That's how I found her letter on the night that I found her... body."

Christopher frowns, pulling his boxers up. "So?"

"So, if she left anything at all, it must be somewhere around or inside this mattress," I mumble, standing in front of the bed with my hands on my hips. "She was smart enough to know that motel rooms got cleaned regularly, so she obviously didn't hide it underneath the mattress. A cleaning lady would've found it when changing the sheets. How about..."

I crawl on the floor to look beneath the bed frame, but there's nothing, only dust and darkness. My back touches the soft carpet as I try to slide my body under the frame, but my breasts won't cooperate.

"Can you slide underneath to see if there's anything?" I mumble, trying to push my breasts down to see if that works. Of course, it doesn't. "My stupid breasts are too big."

Christopher smirks. "Maybe my dick is too big."

I laugh a real, belly-aching laugh. "Shut up and just do it."

He walks to the other side and lies on the floor. "Here goes nothing," he mumbles, sliding beneath the bed frame.

"Anything?" I whisper, nibbling on my bottom lip.

"I don't see shit," he says, feeling his way on the bed frame slats. "Wait. Fuck, there's actually something here."

"Really? What is it?" I shout, my heart pounding in my ears. "Take it out."

"I'm trying. It's taped to the slats," he mumbles, the sound of tape disconnecting with wood loud inside this room. "It's... it's another painting."

I knew it. I fucking knew it. From now on, I'm trusting my gut instinct.

When Christopher finally comes out, he puts the piece on the bed and shakes his body to rid himself from dust. There it is, the letter that will finally take me closer to what really happened to Melody.

We stare at it for a while. It's just like the others --- a blue mass that can be an ocean without waves or the sky without clouds. This time, there's a brown rectangular on one of its longer sides. What does it all mean?

"Let's read it on the road," Christopher says, putting his clothes back on. "It's not safe here."

I nod, dressing quickly and tucking the painting underneath my arm. As we walk out of the room, I look behind, trying to picture what Melody felt each time she left her lover behind.

I can almost hear their laughter and the sweet nothings he says in her ear. Who is this man that had such a strong hold on someone as free and wild as Melody?

•Word count: 4,028•

And, so, the countdown begins!!! Nine chapters left + an epilogue ♡

Thank you all so much for 5K reads!!!! ♡ Never in a million years did I think I would get this far with this story. It might not seem like a whole lot, but it's everything to me.

PS. I bought another laptop because my old one broke down. That's why I didn't publish a new chapter last weekend.

You guys are probably tired or irritated with Christopher and Alexa being all over each other during the worst possible times or in general. But, let me remind you that they're teenagers. Most authors in Wattpad avoid writing sexual scenes with teen characters and I respect that, but I think that sexual exploration is something that's very common during our teen years and our early to mid twenties.

Our hormones are out of control! When teenagers love each other or are infatuated with one another or feel extremely attracted to each other, they mostly act impulsively. I know I did/still do. My friends and people I know are also like this. Just wanted to make this known, in case you thought it was unnecessary to the story.

Questions: drop your theories, no matter how wild or far-fetched they seem!!!! What do you think of the chapter? Of Christopher and Alexa's relationship? What about that greasy clerk? Do you think he's honest? Do you believe everything he said? What about the painting? What do you think the next letter says? What will happen next?

Feel free to correct any grammatical errors, but be kind about it. Tell me what you think of this chapter.

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