That was it-this was all she had left.
Moving to the door, she pressed the side of her face against the wooden surface, listening.
Earlier Preacher had strode from the bathroom in dry clothing with his long, wet hair combed, looking clean and refreshed. He'd barely spared her a second glance as he'd flipped on the television set and settled himself on one of the beds. Feeling awkward and uncomfortable, she'd wasted little time hurrying inside the bathroom.
She'd been so anxious to get away from him, anxious to be clean, excited for a hot shower, that she'd given little thought to what she'd wear afterward.
Glancing down at her towel, she blew out a heavy breath. She supposed it didn't actually matter what she was wearing, as she was already planning on taking it off.
From the moment Preacher had offered her his room, a plan had begun to take shape. She had nothing but the torn, stained clothing hanging over the shower rod. In all her time on the road, she'd never been quite this desperate. So desperate, she was finally willing to do something she'd promised herself she would never do.
Swiping her hand across the fogged-over mirror, she leaned forward to inspect herself. Though there was nothing outwardly off-putting about her, there was nothing remarkable, either. And she certainly didn't look anything like the puffed-up prostitutes always hanging around truck stops.
She couldn't even remember the last time her hair had been cut. Dark brown, it hung in a straight line down her back. And she had no makeup to cover the smattering of freckles over her nose and cheeks, nothing to help her appear more polished, more feminine. More desirable.
Realizing she was procrastinating, she dropped her hand and turned to the door. The moment she gripped the doorknob, her heart quickened.
Straightening her spine, she took a deep breath and released it slowly. What did she have to fear? It wasn't as if she were a virgin. She knew exactly how to spread her legs and let a man do his thing between them-how to lay there with her eyes squeezed shut, pretending she was someone else, somewhere else.
She opened the door.
The noise from the television grew louder as she padded across the rough carpet. Preacher was sprawled across a bed, pillows stacked up behind him, with his hand inside a bag of potato chips. At the foot of the bed, his open duffel bag revealed several more bags of snacks. She stared at the food a moment, her stomach twingeing in response.
"Hungry?" Preacher asked around a mouthful, glancing sideways at her. He pushed the chips across the bed. "Help yourself."
Hungry and exhausted, she wanted nothing more than to eat and sleep and forget the wretchedness of her current situation for a little while. Except she couldn't. She had more than just right now to worry about.
She took a small step forward, bringing her flush with the side of the bed. She swallowed hard and took an imperceptible breath.
"It's thirty dollars for a fuck." The words toppled from her mouth in a hurried rush.
Pausing mid-chew, Preacher turned to face her, his brow shooting halfway up his forehead. The next several seconds ticked by slowly in agonizing silence. Worried he was going to reject her offer, she steeled her shattered nerves once more and dropped her towel.
Preacher's gaze dropped with her towel, unabashedly traveling down the length of her and back up again, where he lingered on her chest. Her face grew hot; her entire body flushed. Unable to watch him look her over, she turned her focus on the olive green curtains covering the window.
Oh God, was she really doing this? Offering herself to a stranger in return for money?
"Sorry baby, I don't pay for it." Her eyes shot to his. His words were gently spoken, his expression curiously blank, as if he were concerned about offending her.
Too late for that. Hot humiliation flooded her. Mortification churned nauseatingly in her stomach.
"Twenty," she whispered, desperate. Her hands clenched into fists at her sides. "Or ten if you want me to just … you know … " She swallowed quickly. "Just use my mo-"
"How old are you?"
She stammered to a stop. "What?"
"How old are you?" he repeated. He was no longer looking at her body. Instead, his eyes were fixed on hers, which somehow made her feel twice as naked. Hurriedly she scooped the towel off the floor and quickly wrapped it around herself.
"Nineteen," she mumbled.
The corner of Preacher's mouth twitched. "You'd make a terrible poker player," he said. "Forget that I don't pay for it. It doesn't take a genius to know you ain't a whore. You ain't nineteen, either."