ZANDER
We’re at a motel. There’s a guy passed out at the end of the hallway. Lance and I exchange a look, then laugh.
He opens the door to our room and it’s exactly how I expected a shitty, cheap motel room to be. There’s a lingering smell of durian chips and some knock-off perfume.
I’m not complaining, though. It turned out the handsome bartender’s name is Lance. I texted him yesterday as soon as I made it home and made it clear I’m down for some sexy time. He is, too, obviously, else why would he rent out a motel room just for the two of us. For four hours.
Right? God, I hope I’m right.
“It’s rated four stars,” Lance says apologetically, looking at the cigarette burns on the carpet and the tapered windows. “I’m sorry. Shall we look for another place?”
“No, it’s fine,” I say. “We ju
