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“What the fuck even is a funko pop convention anyway?” Wes said. “And why is it so popular that every hotel that isn’t potentially rat and bug-infested is completely booked?”
“People like their funko pops,” Eleanor said. “Look, do you think I would have booked this murder motel if I’d had any other choice? I might be poor, but even I have standards. This was the only choice left. C’mon, let’s go check in. We’ve been sitting in the parking lot for nearly twenty minutes. The manager’s gonna call the cops on us.”
“Like a cop’s ever been to this place,” Wes muttered as he followed her to the lobby.
“My room has two double beds, but I can book you a second room,” Eleanor said. “I’ll pay for it.”
“No, you’re not,” Wes said in a tone that clearly suggested it would be best she not argue with him.
They stepped inside, and the smell of mildew and mold made Eleanor want to gag. God, she hoped the rooms were cleaner than the lobby, or she’d have to sleep in the car. She didn’t care how uncomfortable it was.
“What?” The manager sat behind the desk, his feet up while a small television blared some late-night game show that involved people dunked into tubs of green goo.
“Hi,” Eleanor said. “I have a room reservation under Eleanor Whitman.”
The man didn’t take his eyes off the television. “You didn’t tell me you’d be a late check-in. Almost gave your room away.”
“What a shame,” Wes said before moving away to study the rack with postcards stuck haphazardly into it.
Eleanor smiled at the hotel clerk. “So sorry about that. A pack of koala bears attacked me, and I had to fight my way free. It took longer than I thought – they’re wirier than they look.”
“Uh-huh.” The man finally tore his gaze away from the TV to stare at her. A different light shone in his eyes, and she tried not to shudder when he ogled her tits. Dating a man who worked at a murder motel was a bad idea to begin with, but the man’s greasy mullet, stained yellow teeth, and scraggly beard would have made even the most desperate of women think twice.
She stuck her hand into her pocket, feeling the reassuring bulk of her pocketknife as the man stood up and leaned against the counter until she could feel his gross breath on her face. He was big, and there was a hardness to him that made her knees watery and her stomach churn. Fighting the urge to back away - men like him liked it when women were intimidated - she stared blandly at him like she wasn’t afraid as her heart thumped and bumped, and her flight instinct screamed at her to run.
Of course, if the guy were a shifter, he’d know right away that she was afraid of him. Shit, maybe she should casually show him the Mace in her purse or -
Wes’s hand landed on the back of her neck and cupped it firmly as he made another one of those low growls. This time the sound sent relief rushing through her instead of lust. He stared unblinkingly at the clerk as the man backed up a step.
“You one of those shifters?” the man said.
“Is that a problem?” Wes asked calmly.
“Don’t see many of them around here, that’s all,” the man said. His gaze drifted to Eleanor again. “She ain’t no shifter. Those females are some big bitches.”
Wes growled again, and the man swallowed hard before picking at a pimple sprouting near his nose. “I’m just saying. She’s too little.” His gaze dipped to her chest for a second time.
Eleanor stared up at Wes when he bared his teeth. His fangs looked very large and very white in the fluorescent lighting. “Stare at her tits one more time, and I’ll rip your fucking eyeballs out of your head and make you eat them. Do you understand?”
The man turned a shade of green that Eleanor hadn’t thought skin could turn. “Yeah.”
“Say it.” Wes’s whole body swelled, and golden-coloured fur sprouted across his cheeks.
“I understand.” The man’s voice dropped to a whisper. “I don’t mean no disrespect. I didn’t know she was your woman.”
“Apologize to her,” Wes said.
“I’m sorry, Ms. Whitman,” the man said without looking at her.
“Um, okay, thanks.” Eleanor didn’t object when Wes drew her close to him before putting his arm around her waist in a possessive grip.
The man fumbled at the laptop's keyboard for a few minutes before handing them a card key. Still refusing to look at her, the clerk said, “It’s room one twenty - fourth door after the vending machine. The parking spot in front of it is yours to park in. Just need your license plate number, ma’am.”
He shoved a piece of paper and pen toward them. She wrote down her license plate number and picked up the card key. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome, ma’am,” the clerk said with another furtive glance at Wes. “Maid service is gone for the day, but the room has fresh sheets and clean towels. You can call me here at the front desk if you need anything at all.”
Wes stared silently at him until the man returned to his seat and stared at the laptop screen. Trying not to smile, Eleanor linked her fingers with Wes’s when he took her hand, and she followed him out of the lobby.
