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Unfazed by my snippy tone, he continued. “Miss Scanlon mentioned that you were a recent hire. What did you do before?”
“Iris didn’t mention?” I asked, narrowing my eyes at him. Was this some sort of conversation setup? Had he become so irritated over the painted-boobs thing that he’d decided to make me confess all of my professional dumbass-ery? Was he trying to prove something? Because I was not above tossing that cup of leftover coffee into his face.
Eyeing me carefully, he took the cup out of the console, opened the window, and dumped the coffee. He sealed the foam cup in the little trash bag he’d insisted on after the Great Hamburger Wrapper Scandal. He looked really pleased with himself, smirking and crossing his arms over his chest. I arched my eyebrows. I scowled at him. How did he know? And why did he seem to think of coffee disposal as a personal triumph?
“I’m only asking because I’m curious,” he assured me, holding up his hands defensively. “Honestly, beyond your penchant for violence and preference for nutritionally bankrupt food, I know very little about you.”
“I did lots of things,” I said, vaguely … and realized that made my history sound far more porn-ish than it was.
“What was your last job before this one?”
“Look, I told you I crewed a yacht that summer? It hit a commercial fishing boat and sank—not when I was at the wheel, thank you very much. I worked at a camp for troubled kids, and I was actually pretty good at it. But the kitchen staff nearly killed some of the kids with food poisoning, and the camp was shut down. I was working to get my masseuse license through an on-the-job training program, but the cops closed the spa down because my coworker got handsy with a health inspector in the wrong anatomical area … She was a little high at the time.”
Collin’s eyes grew wide. His mouth pinched itself together at the corners.
“Go ahead and laugh.” I sighed.
A hearty, braying cackle burst from his chest, doubling him over and startling me. My eyes went wide as he howled with laughter, clutching his sides as if he was using muscles that hadn’t worked in years. It might have irritated the hell out of me, except that he looked so damn pretty when he did it. He continued to snicker until slightly pink tears ran down his cheeks. He wiped at them.
I grumbled. “I left college, let’s say, ‘prematurely.’ It wasn’t a good fit for me, sitting in the same classrooms with the same people, day after day. I liked ‘drifting about the country,’ as you called it. I liked not knowing what I was going to do or who I was going to meet. I liked learning new skills. Every day should be an adventure, in my book, a whole new life to be lived. The karmic payoff to this ‘shiftless nomadic existence that breaks my parents’ hearts’ is that every time I think I find something I’m good at, it blows up in my face.”
“I am suddenly very, very afraid.”
“If it makes you feel any better, I don’t usually take bystanders down with me.” I added reluctantly, “Except for that one time with Morlock the Magician. Though, to be fair, he did tell me to coat the dove with glitter spray. It’s not my fault he bought a highly flammable discount brand.”
“That does not make me feel any better, no,” he said, shaking his head. “Highly flammable?”
“The bird got spooked during the Ring of Fire trick, then flew right at Morlock. Flaming bird, lots of stage makeup and hair spray. It took a whole fire extinguisher, and Morlock still had some third-degree burns.”
“And how did you escape this inferno?”
“The bird always liked Morlock better than me,” I said.
“You know, the more you talk, the less secure I feel.”
“I can promise not to try to kill you,” I offered.
“Thank you.”
Hearing about my past misfortunes amused—but frightened—Collin to no end. It was sort of like telling a small child a ghost story. He wanted to be scared, even though he knew he was better off not knowing about my past. But I loved seeing that easy smile on his face, so I just kept sharing. Three hours and several spectacular firing stories later, we arrived at the Country Inn, the little roadside “boutique hotel” where Collin had booked us rooms.
“This does not look like the photos on the travel Web site,” he said.
I looked up the hotel on my phone, finding the site that displayed pictures of the Country Inn … from at least thirty years before. It was no longer “clean, comfortable, and convenient” as advertised. It was convenient because the highway practically ran through the parking lot. That was all the place had going for it. I think the owner called it a boutique hotel because there was a sex-toy shop right next door. The building had that same desperate, beaten look as our motel from the night before. The same rust stains. The same “Truckers Welcome” sign.
“We could keep going,” I suggested.
“No, I need a break from the car. And you need your rest. I can tell you’re getting tired. Frankly, with your background, I worry about your reflexes under normal, nonfatigued circumstances.”
“Nice. Your turn talking tomorrow night, got it? There have to be some embarrassing incidents from your colonial days. A pantaloons malfunction, something.”
“You’ve been very generous with your history,” he conceded.
“That’s not an answer,” I retorted. “Are you coming in with me?”
“After the diner, I think I’ll stay out in the car,” he said.
I walked into the motel office and did a mental “Run-down Motel Requirement” checklist. Rattling space heater? Check. Dust-covered plastic houseplant? Check. Credit-card acceptance signs showing logos abandoned by the companies in the 1970s? Check.
