I frown at her. “You aren’t paying. This is my job, not yours—and you’re taking time off work to do it.” At the protest I already see forming, I cut her off. “Besides, I can write it off as a business expense.”
And furthermore, I invested myBama Bountypaychecks back in the day, so I’m not exactly hurting for income. But I don’t mention that part. Seems crass.
I figure Helen will change her tune about staying at a nice hotel, now that she knows I’m paying, but instead she seems even more wary about choosing a high-end place. “It doesn’t need to be anything fancy,” she insists. “Just go with whatever you’d normally choose for a trip like this.”
NormallyI wouldn’t be chasing anyone across state lines, so it’s kind of a moot point. I don’t mention that to Helen, though. It’s hard to say what it is about the Dean Flanagan case. The money is obviously a nice incentive, but there’s a feeling you get when you know you’re on the trail of someone you’re meant to catch. Dad used to say it was a sixth sense all natural-born bounty hunters have, a sort of obsession that feels almost like love. Plus it’d be nice to land something like this, prove that my business doesn’t have to rely on my father’s name.
I can’t help but reflect, for maybe the thousandth time, just how different Vera and Helen are. I can’t imagine Vera ever in a million years feeling uncomfortable about someone else spending their money on her. I don’t think it’s a bad thing, necessarily, to like the finer things in life—look at me, driving in my fancy car, fussing about getting crumbs on the upholstery—but I guess what stands out to me is the difference in how the offer’sreceived.
Yet another reminder, I guess, that I don’t really know Helen, or how she thinks, or what she wants. I don’t ever know what to expect from her. She’s not like anyone I’ve ever met before, and I don’t just mean not like any other woman. I mean any otherperson. I’ve lived so long expecting the worst out of people, searching for the greedy or petty or mean reasons they do what they do. I’ve tried doing that with Helen, but I’ve been wrong basically every time. Which makes me almost wonder…if I should be expecting the best, giving her the benefit of the doubt, trusting that she actually might just be a good person.
We’re taking so long to decide on a hotel that we’ve almost passed through Nashville completely, putting us in danger of hitting another empty patch of rural countryside and having to drive another hour before we can stop. My bladder very much does not like that idea.
I see another hotel advertised at the next exit. “All right,” I say, making an executive decision for the both of us, “the Road View Inn it is…”
From the outside, the inn doesn’t look too bad. It’s obviously not a chain hotel, but the sign looks new and the paint is fresh. I see a bunch of bikes in the parking lot, but I’m not opposed to bikers on principle, unless they give me a reason to be.
As soon as we step inside, I realize I’ve made a mistake. The interior of the Road View Inn is a far cry from the freshly painted exterior. Fluorescent lights flicker overhead. The clerk sits behind bulletproof glass enshrining the entire front counter, with just a little intercom to talk through.
And the lobby is absolutely packed with bikers.
These are not retirees who bought a bike and formed a club with some buddies to fulfill a lifelong bucket list of traveling the country. This is a biker gang, full of the kinds of guys I usually only see in a database for breaking bail, or worse. Many are wearing matching jackets with white dragons stenciled on the back. This lot is big, mean, and rowdy…and their eyes all collectively turn to Helen as she enters the room.
Helen is oblivious to the attention, busy rifling around in her purse for something. “I can’t find my wallet. I think I must have left it in the car…”
“We’ll get it later,” I tell her tersely, keeping my eyes on all the eyes that are watching her. Without really thinking about it, I put my hand on her elbow and pull her closer to me. “Come on, let’s go check in.”
“Won’t I need my ID?”
I only half hear her, busy waging a silent stare-off with all the bikers who are watching us.This one’s mine, I tell them with my glare, my posture, my hand on her. Yeah, yeah, I know it’s archaic and sexist and blabbity blah. I’m only speaking their language, don’t shoot the translator.
They suss me out a moment longer. This isn’t my first tango with these sorts of men, and I know they’ll clock my height, my frame, my tattoos, and the way I’m not pissing my pants staring them down. Hopefully all of that will translate to,This guy isn’t worth messing with.
Nobody moves, and I swallow down a sigh of relief. They won’t try anything, at least not with me around. “We’ll be fine. I’m the one paying, remember?”
Helen grimaces at the reminder, but we’ve gone over it enough that she doesn’t bring it up again. At least, not here, in this dump. I’m guessing she’s already pieced together a room in this place can’t costthatmuch, so she won’t protest. But if I try to persuade her to go to a different hotel, the whole thing will probably start all over again, and frankly I’ve reached the point in the day of traveling where the thought of being in a car for even five more minutes sounds like excruciating torture.
Still, I won’t feel safe staying in a place like this, not with Helen alone by herself in one of the thin-doored rooms, likely with a broken lock. Any one of these nasty assholes might pounce on her the moment I’m out of sight. They probably wouldn’t even have to try that hard. Knowing her, all some guy would have to do is knock on the door with some bullshit excuse about needing to use the phone, and sweet little Sister Helen, with one of her sunny smiles, will throw the door wide open to the Big Bad Wolf.
I tighten my hand into a fist at the thought, gritting my teeth. The visceral reaction in my body surprises me—because nothing is actually, actively happening. It’s all in my head. But tell that to my pounding heart, my clenching gut.
Thinking quickly, I come up with a solution. “There’s a bathroom right here in the lobby. Your bladder must be pretty full by now, huh?”
Helen looks like she can’t quite believe I’m bringing up her bladder in the middle of a hotel lobby. “My bladder is just fine,” she says with no little amount of dignity, a very distracting flush creeping into her cheeks—two perfectly round little spots of pink that might have been adorable if we weren’t surrounded by hungry predators all waiting to pounce on fresh meat. Her eyes dart over to the bathroom. “But, if you’re going to check in anyway…”
“Go ahead,” I encourage her. “I’ll take care of everything.” As she takes a few tentative steps toward the bathroom, I call after her, “Make sure you lock the door.”
I watch her the whole time she walks, and so does the whole room, all of us holding our breaths. Dear, naive Sister Helen really has no idea what a loaded weapon she is outside of her bulky, shapeless clothes. She’s wearing jeans and a sweater, nothing salacious, but even so. She has the kind of body that’s made for sinful thoughts, all swaying hips and luscious curves, and I sigh with relief when the door shuts and I hear the lock click in place.
I move quickly to the glass-enshrined front counter, careful to keep the bathroom in my line of sight. The man behind the counter looks almost as tough as the bikers in the lobby, bald and tattooed, with a no-nonsense, gruff look about him. Damn. He might make things difficult for me.
“I need a room,” I tell him, “two beds if you have it. And when my friend gets back, I need you to tell her there are no other rooms left, so we’ll have to make due with sharing the one.”
The clerk looks back at me, unimpressed. “Take whatever creepy shit you’re trying to pull to another hotel. I’m not getting involved.”
“No creepy shit, I swear.” I put one hand on my heart and the other up in the air. “Hand to God, I’m not doing anything we couldn’t tell her mom about tomorrow morning.” Okay, so that’s a bit of a lie, because I’m pretty sure Pam would have an aneurysm if she knew Helen and I were going to be in any type of bedroom scenario together, no matter how platonic. “I can’t let her stay on her own with this group hanging around.” I gesture behind me with a subtle jerk of my head. “Who are these people anyway?”
“The Iron Wraiths,” the clerk tells me, and I can hear in his tone of voice that he’s no fan, either.
