Springfield City, a roadside motel.
Hunter ignored the knowing grin the manager gave when he saw Tali dressed so provocatively.
After taking the key, he led Tali along the number on the tag to one of the rooms.
"Whew!"
"We should be safe now."
Springfield City lies more than 150 kilometres from Boston.
Ever since Hunter shot down the Russian Gang's Cessna 172,
no one had tailed them.
He'd kept watch on nearby and trailing traffic the whole way and was sure no tail had followed.
He pulled off the motorcycle helmet and set it aside.
With the helmet on, the motel manager still didn't know what Hunter looked like.
He saw Tali still wearing her helmet, walking into the room in a daze—
clearly still in shock.
Hunter wasn't surprised; while turning to close the door
he pulled two ready-meals from his private space—items he'd swept up at the supermarket for quick energy.
Because things stay exactly as they were when stored,
the two boxed meals still looked fresh—and even warm—though he'd bought them days earlier.
Hunter peeled off the production-date stickers with practiced ease
and set the boxes on the small table.
"Hey, I'm grabbing a shower."
"You haven't had dinner, right? There's food I bought earlier on the table."
"Just supermarket ready-meals, though."
"It's late, so don't expect much—make do."
Tali stayed dazed and didn't answer.
Hunter didn't press her.
He stepped into the tiny bathroom attached to the room, ready to scrub
all the makeup and hair dye he'd used to hide his identity.
He stuck with cold water—his preference.
After about twenty minutes, every trace of makeup and every streak of rainbow hair was gone.
Luckily, the dye was the washable, one-use kind; Hunter couldn't stand his hippie disguise.
After the shower, he dried off
and pulled on a clean pair of boxers from his private space before stepping out.
The room was small—standard for U.S. motels.
The moment he emerged, he saw Tali, helmet off, sitting at the table eating.
She ate slowly, eyes red—she'd clearly been crying.
Hearing movement, she looked up; she'd nearly finished one meal.
When their eyes met, Hunter caught the swirl of emotions in her gaze.
After a long silence, she whispered, "Thank you."
Hunter gave her a small smile and didn't plan to discuss the rescue further.
After all, he hadn't even known Tali before.
They'd only met three or four days ago.
And those days had been laced with misunderstandings and things better left unsaid.
That night at the Moscow Nights hotel, for instance.
Annoyed by her mistaken assumptions, Hunter had unleashed a little extra skill on Tali.
You could tell—she never showed up at the family restaurant the next morning.
"Go take a shower; it's getting late."
"I'll head out in a bit and see if I can grab you some clothes."
"What you're wearing now is way too conspicuous."
Tali caught the implication and flushed.
Her outfit was blatantly revealing; after each failed escape attempt, the Russian Gang that owned her had even surgically implanted a tracker inside her body.
Once she realized flight was impossible, despair swallowed her whole.
She gorged on sweets, quit exercising, trashed her figure.
The identity she once loathed?
The risqué clothes she'd never worn?
She no longer cared.
"Thank you."
Tali murmured it, eyes dodging his.
They slid from a face so handsome it transcended race to the lean, hard muscles that looked carved rather than bulked.
The blush on her cheeks deepened.
Who knew what the girl was imagining.
She scrambled up. "I'll shower first, then."
With that she limped toward the bathroom—ankle twisted earlier—and shut the door.
Only then did Hunter pull two women's outfits and a pair of sneakers from his private space and set them aside.
The moment he'd decided to play Good Samaritan and rescue Tali, he'd bought clothes in her size for roadside costume changes while they fled Boston.
—Please vote—he hadn't expected to use them here.
Sizing wasn't an issue; after all, that night at Moscow Nights they'd gotten very… acquainted.
He'd also shopped with Mia before; he could gauge a woman's measurements.
He listened to the water drumming behind the door and conceded that women take longer in the bathroom.
If he hadn't needed to scrub off layers of disguise makeup, he'd have been done in minutes.
Tali was still showering when he polished off a supermarket ready-meal, then two more.
He even swept the motel room for bugs and cameras.
Half an hour trickled past before the water stopped; another ten before Tali emerged.
Motel rooms don't supply hair-dryers, so she padded out in a towel, rubbing her hair with a dry one.
Hunter glanced up from the local paper—and felt his eyes flare.
Plain-faced, still plump from her binge-eating years, Tali was striking.
The towel framed pale shoulders, collarbones, arms, legs; he felt desire punch through him.
Reading the hunger in his gaze, she colored.
Shy yet determined, she met his eyes and stilled the towel.
"Thank you."
"I still don't know who you are or why you saved me."
"But you pulled me out of that hell."
"I have no money, nothing to give—except this, if you want it…"
Words failed; cheeks burning, she loosened the towel that hid her carefully washed body.
She heard the sharp inhale of the man who'd rescued her, closed her eyes, and stepped toward him.
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