Page 2 of Razor

She’s missing and hasn’t been heard of for four straight days.

The motel looks like I feel—shit. The name in lights on the roadside sign flickers, and not intentionally. The sign is hanging on one side, and the place should be condemned, not recommended. But it will do for one night, and the shower better be working, otherwise I’m liable to lose my shit.

I crack my knuckles and straighten up, my familiar leather jacket stored in the back of the van along with my trusty Harley.I’m not here as a biker—not yet, anyway. I’m here to find my woman.

My eyes narrow as they scan the perimeter. Noting the rusty vehicles pulled up in the spaces before the motel rooms. A scream, followed by jeers, diverts my attention, and a passing car jams on the brakes, its tires squealing in the dusky light.

There’s a bar across the street, and I’m tempted to head there first, but I must keep a clear head for what’s about to happen. My mission is simple. Find Sunday and bring her home—whatever it takes.

My feet drag toward the doors, and as I shove my way inside, a guy slowly raises his eyes as he puffs on a cigar, the air toxic with smoke, the vibe a bad one.

His expression shifts from bored to anxious in the blink of a raised eye, and his lips quiver as he attempts to speak.

“You after a room?”

I slam a fifty on the counter, and his eyes light up with greed.

“I want your best one, preferably unused today.”

I’m aware this place rents by the hour, but beggars can’t choose, and I curse the urgency of this sudden road trip.

“Sure.”

He scrambles for the key hanging behind him on a huge wooden cross, sweat beading on his lip, his hands shaking.

I’m fully aware I’m an intimidating sight; not many mess with me, and from the anxious gleam in his eye, he’s one of them.

The fifty is gone before the key is handed over, and he points to a block beside the reception.

“Room ten. First floor on the far end.”

I nod, turning, conversation over, and he says hopefully, “If you need company, I can arrange it—for a fee, of course.”

I half-turn, and his words quicken. “Anything, just ask. Alcohol, drugs, whores, an invitation to the local casino, you name it, I’m your man.”

I say nothing and turn, heaving my shoulder against the smeared glass door, my only wish is for a cold shower and hopefully a clean bed.

Food can wait until morning; it canallwait until morning because when I’ve slept this road lag off, I’m finding my girl.

* * *

Morning comes with a scream,the sound of glass breaking, and sirens. A gunshot followed by raised voices; another day in hell.

I’ve been around long enough to realize this shit will never get cleaned up, and imagining Sunday involved in any of it makes my blood run cold.

My legs swing to the side of the bed, and I crack my shoulders, stretching my arms above my head and behind my back. I’m bleary-eyed because a good night’s sleep is impossible in places like this, and yet it did what it needed to.

I’m ready to start asking awkward questions.

My stomach growls in protest, and with an angry frown, I resign myself to a short walk across the street to the diner. It’s as good a place as any to begin my search, and I try to ignore the heaviness in my heart as I head for the shower.

*

Francine’s diner is like the motel. Well past its prime, but as long as they serve coffee and breakfast, it will do.

I walk the distance across the street and note the bikes pulled up in the parking lot. There are four of them, and I’m interested in viewing the patch on the rider’s jackets. It would make my life a lot easier if they are the club on my list, and as I head through the door, my gaze searches for the men.

They are in the corner, too busy shoveling food to take account of their surroundings, and as a weary-eyed server approaches, I note the anxiety in her expression.