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“You are so not helping,” I grumbled. “Stupid speakerphone.”
“Gigi, stop teasing her,” Iris chided, yawning. “Miranda, honey, don’t do anything to it. I know it’s probably embarrassing to drive around with them, but trying paint remover or adding another layer of paint will just make the situation worse. And don’t try to duct-tape cardboard over it. The tape residue will just cause more problems. When you get back to town, we’ll take care of it. Until then, just stick to the back roads … and avoid church buses … and school buses basically, all forms of mass transit.”>“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.
The clerk was a middle-aged blond man in a pressed blue polo shirt and wire-rim glasses. I couldn’t figure out how he’d managed to end up behind that desk. And I don’t think he had figured it out, either. Maybe this was his second job, the one that paid for the questionable Internet online orders he didn’t want his wife to find out about?
The clerk was on the phone, apparently on hold, all the while ignoring the drunk swaying in front of the check-in desk.
“I just need a room, damn it,” the drunk slurred, sweat rolling from the thinning hair on the back of his head, dripping down his neck, and soaking into the cheap pea-green suit he was wearing. He smelled like a brewery. I was sincerely glad that he was facing away and I was out of his line-of-breath. “Got a cute little thing waitin’ outside, and I don’t want to lose her.”
Nice. This guy had clearly met his soul mate on a nearby street corner. I checked the desk for an “Hourly rates” sign and was relieved that I didn’t see one.
“Look, man, I’m sorry, the credit-card company has me on hold.”
“Just run the card again,” the drunk demanded.
The clerk cradled the receiver on his shoulder and glanced at me. “Yeah, can I help you?”
“I need two rooms, please,” I said, putting my license and credit card on the counter. I silently prayed that there was enough room on the balance to allow the charge. And that the clerk didn’t steal my identity to buy equipment for his gaming system.
He gave me an apologetic little shrug, checking my ID and placing my card next to his computer keyboard. “It will be just a minute.”
“Look, I got a little hottie out in the car, I need a room,” the drunk slurred. His bleary brown eyes settled on me and gave me a moist, crooked smile. “Hey there, cutie. You lookin’ to party? You could join us.”
“No, thanks.”
“Oh, come on, honey,” the drunk whined, leering at me. “I’d show you a real good time.”
He lurched toward me, giving me what I’m sure was supposed to be his best smile. I leaned in closer and in my most menacing voice whispered, “If you so much as breathe on me again, I will crush you like a bug, little man.”
The drunk pouted, stumbling back a few steps.
