Yet here we are.
I pull up to the first motel I see and park my bike near the front door. My knees are wobbly as I slide off the seat, and I pause to stretch my arms and legs. Usually, I try not to be on the road so long, but shit happens.
The glass door is so light that a strong breeze could throw it open. I yank it shut behind me, then pass under a flickering light and wrinkle my nose at the very obvious scent of mildew beneath the pungent odor of bleach. Just another run-down hovel clinging to capitalism, like all the dozens of other places I’ve lain my head.
“Need a room,?
? I greet the guy at the front desk.
At first glance, I think he’s young. But when he smiles, his eyes fold into laugh lines. His tan is too dark. Not “I spend time outside” dark but “I’m terrified of getting older so I bake in a sun bed every other day to halt my existential crisis” dark. There’s a white line on his left ring finger. Recently divorced, or pretending she doesn’t exist on the off chance he can stick his dick in someone else. Any roll of the dice would do.
“Just you, gorgeous?” His grin widens, and he sucks his teeth before adding, “I could keep you company if you’re feelin’ lonely.”
I roll my eyes and reach into the holster beneath my leather jacket, then flip open my switchblade and lay it pointedly on the Formica counter, tip facing him. “Call me gorgeous again, and you’ll be comping my room with a few less fingers.”
The poor sap rolls his dinky little stool away from the counter, putting some space between his orange face and my blade.
“Hey, sorry. My bad,” he says, stumbling over the syllables. “I’ll get you checked in ASAP.”
I return the blade to its holster with a smooth, practiced movement, then lean my elbows on the counter and hover over him as he works, silently menacing him to type faster. My ass is tired. I want to drop my bag and go find something hot to eat and cold to drink before I kick up my dusty boots for the night.
I can already tell that Oscura is going to be one more useless domino in a long line of them. Not a single one has fallen and revealed Kian. I’m chasing shadows through the goddamn night without a flashlight. I don’t know why I ever expect any town to be different, to offer up its secrets or give me a leg up on Kian’s or my other mates’ location.
Still, I keep searching. Keep going.
What the fuck else am I going to do?
Finally, cheap plastic keycard in hand, I leave the front office for the dry, hot evening and grab my duffel bag from the back of my Ducati. Pretty much everything I own fits in a single bag, and none of it is worth much. Traveling the country by bike on a quest to chase down and kill three men doesn’t set a girl up for a decent wardrobe. Three pairs of jeans. A few t-shirts. Some cotton shorts. One modest slip dress in case I need to get dressed up. One pair of motorcycle boots. Underwear, in case I ever decide to wear it.
Drifter fashion.
I use the keycard to swipe my way into a room at the end of the motel’s single-story row, then kick open the metal door and flick the light switch on the wall inside. A dull, amber bulb in a ridiculous gold sconce illuminates a room that has seen a lot better days than this one.
Venturing inside, I drop my bag in an armchair hulking in the corner and blow out an irritated breath. Flat blue carpet stained by God knows what. Rust stains in the bathroom sink, mildew on the shower curtain. Watercolor beach portraits, like I want to be reminded that I’m landlocked in the fucking desert.
“The Four Seasons, it is not,” I mutter, then shove my wallet in my back pocket with the key card and head out.
My ass is still chafed from my eight hour ride, so not even an ounce of me wants to straddle my bike again to go searching for sustenance. Luckily, the motel is centrally located, and I can see a large strip mall dotted by free-standing restaurants across the street and down a side road behind a thicket of evergreens. So I shove my fingers in the pockets of my blue jeans and set off for the crosswalk.
The strip mall is a happening place. The O’Charley’s parking lot overflows with giant pickups and tiny electric coupes, which is as New Mexico as it can get. Rednecks and hippies living semi-harmoniously. There’s a barbecue joint next door with a dozen people waiting on the patio. The idea of smoked ribs makes my mouth water, but if the crowd outside is any indication, it would be way too long of a wait.
I cross the lot, immediately shutting down the idea of grabbing fast food from either of the boxy chain restaurants, because I really want a drink. The strip mall behind the food places holds the usual bric-a-brac of small town America—a cheap grocery, a local hardware store, a math tutoring clinic, and a Big Lots. But at the very end of the row is the quintessential corner bar.
My kind of place.
I speed walk across the main thoroughfare before some douche in a lifted truck can mow me down, then hop up on the sidewalk, making my way for Joe’s Bar and Grill.
The front door is open to the evening air, spilling the mouthwatering scent of fried food and beer into the lot. I bypass a large group standing around just inside the doors, all of them with glasses in hand, then weave through a sea of high top tables to get to the bar.
The bar’s magnificent—dark, heavy wood that’s as aged as a fine wine. The same rich wood lines the wall behind the bar, planks intersected by mirrors and shelves holding rows and rows of liquor. It gives the whole area a kind of rustic, pirate ship feel.
I’m not even seated on one of the high-backed stools before the bartender comes to greet me. He’s a tall, lanky man with limbs that seem too stretched for his body and a head full of thick gray hair. His name tag declares him “Joe.” The owner, maybe.
He tosses a white rag over his shoulder and gives me a lopsided smile that seems more genuine than I’m used to. “You look like a whiskey girl.”
Just the word whiskey sends fury racing through me.
It’s an immediate, visceral reaction. If my anger could manifest as flames, Joe the bartender would spontaneously combust.