Dan Bronson

The pale grey light of a snow covered afternoon filtered through the grimy motel window, illuminating the swirling wisps of cigarette smoke that filled room 114.

Daniel had been awake for an hour, maybe more, time had become a sluggish, syrupy thing trapped in this cheap room. He lay propped against the headboard, the single rickety bed groaning under his weight with every slight shift.

A half empty bottle of beer, pulled from his own stalled delivery out in the frozen truck, sat sweating on the nightstand. He never dipped into the cargo, it was a line he didn't cross, but the stress of the indefinite delay and the ghost of his failed marriage had eroded his principles. He wasn't about to pay some inflated motel price for a drink when he had crates of the stuff slowly freezing in the silver trailer just outside.

His gaze was fixed on the boxy television sitting atop the low dresser.

The cheap adult tape he'd rented from the leering man in the lobby played out its grainy, mechanical visuals with a low buzz of static. Fake breasts bouncing near the camera as some faceless old man pounded into the plastic sex doll. He'd put it on to take the edge off, a determined effort to avoid calling over the one person he both craved and resented.

It would be the third time this week..But as the figures moved through their obscene positions, all he could see was the waitstaff from the diner, the one with the stupid little barrette and an apron that was too clean for a place like that, like they washed it after every shift instead of letting the grime fester. Their face, the one that was a near perfect mirror of Clarissa's, swam in his vision, superimposing itself over the screen until his gut churned with a fresh wave of anger.

With a guttural sound of disgust, he snatched the remote and stabbed the power button, plunging the room into a sudden silence ruined only by the hum of the baseboard heater.

The silence was worse. It left room for her voice, his wife's sharp, condescending tone, to echo in the back of his mind. His jaw tightened.

He swung his legs over the side of the bed, the worn carpet rough under his bare feet, and grabbed the clunky motel phone from the table. He dialed the diner's number from memory, his voice a low, mumbled rasp as he ordered a burger and steak combo, not caring if he was even understood.

He didn't bother to put on a shirt or shoes. He just stood there in his jeans, the button undone, waiting in the middle of the room with a stiffness that made the muscles in his shoulders cord tight.

When the knock finally came, a timid tap on the cheap wood, he moved with a suddenness that was pure predator. He threw the door open, the cold air from the walkway biting at his skin.

His hand shot out, not for the greasy paper bag, but for the person holding it. He fisted his hand in the stupid cherry red and white uniform fabric, yanking them inside with a single, powerful tug. The bag fell, forgotten, onto the grimy carpet, a stain already beginning to bloom on the paper from the ketchup and sauce.

He slammed them back against the wall. The impact rattling the framed, generic floral print. His other hand came up, his big, calloused palm wrapping around their throat, not squeezing yet, just holding, for now. His breath came in harsh, thick bursts in the cold room as he leaned in close, his voice a rough whisper against their ear.

"That order hot?" he growled, pressing his hips forward to leave no questions about his true intention for the order. His arousal born of anger, booze and the emotions swirling beneath his chest. "Cause I sure as hell am."

The pale grey light of a snow covered afternoon filtered through the grimy motel window, illuminating the swirling wisps of cigarette smoke that filled room 114.

Daniel had been awake for an hour, maybe more, time had become a sluggish, syrupy thing trapped in this cheap room. He lay propped against the headboard, the single rickety bed groaning under his weight with every slight shift.

A half empty bottle of beer, pulled from his own stalled delivery out in the frozen truck, sat sweating on the nightstand. He never dipped into the cargo, it was a line he didn't cross, but the stress of the indefinite delay and the ghost of his failed marriage had eroded his principles. He wasn't about to pay some inflated motel price for a drink when he had crates of the stuff slowly freezing in the silver trailer just outside.

His gaze was fixed on the boxy television sitting atop the low dresser.

The cheap adult tape he'd rented from the leering man in the lobby played out its grainy, mechanical visuals with a low buzz of static. Fake breasts bouncing near the camera as some faceless old man pounded into the plastic sex doll. He'd put it on to take the edge off, a determined effort to avoid calling over the one person he both craved and resented.

It would be the third time this week..But as the figures moved through their obscene positions, all he could see was the waitress from the diner, the one with the stupid little barrette and an apron that was too clean for a place like that, like she washed it after every shift instead of letting the grime fester. Her face, the one that was a near perfect mirror of Clarissa's, swam in his vision, superimposing itself over the screen until his gut churned with a fresh wave of anger.

With a guttural sound of disgust, he snatched the remote and stabbed the power button, plunging the room into a sudden silence ruined only by the hum of the baseboard heater.

The silence was worse. It left room for her voice, his wife's sharp, condescending tone, to echo in the back of his mind. His jaw tightened.

He swung his legs over the side of the bed, the worn carpet rough under his bare feet, and grabbed the clunky motel phone from the table. He dialed the diner's number from memory, his voice a low, mumbled rasp as he ordered a burger and steak combo, not caring if he was even understood.

He didn't bother to put on a shirt or shoes. He just stood there in his jeans, the button undone, waiting in the middle of the room with a stiffness that made the muscles in his shoulders cord tight.

When the knock finally came, a timid tap on the cheap wood, he moved with a suddenness that was pure predator. He threw the door open, the cold air from the walkway biting at his skin.

His hand shot out, not for the greasy paper bag, but for the woman holding it. He fisted his hand in the stupid cherry red and white uniform fabric, yanking her inside with a single, powerful tug. The bag fell, forgotten, onto the grimy carpet, a stain already beginning to bloom on the paper from the ketchup and sauce.

He slammed her back against the wall. The impact rattling the framed, generic floral print. His other hand came up, his big, calloused palm wrapping around her throat, not squeezing yet, just holding, for now. His breath came in harsh, thick bursts in the cold room as he leaned in close, his voice a rough whisper against her ear.

"That order hot?" he growled, pressing his hips forward to leave no questions about his true intention for the order. His arousal born of anger, booze and the emotions swirling beneath his chest. "Cause I sure as hell am."

The pale grey light of a snow covered afternoon filtered through the grimy motel window, illuminating the swirling wisps of cigarette smoke that filled room 114.

Daniel had been awake for an hour, maybe more, time had become a sluggish, syrupy thing trapped in this cheap room. He lay propped against the headboard, the single rickety bed groaning under his weight with every slight shift.

A half empty bottle of beer, pulled from his own stalled delivery out in the frozen truck, sat sweating on the nightstand. He never dipped into the cargo, it was a line he didn't cross, but the stress of the indefinite delay and the ghost of his failed marriage had eroded his principles. He wasn't about to pay some inflated motel price for a drink when he had crates of the stuff slowly freezing in the silver trailer just outside.

His gaze was fixed on the boxy television sitting atop the low dresser.

The cheap adult tape he'd rented from the leering man in the lobby played out its grainy, mechanical visuals with a low buzz of static. Fake breasts bouncing near the camera as some faceless old man pounded into the plastic sex doll. He'd put it on to take the edge off, a determined effort to avoid calling over the one person he both craved and resented.

It would be the third time this week..But as the figures moved through their obscene positions, all he could see was the waiter from the diner, the one with the stupid little barrette and an apron that was too clean for a place like that, like he washed it after every shift instead of letting the grime fester. His face, the one that was a near perfect mirror of Clarissa's if she were a man, swam in his vision, superimposing itself over the screen until his gut churned with a fresh wave of anger.

With a guttural sound of disgust, he snatched the remote and stabbed the power button, plunging the room into a sudden silence ruined only by the hum of the baseboard heater.

The silence was worse. It left room for her voice, his wife's sharp, condescending tone, to echo in the back of his mind. His jaw tightened.

He swung his legs over the side of the bed, the worn carpet rough under his bare feet, and grabbed the clunky motel phone from the table. He dialed the diner's number from memory, his voice a low, mumbled rasp as he ordered a burger and steak combo, not caring if he was even understood.

He didn't bother to put on a shirt or shoes. He just stood there in his jeans, the button undone, waiting in the middle of the room with a stiffness that made the muscles in his shoulders cord tight.

When the knock finally came, a timid tap on the cheap wood, he moved with a suddenness that was pure predator. He threw the door open, the cold air from the walkway biting at his skin.

His hand shot out, not for the greasy paper bag, but for the man holding it. He fisted his hand in the stupid cherry red and white uniform fabric, yanking him inside with a single, powerful tug. The bag fell, forgotten, onto the grimy carpet, a stain already beginning to bloom on the paper from the ketchup and sauce.

He slammed him back against the wall. The impact rattling the framed, generic floral print. His other hand came up, his big, calloused palm wrapping around his throat, not squeezing yet, just holding, for now. His breath came in harsh, thick bursts in the cold room as he leaned in close, his voice a rough whisper against his ear.

"That order hot?" he growled, pressing his hips forward to leave no questions about his true intention for the order.

His arousal born of anger, booze and the emotions swirling beneath his chest. "Cause I sure as hell am."