The Rebel of Raleigh High (Raleigh Rebels #1)(108)
My H.R. department—namely a perma-harrassed woman in her late forties called Sandra—had insisted I take time off to drive to Amy’s wedding. If only I could wrap my hands around Sandra’s neck right now, I’d throttle her. It would have taken six hours to fly to Alabama. Maybe a couple of hours in a car on top of that to reach Fairhope. But now, here I was, after three days on the road, stuck in the middle of the biggest flash flooding the state of Wyoming had ever witnessed, instead of being tucked up, comfortable and warm in a fancy hotel.
Goddamnit.
As I pulled up outside the Liberty Fields Guest House and Artisan Art Gallery, I mourned the fact that the place certainly did not appear to be a fancy hotel. Fat lot of good my Hilton Rewards points were going to do me out here. The guesthouse looked like a derelict, abandoned farmhouse, perched on the side of the highway embankment as I pulled into the packed parking lot. My teeth rattled together as I traveled over a series of giant potholes, invisible in the near perfect darkness, and I swore colorfully under my breath. I didn’t want to be here. I didn’t want to be dealing with any of this. It didn’t seem to matter what I wanted, though. The car rocked from side to side as I slid my arms into my thick winter jacket, preparing myself to face the weather. Through the windshield, the trees on the other side of the parking lot were bowed, their branches waving like outstretched arms, reaching for help. God, it looked fucking miserable out there.
Opening the car door, I swung my legs out, and my feet disappeared up to my ankles in frigid, inky black water. “Ffffffff—” I stopped myself from swearing. This night just couldn’t get any better. Seriously.
There were so many cars parked haphazardly in the lot that I had to walk a solid hundred and fifty feet to reach the dimly lit entrance to the guesthouse. The rain seemed to come down harder as I half ran toward the building, my teeth grinding together. I had no idea rain could actually be this cold. Shit, I needed to get inside. I needed to get inside. The rust-flecked handle on the front door of the motel threatened to fall off in my hand as I yanked on it. A blast of heat hit me in the face as I hurried through the entranceway, and strains of Jonny Cash’s ‘I Walk The Line’ flooded my ears. The left hand side of the lobby wall was fitted out with a stand—the same kind of stand you’d find in any normal hotel, where local businesses and tourist attractions advertise themselves—but the slots on this stand were all notably, depressingly empty. Liberty Fields was a black hole in the center of the State of Wyoming, zip code: nowhere.
The motel lobby smelled like damp and mildew. A puddle the size of Lake Michigan had collected in front of the rickety looking front desk; it was impossible to avoid the vast body of water as I made my way to the counter to ring the brass bell. Not that it mattered, of course. My feet were already soaking wet, right along with the rest of me. I hit the top of the bell for service, and nothing happened. No sound. No cheerful, inviting, I-need-help chime. Nothing.
“For fuck’s sake.” I looked around, searching for the night manager, but no one was to be seen. I leaned over the counter, hunting, hoping and praying for a savior to come along and tell me they had a secret, exclusive retreat out back that I hadn’t noticed on my way in, but all I found were stacks of rotting newspapers, a metal dog bowl with food encrusted around its rim, and a mouse trap butted up against the wall. Very encouraging indeed.
On the other side of the lobby, I spied a public payphone. Pulling a handful of quarters out of my jeans pocket, I took advantage of the opportunity and I called Amy.
“God, Sera. It’s nearly two in the morning,” she groaned when she picked up.
“I know, I know, I’m sorry. I just—fuck—I’m still stuck in the middle of nowhere. I have another twenty-four hours to drive, and it looks like tomorrow’s going to be a complete wash out. I don’t know if I’m going to make it.” In my experience, it was better to rip the Band-Aid off as quickly as possible, especially with Amy. She was hardly a no-nonsense woman, but if you strung things out with her, she tended to get a little hysterical.
“What do you mean, you don’t know if you’re going to make it?” Her voice was a little groggy when she picked up a second ago, but now it was sharp with accusation and worry.
“There’s a huge storm, Amy. The roads are all closed. I’m stranded in Liberty Fields.”
“Liberty Fields? Where the fuck is Liberty Fields?”
“I—god, I don’t know. It sucks, though. I can tell you that much.”
Behind me, the guesthouse door chimed, and a loud groan drowned out Johnny Cash for a second. I glanced over my shoulder, hopeful that it was the night manager entering the building, but when I saw the guy who stooped through the doorway to enter the place, I immediately knew he didn’t work here.
A creature like that simply didn’t exist in a place like this. Tall. Square jaw, lined with a swathe of black stubble. Bright, intelligent eyes—so damn pale, like quicksilver—traveled over me as the newcomer took in the lobby. The black suitcase in his hand appeared to be designer. Definitely not something a night manager would be carrying around with him. He looked like a character right out of Reservoir Dogs. Our eyes met, and there was absolutely nothing. No greeting smile from a fellow, weary traveler. No relief at finding someone else waiting in the lobby. Absolutely no flicker of emotion whatsoever.
“Sera. You do know what’ll happen to you if you’re not here on Saturday, right? I will disown you and never speak to you again.” Amy’s voice rattled down the phone. I turned back around, pressing the receiver harder against my ear.