REIGN: A Motorcycle Club Romance Novel Read Online Free PDF

weak to leave.

 
    If he called work, well…no one from housekeeping would be there to
tell him I’d left early, and even if he heard about it the next day or someone
at the front desk told him, the timeline would be way too close for him to know
whether I’d texted him before or after “getting sick”. I was happy I hadn’t clocked
out. The less of a paper trail, the better. They’d only be able to say it was
“4-ish” or “around 4”, and “4-ish” is when I texted him that my phone was
dying.  

 
    And if they told him I’d gotten sick…

 
    But my mind was just racing around in circles, chasing the same
thoughts, the same possible-but-unpredictable scenarios. It wasn’t getting me
anywhere but tired. I had put some serious mileage in between Jeremy and I;
thank God for deserted country roads, where speed limits are more like
suggestions than hard-and-fast rules.

 
    I began to look for somewhere I could get a bite to eat, maybe even a
room for the night. The thought of staying in one place for the next eight
hours made me a little extra panicky, but I’d worked all day and was exhausted
from the adrenaline rush and constant anxiety. All those greenbacks wouldn’t
mean a damn thing if I fell asleep at the wheel and drove myself into a canyon.

 
    As I rode along, the desert lay on either side of me, and in front of
me, like a great, big blanket of nothing. Distant, strange shapes of arches and
rocky outcroppings faded into the dark sky. I sat forward, straining my eyes.
Finally, after what felt like forever of nothing but the same-old-same-old, I
saw a sign for the next exit.

 
    Ditcher’s Valley, 5 mi.

 
    Ditcher’s Valley: if that doesn’t sound like the kind of place that
was made for wives on the run, I don’t know what does. I knew it couldn’t have
been a very big town, but I also needed to get gas and assumed that there would
be a Texaco or something else there where I could get directions to a bigger
town with a hotel, or at least a plate of microwave nachos.

 
    Damn, but gas station microwave nachos sounded like a meal from
paradise in that moment. Jeremy didn’t like when I indulged in “crap”. Jeremy
didn’t like when I did a lot of things.

 
    Screw him, stuff your face with that gross, melty cheese, I
thought with a smile, still testing out these waters.

 
    Ditcher’s Valley had a population just under 2,000, if you believed
the highway sign that welcomed you in. The first place I saw that looked open
had everything I needed: motel, bar, restaurant. The whole kit and caboodle.

 
    I still didn’t feel that great about the idea of stopping on my
journey for the night, but logic won out in the end. I needed to get some
sleep. I really did. I could feel my brain doing that thing where I’d realize
ten minutes had passed and I couldn’t tell you a damn thing about what I’d been
thinking about. That, plus a dark highway, did not bode well for my personal
safety.

 
    I pulled into the parking lot, noting with some surprise the abundance
of motorcycles outside. It seemed like this place catered to exactly one sort
of person: bikers. Oh well, what did I care? I was just there to get a room and
a meal, not make a bunch of friends and do karaoke.

 
    I checked myself in the rearview before
opening my car door; the concealer had mostly worn off by then, my face
slightly streaked from the sweat that had poured down my face during the ride.
I looked, to be honest, like shit. First stop would be the bathroom, for sure.
Just because I didn’t have anyone to impress didn’t mean I wanted to walk
around like a slob, either.

 
    As I was about to shut the car door, I remembered the duffel bag under
the seat. I mean, I hadn’t really forgotten it (how could I?), but I realized
that I probably shouldn’t leave an indiscriminate amount of cash in a bag in my
car outside of a biker bar. Hoisting it out and clutching it tight to my chest,
I crossed the wide front