Hell on Wheels (Black Knights Inc. #1)(63)
“We don’t have—” he tried to interrupt her, but she just talked right over him.
“—don’t do one of those two things I swear to God I’m going to jump off this bike, because I refuse to docilely sit back here while you slowly bleed to death!”
The last three words were screeched even though she’d done her best to remain calm because, really, just how the h-e-double-hockey-sticks was she supposed to remain calm in a situation like this?
When he didn’t answer, she clenched her jaw until her teeth ached. “You know I’ll do it,” she threatened.
No, it wasn’t a threat. It was a promise.
“Goddamnit!” he cursed, but she knew she’d won when he took the next exit.
They drove for a little over five miles, although it felt like five hundred to Ali, before coming upon the Happy Acres Hunting Lodge.
Now, the Happy Acres was no more a lodge than a motor home was a mansion, but at least the vacancy sign was lit up and the place looked like it probably had running water.
Pulling Phantom around back and hiding the motorcycle behind a tall patch of wild hydrangeas, Nate dug his wallet from his back pocket and handed her a couple of crisp, fifty dollar bills.
“Get a room,” he instructed, removing his helmet.
Even in the dim glow given off by the flashing Happy Acres sign, she could see his usually swarthy skin was waxy and pale. He was sweating, his black hair damp and curling around his temples.
“Pay with cash and use an alias when signin’ the book,” he added. “I don’t want anyone to track us here.”
Yeah, considering someone, or a group of someones, was out to kill them, being tracked here would be bad.
She shook her head, refusing to think about that or she was going to hurl again. As she strode toward the office, she wiped her bloody hand on the butt of her jeans. That’d surely be the way to secure a room. Hand whoever was in charge of running the night shift at Happy Acres a fist full of bloody bills.
Gave a whole new meaning to the phrase, “blood money,” now didn’t it?
She laughed and then clamped her teeth together when she realized she was inching toward hysteria. She just didn’t have time for the total psychological meltdown she so richly deserved.
Dragging in a deep breath—sheesh, the septic was obviously backed up in one of the units and that certainly didn’t do her sensitive stomach any favors—she pulled open the door to the Happy Acres’ office.
Five minutes later, she walked out with the key to room eight, the Big Mouth Bass Room, or so the night-shift guy with the ridiculous comb-over told her while trying to ogle her breasts beneath her biker jacket. When she leaned down to sign the ledger, he tilted his head to get a better look and the thin chunk of hair parted just above his right ear lost its precarious perch and slipped down to dangle onto his scrawny shoulder.
He’d quickly swiped it back into place, but…wow…who was the guy trying to kid with that ’do?
Her night was just getting more and more bizarre. And it was only promising to continue on that path, because…the Big Mouth Bass Room? Really?
She hated to be a broken record, but whose life was she living?
***
Nate thumbed off his cell phone when Ali emerged from the Happy Acres office. He’d reported back to Black Knights Inc. on their situation—namely, he had the drive and was mildly wounded by a guy whom Ali claimed bore a suspicious resemblance to her mugger. Their location—namely, they were stopped at some podunk travel lodge in the middle of nowhere. And their agenda—namely, they were going to dress his wound, get some grub, and rest for a few hours until things cooled down.
He only hoped Ozzie could work his magic and keep the local police from coordinating an all out manhunt for the two of them, because there was a very dead guy on the side lawn of Paul and Carla Morgan’s house and witnesses had to have heard, if not seen, Phantom leave the scene only moments after the report of those three, unmistakable gunshots.
Ali waved a key with a big, plastic key ring attached. Was that?…Yep, it was shaped like a trout. Oh, the Happy Acres promised to be quite a treat.
“Follow me to our cozy little home away from home,” she instructed as she took the duffel he handed her. He shouldered the remaining saddlebags and…
Shit! That hurt!
Yep, he was shot. Best to remember that.
He gritted his teeth as he traipsed behind Ali to a door with chipped and peeling green paint. To add to the air of age and neglect, the poor edifice also sported a dangling plastic number eight. Ali pushed her way inside and…
He blinked.
“Is this a joke?” he asked, stepping over the threshold.
This had to be a joke, because they were greeted upon entering by a Big Mouth Billy Bass, one of those animatronic singing props. It turned its fishy head outward, wiggled on its trophy plaque, and started singing “Don’t Worry, Be Happy.”
“I wish,” Ali said with disgust, wrinkling her nose at the overpowering smell of Lysol and carpet deodorizer. At least someone had made an attempt to clean the space sometime in the near past. “Unfortunately, due to a septic issue, our choices were this room or the Trophy Buck room. We’re going to be treating a gunshot wound, so I didn’t fancy the idea of being watched by all those mounted deer heads with their sad, brown eyes. You know, considering they’d fallen prey to a similar fate.”