Keats fished out his key card as he approached the door to his room, trying not to look back to see if Colby was still in the parking lot. It’d been an asshole move to bolt on him like that, but he needed to get out before Colby went into takeover mode again. Yes, to someone like Colby, who lived in a posh suburb, this place probably seemed like a third world country. But for Keats this was just another day, another motel. Nothing to get all twisted up about.
He slid his card into the reader and the light blinked yellow instead of green. He tried again and got the same result. “Dammit.”
He glanced back toward the main office, which was on the far side of the parking lot. Aaron had probably already deactivated Keats’s card. But that had happened before and the light usually went red for that. He grabbed the door handle and gave a little push. The door gave—apparently, it hadn’t clicked fully into the lock.
That should’ve given him pause, but he was in too much of a rush to get inside. He swung the door open, set his bag and guitar case on the floor, and was greeted by a looming black mass in the dark. Keats didn’t have time to make a sound before a fist came crashing into the side of his head.
The doorknob slipped from his hand as the momentum from the unexpected punch propelled him to the floor. He rolled on the dingy carpet, trying to get to his feet, but the blow had dazed him, and he couldn’t get his bearings in the dark.
A sharp kick landed against his ribs. “Been waiting for you all night, pretty boy. Aaron said if you didn’t show up I could have your shit. But this is so much better.”
“What the fuck?” Keats groaned. He recognized the voice instantly but not the reason for Hank’s visit. “You said I had until tomorrow to get you cash.”
“It’s almost midnight, asshole. You have my money?”
“I got it,” Keats ground out. Well, some of it. His eyes were adjusting to the dark, and he tried to calculate how far he was from a possible weapon. The lamp would be within reach if he could get to his knees, but the motel bolted everything down, so that wouldn’t work. The phone had possibilities. But if he could get his arm under the bed . . . He got on his knees and lifted his hand in a placating gesture, trying to look like he was cooperating. “Just lay the fuck off and give me a second to get it.”
But Hank’s dirty biker boot planted against Keats’s chest and shoved him back down. The wind left Keats, and he quickly realized Hank didn’t give a shit about the mo
ney. He was high or drunk off his ass and looking to beat someone for entertainment. Super.
Anger moved through Keats. All this bullshit and he hadn’t even stolen anything from the guy. He gritted his teeth. This idiot had gotten the jump on him, but that wouldn’t happen again. He scrambled to the left before Hank could kick him again and rolled to his feet.
“Aww, look at Mr. Tough Guy run,” Hank teased. “I always told Nina you were a pussy.”
The insult echoed back to what Keats’s father used to call him, and all rational thought left his mind. He charged, leading with his fists.
He was going to kill this fucker.
—
Colby stalked into the dimly lit office of the Texas Star Motel. A man with a fraying Cowboys cap and cigarette hanging out of his mouth looked up with disinterest. “All booked up tonight.”
“I need to know what room Adam Keats is staying in.”
The man snuffed out his cigarette. “We don’t give out guest information. Company policy.”
Right. Colby suspected exactly what their policy was. He pulled out his wallet, plucked a twenty from it, and slapped it on the counter. “Room number.”
The guy’s tobacco-stained fingers snatched the bill and tucked it in his front shirt pocket. “One-thirty-two. Far left side.”
“Thanks for the hospitality,” Colby said, not hiding the sarcasm in his voice. He shoved open the glass door, the rickety handle nearly coming off in his hand, and strode through the parking lot.
A few guys were sitting around a dinged-up Oldsmobile, blasting a song with so much bass he could feel it vibrate his chest. The ringleader gave him a narrow-eyed look, probably sizing him up to see if the three of them could be enough to get his wallet off him. This was the part of town you only wanted to visit in the morning because the criminals were either sleeping it off or in jail. But Colby glared right back, daring them to try it. He could bench-press one of these assholes for fun.
One of the men smiled in that ain’t-no-thing kind of way and turned back to his friends. Good. Message received.
The motel wasn’t big, and Colby found Keats’s room without much trouble. But when he lifted his hand to knock, he heard a crashing sound from inside and angry voices. Every part of him went on alert. He grabbed the door handle and shoved. The door hadn’t clicked into the lock and it swung open easily, but what was on the other side was much worse than he expected. Keats was in a tangle, scrapping with some greasy-haired dude, fists flying. Before Colby could even process what he was seeing, the other guy broke free and shoved Keats onto the floor. The resounding thump of Keats hitting the ground snapped Colby out of his momentary shock.
Colby didn’t think. He launched himself at the guy. Surprise and size were on his side, and he propelled the man into the wall. The cheap drywall rattled behind him as the guy slammed against it. The man tried to swing out at Colby, but he was too disoriented to land a punch with any accuracy.
Colby pressed his forearm against the guy’s throat. Keats must’ve already landed a few good punches. The dude’s nose was bleeding and his jaw was starting to swell. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”
The guy struggled and spat. “This fucker stole from me. I’m here to collect.”
Colby peered over his shoulder at Keats.
Keats got to his knees and wiped his bloody mouth with his forearm. “I don’t owe you shit, Hank. Talk to your goddamned sister. She’s the one stealing from you.”