Both motels were similar: long, low, with cracked pavement in the lot that weeds were bursting through, filthy windows that hardly let any light in, and ancient signs. The one across the street was half-hanging off its post, just waiting to screw someone’s day up when they parked under it when it decided to finally release.
It wasn’t the hotel itself that caught my eye. Or the sign. The trucks parked in the back. The sex worker on her knees beside one of those trucks or the ogre of a man she was servicing.
Nope.
It was the woman in white making a mad dash from the front office.
A very familiar woman.
I knew Lula when I saw her.
I’d been admiring the woman for years.
There was no mistaking her for anyone else. All those perfect, soft curves. That feminine face with high cheekbones, a soft jaw, that stunning, rich sepia skin.
The only thing about her that was different was the way her hair was split down the center and slicked back. I wasn’t sure I’d ever seen her with her hair fully up before.
Or wearing something so dressed down. In this case, a matching short and tank set in a crisp winter white.
It was Lula.
But also… it couldn’t be Lula.
Because Lula belonged in Shady Valley. In her fancy-ass condo. With her BMW.
Not at some shady-ass motel in Florida making a quick dash toward a cheap-ass little red sedan.
I was frozen in place, watching her slide into the driver’s seat, slamming the door, locking it, then tossing her luggage into the backseat before turning the vent toward her face and letting it blow on her for a minute before throwing the car into reverse and pulling out of her spot.
I was doubting my eyes, wondering if maybe I was seeing what Iwantedto see. But then she pulled out of the lot, driving right past me.
“The fuck?” I mumbled to myself.
Because it was absolutely Lula.
And there was a strange, haunted look in her eye as she drove.
She never looked at me, gave no sign that she’d noticed me like I’d noticed her.
Hm.
I tossed the trash and made my way back to my room, wondering what kind of business Lula could have in this area. From what I understood, any family she had was in California. And this was not the kind of place anyone went for vacation.
Could she be on the job? Doing something for the Murphy brothers?
Technically, she was their accountant. But maybe she needed to make some kind of investment in person?
But if that was the case, there was no way she was staying in some fleabag motel. The Murphy brothers would put her up in luxury. She was, after all, their most valuable asset. Keeping her happy meant they got to keep doing their illegal shit without getting the IRS breathing down their necks about where all the extra money was coming from.
Lula wasn’t just an accountant.
She was a mafia accountant.
And she was the queen of cooking the books.
I considered calling my brother or even texting one of the Murphy brothers. But something told me not to, to hold off until I got back to Shady Valley to ask about her at all.
Hell, maybe I was just so homesick that I was conjuring her up.
