She wanted to tell them to stop looking at her. She wanted to tell them that she didn’t fuck truck drivers or losers, only doctors and lawyers, movie stars and agents—but she didn’t. Instead, she cracked open the window, fished her cigarettes out of her purse, and lit one. By the time she turned back, two blondes had approached the creeps and all four were purring.

Time to make nice, nice. Time to party and eat dessert. The best chicken pieces in L.A.

She watched them enter the motel—heard the door slam shut—dumbfounded that the Cock-a-doodle-do even existed. Nothing was hidden. One look and even the world’s biggest loser could tell exactly what this place was. She had been sitting here for what felt like half an hour. Two cops had driven by. One even pulled into the lot and waited with the engine idling while his partner ran in for takeout.

For the love of money, she thought. Lots of money. Enough money to grease the wheel. Enough money to cook the chicken. And even more for that dessert.

She took another drag on her cigarette, carefully blowing the smoke out the window and hoping that she wouldn’t catch hell for not stepping outside. Then she heard a truck pulling into the lot and smelled the exhaust. As the truck’s fog lights swept through the car, she squinted.

It was a bright red Hummer, or maybe even a Land Rover. She couldn’t tell through the glare, and either way, she hated both no matter what the color. She hated all SUVs and the stupid people who drove them. If she were cruising on the freeway right now and spotted the asshole, she’d give him the finger with the greatest pleasure.

SUVs were the reason it was fucking snowing in Malibu.

She listened to the oversized tires chewing up gravel as the machine lumbered by and pulled into a space somewhere behind her. The lights snapped off, then the gas hungry engine died out. She could hear someone singing “Jingle Bells.” A low, gruff voice cutting through the din. After a few moments the door opened and a man hopped out, but he didn’t look much like Santa Claus.

The truth was that at some level he appeared handsome, even cute. He looked about six feet tall, maybe a little less, with short blond hair. And he was just about the right age for her, mid to late thirties—the older type. But what she liked most about him was that he wasn’t wearing a jacket in spite of the cold night air. All he had on was a pair of jeans and a T-shirt. She could see his muscles as he slung a bookbag over his shoulder. His tight stomach and sturdy legs, his smooth, tan skin. The more she looked at him, the more he reminded her of an actor she couldn’t place.