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munson-blurbs · 1 month ago

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Living After Midnight (Failed Rockstar!Eddie x Motel Worker!Reader)

♫ Summary: No electricity, no Eddie, and nowhere to run when danger struck. (3.7k words)

♫ CW: threat of violence, alcohol consumption, slowburn, strangers-to-lovers, angst, misunderstanding, anxiety, self-deprecation, parental conflict, poverty, eventual smut (18+ only, minors DNI)

♫ Divider credit to @hellfire--cult

chapter fifteen: further to fall

Stillness and tension filled the space in the lobby. It surrounded you and your parents, enveloping you in its thick haze and snuffing out the conversation.

This wasn’t the end of it, you were certain. Their disappointment wasn’t permanently extinguished; it was just dimmed while dealing with the newer, more pertinent crisis.

Mom huffed out a sigh, crossing her arms over her chest. “Well, isn’t that great?” She gave you a pointed glare, one that solidified that the discussion was far from over, before she rifled through the desk drawer.

“What are you looking for? I can help—”

She pulled out a flashlight. “I’ve got it,” she muttered. Her tone was icy enough to bring snowfall to the heatwave when she added, “I think you’ve done enough.”

Shame spun a web in your lungs, but there was something else along with it that quickly choked out that sadness. Something fiery, almost wicked in nature.

I think you’ve done enough.

That was the straw that broke the camel’s back.

Mom had said it with such vitriol, such disappointment, that she only could have meant to hurt you. And, for a brief moment, she did.

But you plucked that knife from your side and launched it back at her with unwavering precision.

“Yeah, I think I have.” The world went red as words spilled from you in a seething rage. “I spent years working for pennies so you could keep the motel afloat. I gave up spending time with friends so you’d have cheap labor instead of actually hiring someone and paying them a decent salary.”

All of those nights spent stuck behind the desk, watching the Vacancy light taunt you from the window. Hearing the other college students enjoying their buzz as they paraded from bar to bar. The tamped-down envy that you convinced yourself would go away if you ignored it long enough.

It exploded now, unleashing a tidal wave of venom and carrying a host of words that carelessly rolled off your tongue.

“I never would have ‘done enough’ unless I took over the motel and ran it exactly like you want me to.” Spittle gathered at the corners of your mouth. “And even then, I’m sure I’d mess up something else.”

Anger flashed behind Mom’s eyes. “Don’t go playing the martyr,” she said, jaw tensed. “You chose to lie to us.”

“And what would have happened if I told you the truth? Would you have been okay with all of this?” A challenge, one that she could only win by lying.

She knew it, too; she faltered when she spoke again. “We would have had more time to prepare.”

But there were no preparations—none that were feasible and wouldn’t bankrupt the already struggling business. They would have had more time to convince you not to pursue your dreams—that’s what she meant.

“Maybe…maybe we should…” Dad hesitated, “maybe we should discuss this later.”

Mom was ready to agree, but you shook your head.

“I don’t want to discuss this later.” Later reminded you of soon, and the empty promises you made to Eddie.

Eddie, who was off touring with his band, burying himself inside models or groupies or—God help you—Fiona.

You shook off the thoughts of him and continued. “I lied to you. I pretended like I was going to school for hospitality. I pretended like I was planning to take over the motel after graduation. And I pretended like there was nothing going on between me and Eddie even though we…had feelings for each other.” You swallowed the embarrassment as you remembered the picnic date that ended in a public makeout session. “I’m sorry that I lied, but if you can’t see why I had to, then I don’t think any more ‘discussions’ will help.”

Sweat trickled down your spine, the heat of the argument exacerbating the already high temperatures. It bloomed beneath your arms and under the band of your bra, and you pinched the cotton of your shirt between your thumb and forefinger and fanned yourself.

“I’m done talking. And I’m done listening. I’m just…done.” A terse, tired exhale escaped your lips with a shudder. Your breath caught in your lungs as you heaved out a sob. One tear fell. Then another. And another, until you were crying too hard to breathe, let alone speak.

Shaking hands smeared your tears across your cheeks. You were sorry—and you weren’t. You had been selfish, yes, but it felt earned after years of putting their dreams before your own.

You were furious at them—and at yourself, for being mad at them. You were ashamed of the tears that wouldn’t stop falling, and yet each one was a weight lifted from your shoulders.

A headache bloomed behind your eyes as Stop feeling sorry for yourself and Let them see your pain battled for dominance.

You’d given up Eddie because you were so afraid of disappointing your parents. You’d been so concerned about remaining selfless that you ended up being selfish towards the man who’d made you feel like the truest version of yourself.

And now he was gone for good. There was no sense crying over spilt milk—especially without the handyman who cleaned it up.

You collected yourself, trying to forget the way your fingers perfectly laced with his like adjoining puzzle pieces. Trying not to wonder what other connections you might have made together if you hadn’t pushed him away.

“I-I have a flashlight in my room. And I’m pretty sure I have some sp-spare batteries.” You forced each word out in a desperate plea to change the subject. “I can…I can get them. And then I’ll run and see if I can buy some flashlights to give to the guests.”

Dad nodded, the lines at the corners of his eyes still crinkling with concern. “You should go now. Before it gets dark.” Before people start losing their minds and any sense of morality, were his unspoken words.

You dared to glance at Mom, though she kept her gaze trained on the desk. Something—mother’s instinct, perhaps—allowed her to swallow her pride and say, “thank you.”

You only managed a nod before you darted out the door, knowing that if you opened your mouth to say “you’re welcome,” you’d start crying again.

It wasn’t long before guests trickled out of their rooms, complaining about the lights not working or the phone not having dial tone. With increasingly thinning patience, you explained again and again that you didn’t know when the power would return.

In addition to the current guests, the blackout brought a slew of new faces. These guests were well outside of the usual demographic of truckers, ladies of the night, and affair-havers seeking a place for a quick lay. Exhausted parents toting cranky children and business people with briefcases tucked beneath their arms walked through the door, their relief palpable when you told them you had rooms available.

A family of four got the last room only a few minutes after your shift began: a mom, a dad, and their two sons, the oldest of which couldn't have been older than five. He entered the lobby first, barreling through the door like a bull in a china shop.

“Alex, please.” It was all the mother could muster for a scolding. Sweat beaded along her collarbones and dampened her “I Love NY” t-shirt. Her husband trailed behind her, holding their younger son. The boy was sleeping, heat-reddened face smushed into his father’s shoulder.

The mother wiped at her tired eyes. “Do you have a room?” More plea than question, and you were more than happy to oblige.

As she scribbled her information down on the guest log, the older boy—Alex—peered up at you from behind the desk. “Did you ever see someone steal stuff?” He asked excitedly.

You had, on numerous occasions, but theft was hardly a topic you wanted to talk about with a young child. “I don’t think so.”

“I did! Just now.” He bounced on the balls of his feet. “Me an’ Mommy an’ Daddy an’ Gavin were getting snacks, and some guys stoled while we were in the store!”

“Alex,” his father warned, but it wasn’t stern enough to deter him from elaborating.

“An’ the guy who worked at the store got really mad and started yelling at them. But they ran away super super fast. Like lightning speed. Like…” he stopped speaking to run in place, little legs working overtime to show just how fast the looters were running. “It was cool!”

Cool wasn’t exactly how you’d describe it. “What store was this?” You glanced between the two adults.

“Just down the street,” the mom answered. “I can’t remember the name, but it had a yellow awning.”

It was unsurprising that the convenience stores and bodegas would be hit first. The combination of low security and easily moveable items made them the perfect targets. The motel would be much lower on the list, but you weren’t in the clear. Besides taking the money in the register, an angry crowd could do some serious property damage.

Without anything to offer, you might end up with a few broken windows or a graffiti-tagged door.

You plucked the room key from its place and handed it to her, along with two miniature flashlights that you had managed to snag from the discount store earlier that day. The lights weren't the brightest, but it beat the alternative of sitting in complete darkness.

Alex looked up at his mother, strawberry-blond hair matted to his forehead. “Mommy, can I watch TV, please?”

“Honey, I told you—the TVs won’t work in a blackout.”

The boy’s lower lip wobbled and his eyes went glassy with the prospect of tears. “But I wanna watch TV,” he whined. His shoulders slumped, one sneakered foot stomping in indignation. “I even said ‘please!’”

You could see his mother’s patience thinning, like a frayed string about to snap. Before she could raise her voice or he devolved into a full-blown tantrum, you stepped in.

“Alex?” The boy looked at you at the sound of his name. “I know it’s a bummer that you can’t watch TV. It’s hard when we can’t do what we want.”

He nodded, though the threat of tears still lingered.

“I have some crayons and paper that are perfect for coloring,” you continued, rummaging through the desk drawer and procuring the pack of Crayola and scrap paper. “I know it’s not the same as watching TV, but maybe you can draw your favorite characters.”

The dad lightly squeezed Alex’s shoulder. “Hey, that seems pretty fun, bud,” he said softly, careful not to wake the dozing toddler. “Maybe you can draw the Ninja Turtles.”

You didn’t know much about the Ninja Turtles—just that there were four of them—but you feigned as much enthusiasm as the oppressive heat allowed. “Ooh, the Ninja Turtles! Which one is your favorite?”

“L-Leonardo,” Alex hiccuped.

“Mine, too!” You smiled and slid the crayon box towards him. He stood on tiptoes and took it from the desk. “Make sure you share with your brother once he wakes up, okay?”

“Okay.” Alex paused. “But I might have to use all the green. ‘Cause of the Ninja Turtles.”

You tried to hold back the smile twitching on your lips and match his serious expression. “Right. That makes sense.”

“Say ‘thank you,’” his mom gently reminded him. He did, flashing you a baby tooth-filled grin.

“Any time. You can stop by tomorrow and show me what you drew, okay?”

The family had only been gone for a minute when another door squeaked open farther down the hall. You held your breath, waiting for another asinine complaint that was well beyond your control.

Relief seeped into your skin at the sight of Phyllis, her face scrubbed of its usual heavy makeup. She wore sweatpants and an oversized t-shirt, house slippers scuffling against the ground. She carried her trusty bat under her arm.

“Figured you might need this with all of that,” Phyllis gestured towards the chaos beyond the front door, “going on.”

You accepted the bat with a grateful smile.

“No work tonight?”

She shook her head. “Too many cops. And I’m too damn old to be getting busted.”

You laughed at that, the first genuine laugh you’d had in days. Weeks, probably.

Had Eddie really been gone that long?

“I overheard you talking to that kid,” she said. “You’re good. I thought he was gonna start screaming.”

You let out a mirthless chuckle. “Well, that’s one thing I haven’t royally screwed up.”

Phyllis cocked her head, inquiring to know more, but you didn’t speak until she said, “I’ve got nothing to do all night. Might as well tell me a story.”

And so you told her, hurriedly unspooling each moment like a race to the finish. Perhaps it was: if you stopped for a breath, you might start crying again.

Minutes passed and she continued listening. The setting sun shone its final pinkish-purple rays through the lobby windows, its shadows emphasizing the older woman’s wrinkles, as you told her every mistake you’d made that led to now.

Phyllis was silent for a moment longer, waiting to ensure you were done. Understanding and, to your embarrassment and chagrin, pity reflected in her milky pupils.

“When I was your age, no one could tell me what to do,” she finally said. “Not my friends, not my family. I didn’t even listen to the cops arresting me.” She leaned in and whispered, “I was a lot more wiry back then.”

She heaved a reminiscent sigh. “I really thought I was tough shit. Invincible and all that. But now I look back and…I wonder what I could’ve been–who I could’ve been–if I just stopped and listened. I might not have been the first female President of the United States, but maybe I wouldn’t be a sixty-something-year-old hooker.”

“I’d vote for you,” you tried to joke, but it didn’t land.

Phyllis just placed one thin hand over yours. “You have the opposite problem. You care about what everyone thinks and you try to make everyone happy. But then you’re not happy.”

“I tried to be happy.” Memories of your psychology classes and picnic dates filled your mind, quickly replaced with images of your disappointed parents and an angry Eddie. “And it just made me selfish.”

“Is that a bad thing?”

“Of course it is!” The conversation had devolved from something profound into nonsense. Maybe the heat was getting to her, because who in their right mind would think selfishness was good?

Phyllis shrugged. “Being too selfish, maybe. But putting yourself first once in a while isn’t a cardinal sin, y’know. Or maybe it is.” She scratched at an old scab on her arm. “I’m not the religious type.”

She pulled a pack of cigarettes from her back pocket, offering it out to you. You could certainly use one, the stress of today refusing to dissipate, but just the thought of any extra heat near your body made your skin crawl.

Phyllis flicked the lighter, illuminating her face in the dwindling light. “What would’ve happened if you just told your parents the truth years ago?”

You considered the question, let the cynical answer loll around your mouth until it resembled something less pointed. More palatable.

“They would’ve been mad back then, too.”

“And?”

You kept your gaze straight ahead as she exhaled a cloud of smoke. “I guess…I guess we could have figured out what to do sooner,” you finally said, parroting your mother’s words.

But Phyllis shook her head again. “That’s not what I meant.” She gave you a pointed look, jabbing her lit cigarette in your direction. It was a menthol; different from the ones Eddie smoked. Yet it still reminded you of him, of being tucked up under his arm as he kissed your temple.

“What would it have changed for you?” Phyllis tried again. “Not your parents; not the motel. Not even Lover Boy.”

You thought about it–really thought about how your life would be altered if you’d chosen honesty from the very beginning.

You’d never have to check over your shoulder when writing essays for your psychology classes. You could have looked forward to graduate school—or at least felt the usual trepidation that came with new experiences, rather than the fear of letting people down. Eddie might have been standing in front of you now, taking every opportunity to steal kisses while he set up battery-powered fans.

You never asked to be placed atop that pedestal, the one that declared you nothing less than perfect and a failure otherwise. But you could have helped yourself down, carefully and gracefully, rather than crashing to the ground without a safety net.

But instead of floating, you’re melting in the motel lobby, your future scattered in pieces before you.

The last time you floated was that trip to NYU with Eddie. Laughter easily bubbled out of you when he taunted the street preacher, a lightness you should have cherished at the time.

How naive of you to assume it would last forever, when it didn’t even last a day.

The streets had been bathed in darkness for hours, your desk barely illuminated by a tiny flashlight, when it happened.

You had put down your book just twenty minutes earlier, your eyes straining to read the print. A headache thrummed at your temples, worsening until you stopped mid-sentence and finally stuck your bookmark between the pages.

The closed door could only do so much to stifle the cacophony of shattering glass and raucous shouting. Shop owners who lived above their stores yelled down to the looters, feebly hoping to scare them away, but they could not be deterred. Only the sounds of police sirens whooping were enough to send the thieves scattering, though they often ran with their arms full of stolen goods.

You didn’t see the man until he was inside the lobby, stumbling towards the desk as so many had before. Through the dim light, you could see a tie hanging loosely around his neck. His sweat-soaked button-down clung to his pale skin, the stench of liquor oozing from every pore.

He nearly tripped over his own feet, and he snorted out a laugh before clearing his throat. “Need a room,” he slurred. Up close, the lines on his forehead were more pronounced. Perspiration matted his thinning hair to his scalp.

Your hand instinctively wrapped around the knob of Phyllis’s bat, your palm pressed so tightly against the wood that you risked a splinter.

“I’m sorry, but we don’t have any available.” You kept your tone even, if a bit clipped.

A sardonic grin stretched across the man’s face. He swiped his tongue over his teeth. “No rooms, huh? That’s what they said at all the other places.” He braced his forearms on the desk, his breath curdling the contents of your stomach. “And I’m startin’ to get real pissed that there isn’t a goddamn room in this goddamn city!”

Spittle gathered at the corners of his mouth, just as rancid as the rest of him.

“First, my flight gets cancelled when I’m already at the airport. Then I try to drown my sorrows at the bar, and the bartender cuts me off. And now I’ve got some bitch telling me—”

“You need to leave.” God, you really didn’t want to have to use the bat, didn’t want to swing at a stranger… “Or I’ll call the police.”

His laughter chilled you, and only once you heard it did you realize your mistake. No electricity meant no phone calls, which meant no police.

“Do you think I wanna be here?” He seethed. “Do you think this dump was my first choice? Every damn hotel was booked. Just give me a fucking room.”

You could scream. It would wake everyone in the motel and someone would come to check on you. But screaming also meant risking some sort of retaliation to keep you quiet, even if he hadn’t planned to hurt you at all. If you screamed, he could strike.

No, making noise was not an option.

The hand not clutching the bat was sweat-slicked from fear. Your grip slipped from where you braced yourself on the desk, fingers slamming into the drawer knob and knocking it open.

Wood scraped against wood, and then there was only a soft thud: The pepper spray canister had rolled to the front of the drawer.

Your second mistake was the half-second you spent flexing your throbbing fingers, hissing at the sudden pain. It was enough time for the man to lunge towards you, knocking over the bell that sat atop the desk. The one that Eddie rang that first night to wake you from your impromptu mid-shift nap.

It skittered to the floor with an anticlimactic ping and landed at your feet. You trapped it beneath a sneakered foot before sliding it behind you with as much precision as the adrenaline permitted, careful not to damage it.

The front door slammed open with enough force to send the knob careening into the wall. When the sun rises again, you wouldn’t be surprised if there was an indent in the plaster, or at least a scuff on the wallpaper.

Looters, you thought grimly. Must’ve robbed the stores and bodegas and now they’re here as a last resort. Your body slumped in defeat, ready to let them take whatever they needed.

A sweaty, unfamiliar hand grabbed your wrist as the man pulled both you and your attention. But he only held onto you for a second before he let go.

No–not let go. Not of his own volition, anyway. He’d been yanked back by something–someone, rather; though the dim lighting only offered a glimpse of a glinting piece of metal being held to the man’s throat.

A few hours passed by in seconds before you allowed yourself to see who had come to your rescue. To know that your heart and your mind were playing tricks on you in some sort of heat-induced delusion.

Deep brown eyes met yours, all at once softening his hardened edges, even as his grip on the pocket knife never faltered.

And then Eddie Munson’s voice, more gruff and possessive than you’d ever heard it before, ricocheted through your veins.

“Get your fucking hands off of her.”

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munson-blurbs · 1 year ago

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Living After Midnight (Failed Rockstar!Eddie x Motel Worker!Reader)

♫ Summary: Being a perpetual people-pleaser meant that you were constantly putting others before yourself--particularly your parents and the eccentric guests who stayed at their motel. But when a surly and mysterious musician checked in indefinitely, he flipped your whole world on its head. (3.1k words)

♫ CW: slowburn, strangers-to-lovers, angst, drug use, parental conflict, poverty, eventual smut (18+ only, minors DNI)

♫ A/N: Thank you to my numerous beta readers, including but not limited to @the-unforgivenn, @lofaewrites, @lokis-army-77, and @corroded-hellfire, and to @hellfire--cult for the divider. I am forever indebted to y'all.

chapter one: room for one more

It was always the quiet nights, wasn't it? The ones where the only sounds came from cars barreling down Queens Boulevard and splashing through puddles left by an earlier rainstorm, or from the clock ticking on the wall.

The ones where your mind wandered until you’d thought yourself in circles, overanalyzing every last decision you had ever made.

The ones where you allowed your guard just down enough that the slightest oddity threw you off-balance—something or someone out of place.

It was during the quiet nights like that night where you should have expected the unexpected, because New York City never stayed still for long.

The evening’s sluggishness was normal; tourism always slowed in the springtime. The newest shows on Broadway were already months old, not to mention the warmer weather brought both an uptick in crime and pollen count. If out-of-towners were going to schlep to the East Coast, they’d prefer to see the cherry blossoms hours south in Washington, DC than to get mugged on the 1 train.

Business picked up in the winter months when people flocked from around the world to witness the Thanksgiving Day Parade, the Rockefeller Center Christmas tree, or Dick Clark’s Rockin’ New Year’s Eve, even though they were several bus and subway transfers away. Outsiders to the tri-state area struggled to differentiate between boroughs; it was unfortunate for them, but you counted on it to keep business alive.

The only guests who consistently frequented your family’s motel were junkies looking for a place to shoot up away from the NYPD’s watchful gaze or affair-havers who were considerate enough not to sully their marriage beds—just their vows. You were in no position to judge; their money was what kept the lights on, but it was impossible not to compare your clientele to the suits who stayed at the Marriott down the street. They wouldn‘t even allow homeless folks to sit within twenty-five feet of the building, let alone stay under their roof.

You leaned on the desk, wood grain pinching your elbows. You tapped your pencil against your textbook as you read, its margins cluttered with notes about different types of parent-child attachment styles.

Sleep prickled at the corners of your eyes, blurring the words on the page in front of you. Focus.

Secure attachment occurs when—no, you’d already read this line. Twice.

“Dammit,” you muttered under your breath, gently slapping your cheeks in a futile attempt to stay awake. Taking a full course load instead of your usual part-time was your academic advisor’s ill-conceived idea, bolstered by the prospect of an earlier graduation. In your haste, you’d neglected to consider two important factors: all of your studying now had to be done during your night shifts, and graduating meant telling your parents a truth they were unready to hear.

They were so proud of the motel, regardless of its reputation. It might as well have been The Plaza from the way your dad boasted about it. The three of you shared an unspoken understanding that you worked the front desk because paying an actual employee would put them under. Maybe if finances weren’t so tight, you could have freely admitted that your future plans didn’t involve taking over the business.

Your eyelids fluttered shut as your head rested on your book, a small puddle of drool pooling atop Bowlby’s theories.

Ping ping ping ping!

Time slowly stretched out before you, your conscious brain clawing its way out of its hazy fog. It took a beat for you to recognize that the incessant noise came from someone repeatedly smacking the tiny bell that sat on the desk.

“Hey, hello?” an impatient voice called out, jolting you from your impromptu nap. You blinked away the residual sleepiness and took in the sight in front of you: a curly-haired man, likely not much older than you were, a cigarette that had been nearly smoked down to the filter tucked between his lips. He had a patched guitar case strapped to his back and clutched a black garbage bag filled with what you hoped was clothing.

“Sorry,” you grumbled, wiping the moisture from your chin. “Need a room?”

“Mhm.” You could practically hear his eye roll: no, I just stopped by in the middle of the night for a quick chat. Fancy a cup of tea and a scone?

He plopped the garbage bag on the ground; its soft landing and the way it wrinkled told you that whatever was inside was, thankfully, not a body.

You nodded and turned around to the wall of keys behind you. There was no shortage of rooms; the only occupied one was being rented by Phyllis, a sixty-year-old self-described ‘entertainer of gentleman’ who paid double her bill in exchange for your silence.

He stubbed out the cigarette in the ashtray on the countertop, grinding it into the base for good measure. “How much per night?” he asked, digging into his pants pocket and pulling out a wallet held together with duct tape.

“Fifteen.”

The man breathed out, his bangs fanning over his forehead. “Jesus.” He fished two twenties and a five from the billfold and placed them in front of you. “This should cover me until Friday, yeah?”

Nodding, you folded the bills and tucked them into the register kept under the desk, only accessible by key because of a series of break-ins during the late ‘70s.

The man lit another cigarette as you pulled out the ledger and a pen. “Name and date here,” you said, pointing to the ‘check in’ column. He took a drag before scrawling his name on the line: Eddie Munson, 5-4-93.

“All right, you’ll be in…” you scanned the assortment of keys dangling from their hooks. The walls were thin, and this guy seemed decent enough, so you decided to spare him the theatrical sound effects of Phyllis’s room 10 endeavors. “…room 4. Make a right down the hallway, and it’ll be the second door. Can’t miss it if you try.”

Your attempt at humor fell flat, both of you too exhausted to laugh. You strode past it, clearing your throat as if dispelling the tension. When you placed the key in his calloused palm, you couldn’t help but notice that the base of each fingertip is a half-shade paler than the rest of his skin.

“Thanks.” Eddie mumbled. He tapped the cigarette above the ashtray, the gray flakes falling into a neat pile. His right bicep flexed underneath his denim jacket as he heaved the garbage bag over his shoulder, careful not to bang it against the guitar.

He scuttled out of the tiny room masquerading as a lobby, shoulders hunched from the weight of the bag and of the burdens he inevitably carried. No one shows up to a motel in the middle of the night without a story or two.

After years of greeting guests at the front desk, you liked to think you had a decent read on them. Eddie was quiet, maybe even introspective, but not necessarily shy. He was tired; no, more than that: he was worn down, like so many other people who had come through these doors.

Most importantly, Eddie didn’t seem like he'd be much trouble. He didn’t stumble in wasted and reeking of booze or fidgeting as he awaited a fix. He wasn’t shouting or poorly concealing a wandering eye or making lewd comments. He’d made pretty much no impression at all besides being a bit gruff, which was just fine with you. Your personality wasn't composed of rainbows and sunshine at this hour either.

You looked at the clock and sighed when it only read 2:17. It’s already tomorrow, you thought grimly. Just under four hours until you could walk ten feet to your room, curl up in your bed, and sleep until it was time for your afternoon class. After years of balancing school and work, you were in the last two weeks of your final semester, and then…what? You casually inform your parents that you were leaving the family business–essentially forcing them to close it–to pursue a career in social work?

That was sure to go over well.

To their knowledge, you were studying hotel management and hospitality in order to “improve the business.” That was why they’d relented when you’d asked to start taking classes, switching you over to the night shift to avoid having to hire a new employee.

What they didn’t know is that your school didn’t even offer that as a major. Nor were they aware of the acceptance letter into NYU’s Masters of Social Work program that was stashed inside your dresser drawer, hidden from sight. That was a conversation for another day when you found the strength to face their disappointment.

Chaos waited to strike until the end of your shift.

Just as you packed your book back into your bag, a familiar, skunky odor wafted past your nostrils.

Ignore it, you thought. Let it be Dad’s problem when he takes over in five minutes. But if you could smell it, so could any of the cops patrolling the boulevard. One more citation and the motel was in jeopardy of being permanently shut down, and you couldn’t take that risk.

With a frustrated sigh, you yanked open the desk drawer and reached in for a pen, instead pulling out an unopened box of crayons. A twenty-four pack of Crayola—the good kind. You plucked a waxy cornflower blue from its spot and scribbled Be back soon on a Post-It note, sticking it on the front of the desk. Grabbing the pepper spray canister from its spot next to the register, just in case, you started down the hall. Marijuana wasn’t Phyllis’s drug of choice, though it might have been one of her various gentleman suitors’, but the scent was too strong to be coming all the way from room 10.

Maybe this Eddie Munson was trouble, afterall.

You knocked on his door, firmly but without aggression. It certainly wasn’t the first time you interrupted someone’s buzz, and it wouldn’t be the last. You knew better than to go in guns a-blazing; it’s easier to catch flies with sugar than vinegar.

Eddie opened it after a moment, cracking it halfway and revealing a lit joint pinched between his plush lips. One forearm was perched on the doorframe, showing off faded ink of a litter of flying bats and a dragon-esque creature. He was clad in only navy blue boxer briefs, but his lack of attire was no surprise. Many guests were shameless, not bothering to cover the holes in their Fruit of the Loom tighty-whities and showcasing faded yellow stains on the crotch. What confused you was the elastic waistband proudly proclaiming ‘Calvin Klein’ that cut off the soft hair trailing from his belly button. It seemed absurd that he would have been lugging around any designer clothes in that trash bag, but there was no other possibility.

“Can I help you?” he asked, shaking his curly bangs out of his face. Half-lidded brown eyes scanned your form, trying to determine whether you were a narc or trying to bum some bud off of him. His window was cracked open enough to let in fresh air, which also meant that the acrid smell could easily be let out.

“You can’t smoke that here,” you reported matter-of-factly, just as you had a million times before. When he cocked a challenging brow, you continued. “Cigarettes are fine, but no weed. The police will come after us and you.”

He looked around the room, unbothered, and absentmindedly scratched at his bare chest. A demon’s head was sketched just above a sparse patch of hair. Under different circumstances, or maybe in another life altogether, you would’ve asked him about his tattoos; if they had some philosophical meaning or were the products of spur-of-the-moment decisions. You could have blathered on about the ideas you had for your own future tattoos, if you ever worked up the nerve to actually get one.

“You mean to tell me that with all of the skeevy shit that goes on around here, the cops are gonna waste their time on a little pot?” He scoffed and took another defiant pull, holding it for a few seconds before exhaling away from you.

I guess chivalry isn’t dead, you mused, stifling an eye roll. “No, but they’re always looking for an excuse to ‘investigate,’’' you threw air-quotes around the last word, “so they can bust us for more serious things, and that is the perfect one.” You gestured to the joint only to be met with an eye roll. “Look, you can either put it out, smoke it somewhere else, or you can leave. Full refund, but you can’t stay here.”

His stare locked onto your steely eyes and clenched jaw, only breaking when you’d straightened your posture to stand your ground. “Whatever,” he huffed, but he snuffed it out. A glimmer of a smile danced on his lips, disappearing nearly as quickly as it arrived. Despite its fleeting nature, it managed to thaw you enough so that your arms weren’t held quite so tight to your body, your expression less rigid. “Just trying to relax and get some sleep, like you were while you were supposed to be ‘working.’” It’s his turn to supply the air-quotes, both in mockery and as a gotcha. A teasing lilt elevated his voice, smoothing out the edge he’d greeted you with earlier.

“I wasn’t sleeping, just…resting my eyes,” you volleyed back, your smirk betraying any semblance of the tough façade you’d worn.

Eddie crossed his arms and walked over to the garbage bag of clothes. He rummaged through it for a moment before procuring a pair of gray sweatpants, stepping into them hurriedly as though he just remembered his minimal attire.

“Maybe if you chose more interesting reading material, you wouldn’t be sl—resting your eyes on the job,” he amended, gesturing to the textbook in your canvas tote bag. “Ever heard of Stephen King?”

“I live in a motel, not under a rock.”

He raised an eyebrow. “You live here?”

Shit. That wasn’t information you regularly divulged. Sure, this guy seemed harmless, but looks can be deceiving. Prime example: wearing designer underwear while using a trash bag in lieu of a suitcase.

It was too late to double back, so you nodded. “Yeah,” you admitted reluctantly. The sole of your sneaker dug into the old carpet.

Eddie looked like he wanted to say more, lips parted and eyes wide like there was a follow-up question sitting on the tip of his tongue. Before he could ask it, your gaze landed on the clock radio: six AM on the dot.

“I need to go,” you said hurriedly. Shame at your sudden shyness burned a hole in your belly. Eddie Munson was a guest; for all intents and purposes, he was a total stranger. There was no reason to be intimidated by him. “Good luck falling asleep,” you added with a weak smile.

The easy banter that had been building between you dissipated in an instant, taking his good mood with it. His goodbye was a sardonic salute, the mattress springs creaking wearily as soon as you closed the door behind you.

Sure enough, your dad was in the tiny lobby, assessing some peeling wallpaper. “Gotta fix that,” he mumbled to himself, thumbnail picking at it aimlessly. He turned around when he heard the door open and smiled when he saw you.

“Sorry, I was helping out a guest,” you rushed to explain, hoping he wasn't too anxious to find the desk left unattended.

The wrinkles in your dad’s forehead became more pronounced. “Is everything alright?” The phrase ‘helping out a guest’ could range from unclogging a toilet to calling the police for a domestic dispute.

“Yeah, everything’s fine,” you reassured him quickly, flashing an exaggerated thumbs-up. “No law enforcement necessary. Didn’t even need to use the pepper spray.” You waved the canister in your palm before placing it back.

He beamed, leaning in and pressing a kiss to your scalp. “It’s times like this where I just know I’ll be leaving this place in good hands.”

You swallowed the bile that crept up your throat and feigned a smile when he pulled you in for a tight hug. The mingled scents of Irish Spring soap and drugstore aftershave tickled your nose, and tears stung along your lash line.

If only you knew, you thought, giving him one last squeeze before you headed to your room. Disappointed wouldn’t even begin to cover it.

Your parents would never say the word aloud; they’d look at each other and heave identical weighted sighs. Their lifelong goal of a long-standing family business would vanish in the blink of an eye. Dad would pretend there was a chance that they could afford a new hire, even going so far as to fumble through the years of financial statements before inevitably throwing in the towel; Mom would force a pained smile and hoarsely encourage you to follow your dreams, even at the expense of theirs.

You shook the thought away as you trudged towards your room, sneakered feet like sandbags below you. Dwelling on this scenario had you teetering on the brink of insanity, so you’d willed yourself to focus on something else. Anything else.

Like the motel’s newest guest and his smile. The way it softened the hard lines on his face, offering you a glimpse of how he wore happiness. Something about it made you want to see him happy again.

You can’t even figure out how to make yourself happy, you thought, peeling back the starchy sheets and finally crawling into bed, much less a stranger. For all you knew, he was just relaxed because his high was starting to kick in, and not from some warming presence you’d supplied.

The sun cracked pink through the sky, visible through the paper-thin curtains hanging on the window. You had become accustomed to this backwards routine, able to fall asleep while daylight broke. It took a few extra moments this time; you were anticipating marijuana-tinged fumes to float through the vents when Eddie ignored your instructions.

It was that flicker of a smile that had you almost certain he would spark up once you’d left. The smile of someone who so naturally flouted authority that he no longer bragged about it. Yet time ticked by without a hint of evidence that he was smoking again.

Which begged the question: if the smile didn’t signify defiance, what did it mean?

Eddie Munson is definitely trouble, you surmised just before you drifted off, but nothing you can’t handle.

taglist:

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#eddie munson #eddie stranger things #eddie x reader #eddie x you #eddie munson x female reader #eddie munson x f!reader #eddie munson x you #eddie munson smut #eddie munson angst #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson fanfic #stranger things fanfic #fanfic #eddie munson stranger things #stranger things #lam

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munson-blurbs · 1 year ago

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Living After Midnight (Failed Rockstar!Eddie x Motel Worker!Reader)

♫ MASTERLIST ♫ (chapters to be added when published)

♫ chapter one: room for one more ♫ chapter two: here today ♫ chapter three: turn the lights back on ♫ chapter four: show me yours, i'll show you mine ♫ chapter five: float like a butterfly ♫ chapter six: the eye of the tiger ♫ chapter seven: offense and defense ♫ chapter eight: mind your own business ♫ chapter nine: rest for the weary ♫ chapter ten: this foolish lover's game ♫ chapter eleven: undo, undone ♫ chapter twelve: breath of fresh air ♫ chapter thirteen: street smarts ♫ chapter fourteen: burned ♫ chapter fifteen: further to fall

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ask-chubby-hamilton · 2 years ago

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//i think they were on a table and john was just going all in, no mercy, WHILE feeding Alexander donuts so he wouldn't be too loud 😭

Bro wtf 😭😭

//had another john and alex s*x dream last night 😭

But this time it somehow involved donuts 🤔

I only remember the s*x, not much about the donuts though

#Lams smut #crazy dreams #ooc #lams

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munson-blurbs · 3 months ago

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Living After Midnight (Failed Rockstar!Eddie x Motel Worker!Reader)

♫ Summary: Eddie's gorgeous ex-girlfriend arrived with a proposition, and when he was hesitant to refuse it, everything the two of you have been holding back boiled over. (4.8k words)

♫ CW: slowburn, strangers-to-lovers, angst, anxiety, panic attack, vomiting, parental conflict, poverty, insecurities, secret relationship, sexual fantasies, idiots in love, eventual smut (18+ only, minors DNI)

A/N: Thank you endlessly to @word-wytch for helping me with Eddie's mannerisms 💚

♫ Divider credit to @hellfire--cult

chapter fourteen: burned

Babe.

She called him ‘babe,’ that one word laced with more than friendliness. There was a history behind it, a sultriness, all of it seeming so natural.

There was no air left to breathe; of this, you were almost certain. Your lungs constricted around nothing, shoved tight behind your ribs with nowhere to expand.

She called him babe. And she kissed him.

On the cheek, on the lips—it didn’t matter. She had kissed him and it didn’t sound like he’d attempted to stop her. Nor had he corrected her when she’d called the motel a shithole. His ex-girlfriend showed up and called your home–and his–a shithole, and he’d all but agreed with her.

And she called him babe.

You were going to be sick, your head spinning from the myriad emotions coursing through it. Anger, frustration, confusion, sadness, and envy stirred up a fatal cocktail that had you retching into the wastebasket next to the desk.

A door swung open, and you prayed that it was Mom or Dad, already formulating a believable reason as to why you were suddenly throwing up. Must’ve eaten something that disagreed with me; I’ll be fine–

“Heiress?”

Of course it was Eddie. Of course. His footsteps got faster as he heard you throwing up, barely audible through the blood pulsing in your ears. Before you knew it, he was crouching down beside you, one hand gently stroking your back, your shirt now soaked through with sweat.

You wrenched away, shrugging off his touch and wiping your lips. “Don’t touch me.” Your voice was hoarse from sickness and hurt.

Eddie flinched at your gruff demeanor, toppling backwards onto his jean-clad bottom with a soft oof. “Heiress, it’s fine. I’m not afraid of a little–”

“No!” You found your emotional footing, grounding yourself in anger rather than shaking it off. The last thing you needed was for him to see you as vulnerable. Even worse, pitiful. “Leave me alone.”

You couldn’t look at him without seeing her, so beautiful and badass. Everything he wanted and more. Had he blushed when she kissed him? Had his hand slid around her waist to pull her closer, to breathe in her perfection? The thought sent your stomach roiling, and it took a mountain of force to keep from getting sick again.

His brows furrowed in confusion. “I can get you some ginger ale, o-or some water–”

You shook your head subtly lest you rouse another round of nausea. “I said leave me alone,” you said through gritted teeth. Tears rolled down your cheeks, and you were disgusted with yourself for wishing he would kiss them away. “I’m fine.”

Babe. With a kiss.

“At least let me take out the trash.”

“Can you just fucking go?” You whirled around to finally face him, your heart momentarily lurching at his recoil. “You can probably still catch up with your girlfriend. She just left.”

“My…” Eddie cocked his head with a naivety that had you simultaneously wanting to comfort and smack him. “Who, Fiona?”

Logically, you knew she had a name, but hearing him say it still made everything worse. Fiona.

“Yeah, her,” you spat. Just because you knew her name didn’t mean you had to say it.

A disbelieving chuckle escaped Eddie’s lips, half-hearted in its landing. “She’s not my girlfriend, Heiress.” His voice had a prickly edge to it, and it made you feel slightly less guilty about your own snappiness.

“Did you tell her that?” Frustration flamed behind your eyes. “Because I heard her call you ‘babe’ and give you a kiss.”

You summoned all of your strength and pushed yourself up to standing. Eddie followed suit, though he didn’t need to lean on the desk to keep himself upright like you did.

“Christ.” He raked his fingers through his curls. “It was a kiss on the cheek. It’s not like we were frenching in the hallway.”

The visual alone might have sent you back to the trash can, but you held your composure. What was left of it, anyway.

“And what about her calling you ‘babe’?”

He shoved his hands in his pants pockets, an act of innocence. “Probably just out of habit from when she was…y’know…”

My girlfriend. He didn’t need to say the words aloud; you filled in the blanks without any assistance.

“But you didn’t correct her.” You were being petty, and while you hated yourself for it, you also couldn’t stop it. A dam had been broken, and the rupture unleashed all of the frustration and confusion that you’d kept bottled up.

From outside, a car blared its horn loud enough to startle you. Eddie brought his hand out to comfort you, almost instinctively, before he remembered you were mid-argument and let it drop to his side.

“Honestly,” he exhaled, “I wasn’t really paying attention when she said that.”

Your stomach soured. If he wasn’t listening to the words she was saying, then what was his mind occupied with? Images of him stampeded through your head: Eddie lusting over bow-shaped lips, the subtle swell of her breasts beneath her tank top, the way her denim miniskirt emphasized the curve of her ass…all while you stood behind the desk none the wiser.

You shoved the implication aside. “Why was she here? How did she even know you were here?”

Eddie’s nails scratched along the desk, the only sound for a few seconds until he spoke again. “I talked to her after they did their show at Webster Hall.”

How could you have forgotten that show—the one he was at the night someone vandalized Eisen’s.

“I told her where I was staying, gave her the room number. She took a chance and stopped by tonight.”

“For what?” You quickly assessed his clothes; nothing seemed to be rumpled or unbuttoned that would indicate any below-the-belt activities.

Eddie caught your eyes roving his body, and not in the hungry, desire-filled way you had looked at him earlier today.

“She asked me to rejoin the band,” he said quietly. “They want me back for their tour.”

Rejoin the band for their tour. If the tabloid article was accurate, that meant he’d be leaving within the next few weeks.

Your silence spoke volumes. Eddie huffed out a laugh thick with venom. “Wow, thanks for your enthusiasm. Really amps up my excitement.”

“It’s just…a lot to process.” You picked at your lower lip, the bit of dry skin suddenly the most interesting thing in the room. “Do they want you back permanently? Or just until Caleb Dalton gets out of rehab?”

Eddie’s brows furrowed. He crossed his arms over his chest and stepped back, protecting an open wound. “What are you talking about? Who’s going to rehab?”

Shit. You screwed your eyes shut, but there was no more feigning ignorance. He had to know the truth, and you had to be the one to break it to him.

And so you told him everything: the public intoxication arrest, the rehab stay, the threat it posed to the band’s future. When he asked how you knew all of this, you were honest about that, too.

“So, wait.” Eddie held up his forefinger to stop you, though you’d already run out of words to say. “You knew about this stuff since our first date? And then you read the article today? And you never thought to tell me about any of it?”

Shame snaked its way through your veins, heating you from the inside. Fresh tears pricked at your eyes, and you forced yourself to blink them back. You knew you should have told him; maybe not during that first date, but certainly in the days following. It wasn’t as though you hadn’t had the opportunity. Even spotting that article this afternoon brought up the perfect moment.

But you’d let your cowardice take over, and now you were paying the price.

“I wasn’t sure what to say.” It was a pathetic excuse, and you both knew it.

Eddie raked his fingers through his hair, snagging them on a knotted curl. “How about, ‘hey, Eddie, did you hear about what’s going on with your old band?’ Or you could’ve come right out with it, something like, ‘your replacement is in rehab, just so you know.’” He shook his head in stunned disbelief, his nostrils flaring with each word. “Anything, Heiress. Anything!”

You winced at his increasing volume. “Eddie, maybe we should talk about this another–”

“No!” He hissed through gritted teeth. “No, I’m so fucking sick and tired of waiting. Waiting for you to tell your parents about us, waiting for another big break, waiting for something to finally go right for once in my stupid life!” He slammed his fist on the desk, rattling the old wood and your nerves, veins pulsing in his forearm. “I’m such a goddamn idiot. I should’ve been saving up every penny to get back home, but I stuck around here for…for someone who doesn’t give a shit about me.”

Every part of you ached to refute that statement, to insist that you did care about him. But it wouldn’t be of any use; he’d already made up his mind that he meant nothing to you. And what did you have to disprove him? The way fear kept you from telling your parents the truth? The constant sneaking around to avoid the inevitable confrontation that came with them discovering the real relationship between you and Eddie?

“And every time I ask you about it, it’s always ‘soon,’ or ‘I’m going to.’” Eddie continued, his jaw twitching as he inhaled. “I might as well be back in high school, hooking up with cheerleaders behind their boyfriends’ backs, acting like nothing happened between us.” He looked at you with utter disgust. “At least they had a decent excuse. You’re just selfish.”

“Selfish?” Of all of the words used to describe you, good or bad, selfish hadn’t ever been one of them. “I’m…no, I’m not–”

The scent of stale cigarette smoke choked you. “Well, what would you call it, then? What would you call stringing me along while you weave your little web of lies?” He leaned in, though there was no need with how loud he was speaking. “I thought we were a team, Heiress. And a damn good one at that. But you were playing by yourself this whole fucking time.”

Your throat went dry, your body hollow. You were selfish. You spent so much time worried about the potential backlash that you never considered how he felt.

Eddie didn’t stop, not even when the tears rolled down your cheeks. “You know what I think?” He pressed his lips into a thin line, like he knew he should suppress what he was about to say but no longer could hold back. “I think you can’t handle people following their dreams when you’re too scared to follow yours. I think you liked having me here because that meant I wasn’t out there trying to be a ‘superstar.’” He hooked his fingers to make air-quotes.

“But I’m done with your games, Heiress. I’m done pretending to just be the handyman you happen to get along with. I’m done with you.”

A response, a retort, a poignant Fuck off all stayed lodged in your throat. Only the sound of a door swinging open echoed through the motel.

Shit. Your parents. They must’ve woken up from the arguing and—

“What the hell is going on out here?” Phyllis’s rough, irritated voice called out. Her robe was half-open, the top of one freckled breast visible. She had her trusty bat raised, ready to fight, but when she saw the commotion was only you and Eddie, her posture loosened. “Jesus Christ, I thought someone was trying to…never mind.” She shook her head and scowled. “If you two don’t learn to keep it down, then I’ll just have to be louder.”

You and Eddie normally would have laughed and shot back a cheeky comment, but neither of you mustered up a joke. Phyllis had already turned back around to her room, figuring out how to salvage her client’s evening after the interruption.

“I’m leaving anyway,” Eddie grumbled. The tips of his ears were pink from the sheer heat of his anger.

“Leaving? Like, for good?” Your voice was so tiny that you barely heard it, and you were surprised that he did. Even more surprised that he didn’t pretend not to hear it and keep walking away.

He sighed with the weight of the world. “Yeah, Heiress. For good.” He turned back to face you one last time, a serpentine bite in his tone. “And for what it’s worth, I liked when Fiona called me ‘babe.’ It was nice hearing someone say it without checking their surroundings first.”

So he had noticed it—the way you made sure your parents weren’t around before calling him a pet name or pressing a kiss to his waiting lips. You weren’t as subtle as you’d hoped, and he’d picked up on it.

Eddie held his same stoic expression as he watched your face fall, your posture slumping in total defeat. His words were cruel, but they didn’t lack truth. And it didn’t mean you were ready to hear them.

“Fuck you,” you said weakly. You no longer cared if he saw you cry. Shame over vulnerability couldn’t hold a candle to the loss you already felt, though he was still standing in front of you. “Just…fuck you. I should’ve left you on that bench.”

“Then who would be your charity case?” His brown eyes, usually soft and comforting, teasing, or filled with lust, held only rage now. “Who would you pretend to give a shit about?”

Insecurity chipped away at your minimal resolve to stay upright as you wondered what kind of eyes Fiona saw tonight.

“Do you…” you sniffled, wishing you would just wake up and realize the whole argument was a dream. “Do you really think this was all pretend for me?”

Eddie paused for a moment, actually considering the possibility. Its mere feasibility was another dagger through your already broken heart.

“Honestly, Heiress,” he finally said, “I don’t know what to think anymore.”

He left you in stunned silence, only the sounds of boulevard traffic filling the air. Life had been sucked out of the lobby, leaving it devoid of the lightheartedness it only began holding when Eddie came around.

Before him, before that night, you were alone. You were lonely. It had only been two months since then, yet you found it impossible to remember a time before him. Tonight felt like the first time you’d ever spent a shift by yourself.

What if you followed him back down the hall? What if you took his hand and held it, promising not to let go until you told your parents about the relationship? What if you peppered his face with kisses until his anger melted into something resembling forgiveness?

The young woman who you’d been on his first night in the motel would roll her eyes at the mess you’d become. She would have told you not to waste your efforts on a man, especially one who was so obviously a temporary fixture in your life. Dating a guest? One who had no connections to the city? It was destined for failure from the start.

Maybe it was best if you let him be for the evening. Give him some time to cool down. Not to mention, you’d be leaving the desk unmanned if you followed him, and what a way that would be to break the news to your parents.

Sorry I abandoned my job; I was just trying to keep my secret relationship with Eddie from ending. Did I mention that Uncle Mo and Aunt Tam caught up making out in the park?

Eddie didn’t leave his room for the rest of the night. You sighed with relief at six A.M. when Dad took the desk and there was no sign of Eddie.

He probably fell asleep, you reasoned as you changed into your pajamas. I’ll talk to him when I wake up and we’ll work it out.

You were done hiding your feelings.

As you tumbled into bed, the weight of exhaustion somehow heavier than your guilt, you mentally sketched out your apology. No, it was more than an apology; it was a promise. A promise to proudly be his girl no matter who was watching. A promise to give him your heart with no stipulations. A promise to be the team he thought you always were.

For the first time in a long time, you awoke before your alarm. Nerves fluttered in your belly as you got dressed. You threw on the nearest clean clothes you could find, lest you wimp out before you even left the room.

Eddie, I’m so sorry. It’s me and you. I want it to be me and you. I’ll tell my parents about us right now so we don’t have to hide, because…I love you, Eddie Munson. I love the way you always pat your pocket for your cigarettes and lighter before you go anywhere. I love the way your tongue pokes out whenever you’re focused. I love the way you hold me, like I’m safe as long as you’re around.

And then you’d kiss him, soft and slow, losing yourself in his touch with the intention of never again leaving him behind.

Knock knock.

No answer.

Knock knock knock.

Again, nothing.

You waited for a few minutes—or maybe it was only a couple of seconds. Time crawled as you waited for him to answer.

“Eddie?”

Silence.

“Eddie?” One more, but louder. Loud enough to catch Dad’s attention from the lobby.

Dad’s brows knit together. “Eddie left this morning around 6:30. He didn’t tell you?”

Dread rose in your esophagus and almost had you hurtling towards the trashcan again.

Of course he left. Why wouldn’t he? What did he have to stay for? Did you actually expect him to give up the opportunity to tour for a life of motel repairs, subway station guitar shows, and a girlfriend afraid to have a public relationship?

“I assumed he told you…” The wrinkles in Dad's forehead became more pronounced with confusion.

You cleared your throat and faked a laugh. “Oh, right. I must’ve forgotten.” You gave yourself a little bop on the head as if to say, silly me! “I, uh, should probably clean his room.”

Dad nodded and said something about the washing machine acting up, and to be cognizant of laundry load size. And despite what you now knew, your first instinct was to ask Eddie to fix it.

Room four still smelled like his drugstore cologne and his cigarettes. In fact, that coupled with the used ashtray and the unmade bed were the only evidence that Eddie had been here at all. That this man hadn’t been a figment of your imagination for the past few months.

Your eyes roved the room for something—anything—to indicate a hint of forgiveness from him. Something to tell you this leave was only temporary. Maybe a note or even the phone number of where he’d be staying.

Probably with Fiona.

Your lungs struggled for air, tightening with each shallow breath. You couldn’t reach your room fast enough.

You pictured the two of them sharing a bed, limbs intertwined. He’ll look at her with love and desire: the talented badass girl he truly wanted. That he’d ever wasted time with someone who was quick to confront a stoned stranger but couldn’t lie to her parents would be a blip on his dating radar; a lapse in judgment he’d one day laugh off.

If he wasn’t already laughing at you.

July arrived a few weeks later with near-literal roaring flames.

Independence Day brought a few extra guests to the motel, mostly young couples who booked last-minute getaways to see the Macy’s fireworks display. Raw envy bared its teeth with each affectionate touch and stolen kiss, and you’d had to hold back a biting remark every time you saw an exchange of intimate gestures.

You and Eddie could have taken a moment to watch the fireworks display, his arms wrapped around you and his chin on your shoulder as colors lit up the sky.

Heat came the week after.

It ripped through the city; even the local weatherman’s warnings didn’t fully capture just how stifling it would be.

A line of perspiration trickled down your back as you folded towels and placed them on the closet shelf.

Mom was at the desk, a battery-operated oscillating fan doing its best to keep her cool. It stopped mid-rotation, and she smacked it to start it up again.

“Dad didn’t get the big one?” The batteries must nearly be drained after use for days on end. The corded one would be better, and would last longer than one reliant on batteries.

Mom shook her head. “That thing sucks up electricity like a monster,” she said. “No use running up the bill over it. I’ll just pick up new batteries later.”

The mention of the motel’s financial decline sliced you open, and you quickly tried to patch the wound with a distraction.

“I can go now.” Before Mom could protest, you plucked your wallet from your room. It was brutally hot outside, the humidity enveloping you the moment you opened the front door. But anything was better than staying home and creating imaginary scenarios where Eddie would come from around the corner, wearing his signature smirk.

In some of your wilder daydreams, he wore little else.

Outside wasn’t much better than inside, especially with the sun beating down, but a breeze blew by every so often that provided some relief. Kids played in the street, opening fire hydrants and splashing around. They had no reverence for the beauty of childhood summers. Not yet—that would come with time, when opportunities to cherish that innocence were solidly in the past.

You and Ben used to play like that, your parents peering out of the motel window every so often to make sure you were both still there, still safe. Always looking out for you, even as you stretched into your teenage years and craved independence.

You should call Ben and meet up again. Maybe invite Nora, too. They’d take your mind off of your never-ending and ever-growing list of mistakes.

The trip to the convenience store was for naught, the cashier informing you that they were sold out of everything except for watch batteries. Same went for the next two stores you tried. Apparently everyone’s portable fans decided to crap out on the same day.

Resignedly, you trudged back to the motel. Maybe you could convince Mom to use the corded fan, or at least tell you where it had been stashed so you could set it up during your shift.

All thoughts of fan whereabouts disappeared when you got back to the motel and saw Mom and Dad standing at the desk. Dad kept his head down as though inspecting the scratched wood. Mom was the one glaring at you, an open envelope clutched in her hand. It bore a violet emblem on the top left-hand corner.

“What is this?” She phrased it as a question, but her clenched jaw told you that she already knew the answer.

“I-I don’t—”

Mom shook her head. “No. Don’t tell me you don’t know why you got a tuition bill from NYU.” She glanced once more at the logo. “From the Silberman School of Social Work, actually.”

You said nothing. Ever since Admitted Students’ Day, you always made sure to be around when the mail arrived. The one day you left, it arrived without warning.

Dad spoke your name in a breath. “How did you get into a social work program if you majored in hospitality?”

And then there was that. No lie, no matter how tangled the web, could explain the cold, hard proof in front of them.

Words poured out of you, barely giving you moments to breathe.

“I meant to tell you–I wanted to tell you. It’s just…you’ve been counting on me to take over the motel. I never wanted to let you down.” Despite your assumption that you’d depleted your reservoir of tears over Eddie, your throat tightened with the beginnings of a crying jag. “I just want to help people.”

Mom’s fist clenched around the envelope. “And how is this helping us?” She opened her mouth to speak again, but Dad gently placing his hand over hers temporarily silenced her.

“You lied to us,” Dad said. “You lied, and then you kept lying.”

“I know.” Your voice was so small that you could barely hear it. Or maybe that was because of your heartbeat thrumming in your ears.

“You know.” Mom scoffed, crossing her arms over her chest. “Well, how nice of you to be so self-aware.” She let out a disbelieving laugh. “So what did you major in? And how did that lead you to one of the most expensive schools in the city?”

You told them everything–the decision to study psychology, the graduate school fair that you’d attended, the student representative you’d spoken to who assured you that you’d make an excellent candidate for their Masters program. And lastly, you told them that the program requirements would prevent you from working at the motel starting next month.

Mom stayed angry, her eyes narrowed, biting down on the inside of her cheek to keep herself from interrupting you. But Dad…

He was slightly hunched over and unsettlingly quiet. You’d almost rather he’d be yelling, or at least hurling his feelings toward you like Mom was.

He looked at Mom when he finally spoke, but his words cut you with a serrated edge. “We can’t pay for a new employee. And we need a third person to run the place, unless you and I want to split twelve hour days–”

“No. I–I’ll fix this.” There was no way that your aging parents would be working over eighty hours a week. “I won’t go to NYU. I’ll call them right now and see if I can rescind my acceptance, and then I’ll cancel my student loans.”

“Do you really think we can trust you after all of this?” Mom’s shouting startled you, but your flinching didn’t deter you. “And let me guess–you have some part in Eddie leaving, too?”

Now that you weren’t expecting. The pause between Mom’s question and your nod gave her all of the information she needed.

“Let me get this straight,” she seethed. “You pick a major that has nothing to do with hospitality. You apply to and then accept an offer to a graduate program that means you can’t support the family business. You don’t tell us a word about any of this, so we’re sitting around like idiots instead of planning accordingly. And then,” she pointed her finger at you, “when we do find someone to help out around here, you strike up an inappropriate relationship that I told you would end badly.”

Dad’s teary eyes met yours. “How could you do this to us?” Once again, his whisper was a knife.

“I’m sorry.” You didn’t bother to wipe your cheeks, knowing they’d stay damp until you couldn’t cry any longer. “I’m so sorry. I’m so, so sorry.”

Your brain throbbed against your skull, the forming pounding headache distracting you from the flickering lights. Everything was blurred anyway.

Mom noticed–she always noticed when something was awry, even if she couldn’t pinpoint its exact cause. “Great, now the bulbs are going.”

“I’ll get some new ones.” You’d pay for them yourself if you had to; you wouldn’t dare touch any of the money in the register. “I’ll go out right now and–”

The lights flickered once more, only this time, they didn’t go back on. The hum of electricity died out in an instant. You poked your head out of the front door, heart sinking as you saw the other business owners doing the same thing. The block was quiet except for the exchange between a flour-covered pizzeria worker and the cashier of the ninety-nine cent store:

“Is yours out, too?”

“Sure is.”

An overwhelming stillness encompassed the neighborhood. There was no hum of air conditioning coming from any of the other businesses. Traffic lights had gone dark, drivers slowing to a crawl upon the realization that there was neither a red, yellow, nor green indicator. A glance down the street at the high-rise office buildings, their windows suspiciously void of their usual overhead lighting, told you that the rest of the city wasn’t faring any better.

A blackout. In the middle of the hottest week of the summer.

In more ways than one, you were totally and completely powerless.

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