A party was happening on the first floor, and upstairs, a woman stared blankly at the ceiling. The wall clock ticked, slowly at first, but then it started to speed up. She reflected her entire day as she waited. Earlier that evening, she went to Tyson's Grocer before her shift at work. A sale was happening, so she sauntered down the aisles in her floral-printed, summer dress, and a pair of white strappy heels and grabbed what she needed. Men stopped to stare. They usually do, their eyes glancing at her tan legs, and then moving up to watch the jiggle of her full breasts. She would smirk as she put more oomph in her walk, enjoying the gazes of envy and lust, two things she was most acquainted with since her teen years.

According to gossip, she was a dirty girl that stayed on her back a lot. But she didn't care about their nasty opinions and dirty whispers. She was her own woman, doing her own thing—fuck everyone else.

A box of tampons and Vagisil entered her basket, along with Dove chocolates, wine coolers, and one of those tabloid rags with a haggard-looking Sharon Stone on the cover. She stood in line, waiting for some old lady to finish filling out a check, the pen in her hand shook as she scrawled out the amount owed. On the other end of the counter, one of the bag boys, whom she nicknamed Knox, watched her; and she rolled her eyes in annoyance. He had a stupid grin and haircut, and a stupid, wide face that was too freckly. And sometimes, he would step over the line and try to talk to her whenever they were around one another. But she refused and shut down his every attempt.

As she looked up, she saw one of the local cops enter the store, his large body ripped with muscles, reminding her of Arnold Schwarzenegger in any of his movies. He had a menacing and powerful air about him, and she would jump his bones in a heartbeat—damn the huge gun hitched to his side. She smiled and twisted her honey-colored hair with her index finger, silently flirting. To her glee, he noticed her and grinned. She could tell behind those aviators that he liked what he saw. And he could see more if he wanted.

The bag boy was surly when he started bagging up her things, but her attentions were on Officer Hot Cop to care. The cashier, a known busybody, pursed her thin lips in displeasure, cutting her eyes toward her and then to the officer. She could feel the hate burn from behind those cat-eye glasses the cashier wore. Once she paid for her things, she sauntered over, placing a hand on her cocked hip, and leaned forward, giving him a peek at her goodies. She grinned once his gaze lingered on her cleavage, his chiseled face naked with lust.

"You're new," she purred.

"I just transferred from Monroe," he said, giving her a broad, dimpled grin. The rich, timbre of his voice made her weak-kneed. "I don't know many people around here."

"Hmm...I can help you with that." She moved in closer, getting a whiff of his spicy aftershave.

"Is that so? Maybe you can give me your number and we can set something up."

"Sure," she said, digging into her purse. She wrote her number and address. "Here you go." She handed him the slip of paper. She heard a loud scoff from behind her, but she remained undeterred. I got his interest, not you sweetie, she thought confidently. "I hope to hear from you Officer—she looked at the name on his uniform—"Josephs." She winked as she strutted past him, walking through the sliding doors of Tyson's Grocery and into the warm July air.

The wall clock continued to tick loudly, cutting into the quiet solitude of her resting place. Downstairs, people were inside the ballroom, laughing, and having their glasses filled with champagne. More thoughts came to her—namely she wished she could join them.

When she drove up to her residence, she sighed, seeing the one man she didn't want to deal with today. She pulled in front of the nondescript singlewide that she called home and parked. Her son's bike was propped against the porch steps, but she knew he was with his friends. Taking a deep breath, she exited the car.

"I was calling you," he said, stomping toward her. His oily hair lay damp against his forehead.

"I was busy," she said with an eye roll as she grabbed her things. She pushed her long, blond hair over her shoulder and pursed her lips. "What the fuck do you want?"

"I missed you," he said, stretching his arms out toward her. It was always like this with him, no matter how much they fought, he always returned for sex.

She pulled away and held out her hand. "That wife of yours sure does miss you," she said with a smirk. She watched as his face grew stony and he looked away.

He shoved his hands in his jeans' pockets and sulked. "Why you have to bring her up? I just came here to see you, and not think about her.”

"Well, I got work today." She walked past him and climbed up the rickety steps to her trailer.

He hovered behind her, not caring about her personal space. "The old lady ain't givin' you the time off, huh?"

"No, mama won't." She frowned while unlocking the front door. "Said there's a lodge meeting tonight and she needs all hands on deck."

"Well shit, I guess that means you're up for a quickie." He pressed himself against her body, and she felt his hardness push against the curve of her backside. She thought of Officer Josephs and she shuddered with desire, wishing it were his hard, muscular form instead of the man behind her. But beggars can't be choosers.

"Fine, let's get it over with," she said, pushing open the door.

It was quick, just as he promised, his body shuddering on top of hers before rolling off and flopping onto his back. She pushed her sweaty hair out of her face and sat up, feeling his seed dribbling between her thighs. He didn't bother with a condom; he pushed inside of her before she could get one from the nightstand.

"Alright, you got what you want, now get out," she waved him off before sliding out of the bed. She stretched her lithe body and padded over to the bathroom door. She looked over her shoulder and saw him reaching for his pants. By the time she showered and dressed, he had departed, not leaving much of a note, but left a fifty-dollar bill on the kitchen bar. It was the calling card of his and many other men she dealt with, whenever they spent the night with her. She never complained, only placing the bills in her money jar. The more cash saved up, the closer she will be to leaving Crow's Haven with her son. She's managed to accumulate around five-thousand, and she felt it was enough for her to settle once she moved to Dallas. Her friend needed an extra pair of hands for this new bar he's opening up.

The phone rang and she answered it. "I'm coming mama," she yelled into the phone, quick to cut off her mother from nagging at her. There was no reply, only breathing.

"Mama?"

After a few beats, there was a reply. "I hope you burn in hell, you whore." The voice sounded venomous and chilly, and it struck deep into her veins. She felt the hairs on the nape of her neck stand to attention.

She reared back, and before she could respond, the person hung up. "What the hell?" she replied, feeling disgusted. She slammed the phone against the receiver and took a step back, feeling tremors wrack her body.

"No, I'm not dealing with this." She rubbed her face with a shaky hand before walking over to her purse. She grabbed it along with her keys and left her trailer, pushing away the horrible voice. It was someone with too much time on their hands. It had to be.

She pushed the phone call out of her mind as she backed her Oldsmobile out of her driveway and headed toward her family's place of business. She entered through the employee entrance, dodging servers who carried trays of food.

"You're late," one of the waitresses said, sounding exasperated.

"Oh leave her alone," said Sherri, another waitress, as she winked at her.

"Thanks, hon," she said winking back. She put on an apron and headed over to the stove where Miss Jo seared some steaks.

"Your mama's lookin' for you," she said, her eyes on the food. "I'll hurry and show my face if I was you."

"Something came up at the last minute," she said, leaning her head against Miss Jo's shoulder.

"Uh huh," she said, sounding unconvinced. "Go on and, and get." Miss Jo waved her off as she flipped the steaks.

She pouted and then skulked out of the kitchen, meeting her mother, who stomped down the hall in a whirlwind.

“There are forty in the dining room,” her mother said, smoothing the strands of hair that threatened to fall loose from her bun. “And you're just coming in, doing God knows what.” She sounded exasperated as she threw up her hands.

“I'm sorry for having a life.” She rolled her eyes.

Her mother grabbed her arm and squeezed it. “I need help with this place, Gabby,” she said with a low growl.

“Gosh, mama, I know.” She jerked away and folded both arms around her middle. “I'm here now, so it doesn't matter.”

“Those brothers of yours ain't much help, so you're the only one who can help me keep this place together.” Her mother sighed, while looking down the hall toward the dining room.

“Don't worry, mama, I'll be there for you,” she said, feeling guilty. She was leaving in two weeks, not bothering to tell her mother until she gets there. It weighed on her mind to confess, and she wondered if tonight would be good. Then after a few seconds, she decided to rip the Band-Aid off. Tonight. It would be tonight.

“There's something I want to talk to you about.”

“Oh Lord, what is it now?”

“I'm—.” When looked over her mother's shoulder, she saw him, standing at the entrance to the dining room, his gaze rapt on her. She swallowed and looked away. “I think should check on our guests upstairs. I’ll tell ya’ later.” She turned from her mother and headed toward the staircase. She ran up quickly, praying he doesn't follow. She didn't want to see him, not now or ever. Whatever excuse he had was worthless to her. She went to each room, knocking. One of the guests, a Mr. Buford, promptly answered. He was old, stooped man, with liver spots covering his wrinkly forehead. He stared at her with small eyes.

“Yeah,” he said in a gruff voice.

“I was just wonderin' if you and your wife need anything.”

“The wife and I are fine,” he said, jaws quivering. “So we don't need anything at the moment.”

“Alright,” she said as she pulled away from the door and watched Mr. Buford close it. She then walked over to room 2C and opened the door. There was no one currently assigned to this room since the guests had checked out earlier today.

A heady scent of carpet deodorizer permeated the room. Rhonda must’ve just finished cleaning. Feeling weary, she made a beeline toward the bed and lied down. She closed her eyes and breathed deeply, not ready to return to the first floor. Not ready to see the man who had hurt her, made her worthless, and abandoned her for bigger things. It would be better to stay hidden from a man she both loved and hated.

She rested, listening to the jazzy-sounding music, the laughter, and the conversations. Somehow, they all managed to make its way to the second floor. She wanted to join, wearing her eveningwear and mingling as she sipped Pinot Gris with rest of them. But she immersed her life in this blasted Inn, keeping her away from the finer things. Yet, it wasn't her fault. It was her parents—her father especially. His decisions had ruined the family name and the main reason why her mother was killing herself as she tried to grasp onto their former glory.

Her brothers were smart by leaving. And she would too.

The door opened, and she opened her eyes. She rose up from the bed quickly, and her face grew pale when she saw the one person she didn't want to see.

“What the fuck do you want? You're not supposed to be up here!”

She was met with silence. Angry, she spat, “Are you deaf? I asked you a question. What the fuck are you—”

But before for she could say anything else, she was pushed back onto the bed violently, forcing the bedpost the hit against the wall. Then quickly, a large knife was plunged into her stomach and then her chest. She screamed out for help, but a pillow covered her face. Blood poured, soaking her clothes and the bedspread. She thrashed against the bed, but the stabbing continued, repeatedly until her movements stopped.

And as her own breath slowly died, she heard rigorous breathing from her assailant. The pillow was pulled away, thrown to the side. She stared at the wall clock, her eyes glassy and listless, as she bled out. Then finally, a last momentary thought came to her.

“I love you, Gabriel.”