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“Seventy for the night or fifteen for the hour.”
Double gross.
I didn't even know pay-by-the-hour places actually existed.
“Seventy it is,” I said, thumbing through the money and handing him eighty.
“If you need anything at all, darlin', anything at all... you just come here and talk to Bob, okay?”
It took everything I had not to grimace. “Thanks,” I said, taking the ten he was holding out, making sure our fingers didn't so much as touch, shoving the money in my bag, and making my way quickly back out of the office.
Creeps were creeps were creeps.
But Bob who ran a pay-by-the-hour motel and used physical keys (meaning there were very likely duplicates), and referred to himself in the third person? Yeah, that was like... super creepy.
I made my way toward the room at the end, stopping at the vending machine to grab snacks and a drink, then grabbing a bunch of discarded beer bottles off the curb, before sinking my key into the lock and going into my room.
So motels were gross. Didn't matter where they were across the country, they were nasty. Dated wallpaper. Dirty carpets. Old box TVs. A bedspread and sheets that probably hadn't been washed in weeks.
Skanky, skeezy places.
But it was my only option. So I tried to look past the peeling of the dingy brown wallpaper. I kept my eyes off the stained carpets. And I went nowhere near the bed. I dropped all my things on the top of the folding table that had seen better days but looked relatively clean then made my way to the bathroom to check the sink for roaches. Thankfully, none. Then went to the bed, lifting the mattress, and searching for bed bugs. Again, none. But I wasn't taking any chances anyway.
I nabbed the empty bottles off the table, moving to the door, securing the locks and chains, then balancing one bottle on the knob and laying the rest on the floor in front of the door. There was carpet so the bottle on the knob wouldn't break if it fell , but if it fell and landed on the other bottles, I'd hear it. Even if Creepy Bob had a key, there was no way he was getting in without me knowing it.
I washed my hands and went to work on eating though I had no appetite. I hooked up my laptop and linked into the unsecure network the motel offered, checking around online.
Nothing from Jstorm.
Nothing from the posts about Glenn's death.
Just... nothing.
I sighed, plugging in the name of the motel and seeing where I was. What was around. How I could get form where I was to where I was going. Which, well, I had no idea of yet.
Apparently a city bus had a stop right out front and would take me through the town and could drop me off at the train station where I could buy a ticket to any number of places.
Jstorm had the plans all laid out.
I just had to go through the motions.
I sighed, powering down the laptop and dragging the second folding chair closer so I could prop up my legs. I had never been one of those 'can sleep anywhere' kind of people. I needed a bed and a blanket and a pillow. I needed to be able to stretch out. But with the looming threat of Lex, of Creepy Bob, and the very possible incurable disease I could catch from getting within three feet of that bed, well, I was just going to have to learn how to sleep sitting up.
The door to the room next to mine opened and slammed. I heard laughter, a deep male voice, a high female one. Then the bed squeaked loud once. Then, not two minutes later, started squeaking fast and frantic.
Apparently room six had a pay-by-the-hour guest.
Lovely.
I switched on my TV, letting the religion station blare on and on about sin and other shit that didn't mean shit in a sleep-and-fuck motel. Or in the kind of life I lived in in general.
The couple in the next room made mewling and groaning noises. The bed stopped squeaking. There was shuffling. And then the door was closing. Apparently all they needed was twenty minutes.
Sleep was elusive despite my aching body.
I figured this was due, in large part, to the aching somewhere else.
The kind of aching that felt like it was never going to stop hurting.
The kind that only got worse from ignoring it.
So I let down the wall and I let the thoughts come.
I thought about him.
And then I cried, promising myself it was the first and the last time. Not because I thought I would miraculously stop hurting. But because I was going to purge it all right then and there, then lock whatever was left in a chest somewhere deep inside with a note on it to be opened never.
I would never forget. Not really.
But I could disappear.
Start a new life.
Leave this all behind.
Move on.
I hoped.NineteenBreakerI didn't sleep. Which was stupid as fuck. I needed to be sharp. Have my wits about me. Especially since I hadn't been able to find Alex. Not a trace. She was smoke. And also because I hadn't found a way into Lex's place before he got back to try to get Shoot out.
Rock. Hard place.
Because I still had to go in.
I had to show my face.
Feed him some lie about Alex not being with me.
Hell, tell him I couldn't unbreak her. That I had to get rid of her like he had suggested. He'd be pissed, but I would likely still get to keep my life. Maybe even get Shoot's too if Lex was in a good enough mood. I guess it all depended on how his meeting went.
Lex's place, like mine, was situated on a hill. Unlike mine, his had a walled-in perimeter and a manned security gate, two of his goons sitting in the booth bullshitting when I pulled up.
“Truck stays out here,” they told me and, given I didn't have a choice, I nabbed my keys and hopped out. And then, as expected, I was frisked and relieved of the two guns I had on me. Stupid fucks didn't check my boots. There was a knife in each. Not that they would do me too much good against his little army with an impressive assortment of guns, but it was something.
