The room at the Starlite Motel wasn’t so bad, especially for seventy-nine bucks a night. He’d been in far worse. His own bedroom wasn’t that much nicer than this square, clean room. He’d paid with money from the duffel bag.
Thank you, Nefarius.
Pretty Boy was pretty sure Nefarius wouldn’t say that he was welcome.
He had walked in the room and locked the door, then waited at the doorway. Just to hear anything outside that sounded strange or suspicious. There were no sounds he could hear.
The bed beckoned. He flopped onto it and propped some pillows up and continued to sit there in silence, wondering what was going to happen. Wondering if he would ever see his own bedroom again, or G-Ma, or even Kriminal. The bag sat on the table.
A currency of hope lined by the currency of dope.
He wanted to find the remote to turn on the television that sat on a short shelf in front of the bed. It was one of those heavy, boxed thirty-six-inch televisions, the kind Kriminal and he used to steal when he was just a kid. These days everything was so light and so easy to haul off yourself.
The remote was nowhere to be found, but a Bible sat on the nightstand next to him. He took it and then opened it up to a random page.
G-Ma used to read through the Bible every year, before her eyesight got to the point where she couldn’t read even with her glasses. She sometimes wanted Pretty Boy to read to her but he hated doing it. The words always made him feel guilty. Even though they were written years ago, they always seemed to be about stealing and lusting and lying and sinning in some way. It was like every single verse he ever read sounded like some judge reading the sentence against him.
He looked down and read a random passage.
But God showed his great love for us by sending Christ to die for us while we were still sinners.
There it was again. Christ. The cross. Dying. Sinners. Yet this verse didn’t condemn at all. It said what was done for that condemnation.
He flipped back to find another verse. Maybe God was talking to him tonight. Maybe there would be something else he’d find. A way to escape from harm. An idea that would allow him to know what to do now.
I can never escape from your Spirit!
I can never get away from your presence!
If I go up to heaven, you are there;
if I go down to the grave, you are there.
If I ride the wings of the morning,
if I dwell by the farthest oceans,
even there your hand will guide me,
and your strength will support me.
Pretty Boy turned again and scanned the first thing he could see.
“Can anyone hide from me in a secret place?
Am I not everywhere in all the heavens and earth?” says the Lord.
If these verses were true, then it meant God could see him there at this cheap little motel. In this room where the only thing he possessed was a bag of stolen money. But God would have seen the whole night unfold as well. He would have seen Pretty Boy escaping and fleeing and entering the church and praying.
He closed the Bible and then did the same with his eyes.
“Help me, God. Help me to know what to do. Help me to do the right thing. To get out of this. To live. To live and be able to leave.”
For a long time he sat up in the bed, staring at the walls and the ceiling, wondering why God would be staring down at him. But maybe God was, for some reason. He had to try and believe. God had already rescued him once tonight. He wondered if he could be rescued again.