SSS 2 - Fix it yourself

“Hey,” Taytum says as you grab the supplies.

“I got it,” you tell her. “Just look after her,” you add, glancing at Bian, who’s examining all the outdated, faded brochures hanging in a yellowed, plastic case beside a broken AC.

Taytum gives you a look.

“Since when are you so fucking cool?” she asks with a snort.

You roll your eyes and plunge out into the rain, which reduces visibility to about six feet. It’s an experience to be under a downpour like this. It’s deafening, and the rain is almost physically painful. It’s almost enough to push you to the ground. Fortunately, the parking lot is gravel, so you don’t slip. You were already soaked to the bone. Scientifically, you can’t get any wetter, although the cold could be a problem if you were stuck out here without shelter. It’s not truly cold, but it doesn’t have to be in a storm like this.

You reach the Traverse and attempt your makeshift repair. It’s not pretty and you use entirely too much tape, but you want to be as thorough as possible. It bugs you to do work that isn’t perfectly tidy, but you have to be realistic. Perfection isn’t an option in this weather.

Once you’re satisfied, you dash to the cover of the walkway. You look in either direction, but all you see are doors and the rain cascading off the roof. You don’t know which room they’re in; you didn’t look at the key, and you weren’t paying attention when you checked in.

You return to the office, finding it empty. Self-conscious about your dripping, which is outrageous, you approach the counter and ring the bell. There, you wait and listen to the rain as the minutes stretch. Are you really going to have to go room to room, knocking to find Bian and Taytum? It’s just that kind of night. The diner was eerily understaffed, and now this place. It’s probably because of the weather. Maybe that girl’s shift is over and her replacement isn’t coming for obvious reasons. But no… where would the girl have gone? You would need an extremely serious car to go out in this. Or a submarine.

You were a rule follower before the President got you into CCL’s little side hustle. It’s just been a crazy night. If no one’s here, there’s no one to complain about you poking around a little. You slip behind the desk, but there’s nothing interesting to see except for a Starbucks cup just out of sight. It must belong to the brunette. You aren’t actually trying to rob this motel, but you’re wondering if there isn’t an office or a break room with snacks that you can pilfer.

There’s only one door behind the desk. You reach for the handle.

“Hey,” says a voice.

You turn to see the brunette emerge from the hallway, unwrapping a candy bar.

“Oh, shit. Sorry,” you say, backing off. “I was afraid you were gone for real. I rang the bell.”

The girl shrugs and points at the ceiling to indicate how noisy the rain is.

“You should get out of those wet clothes,” she says as she returns to her post. “I’m not coming onto you. I just think it would be a good idea.” She takes her seat and opens her paperback novel.

“Which room are we in?”

“Um.” She looks up and frowns. “I don’t know.” She frowns and turns to the rack of keys. She points. “Room 18.”

“Where is that?”

“I don’t know.” She shrugs at you.

“Do you or don’t you work here?” you ask bluntly.

“I’m covering. I really work at a bar. This is quieter,” she admits, looking around at the pitiful room. “Worse tips.”

Her eyes fall on you.

“You good?” she asks.

You nod, backing toward the door. 18. You let yourself back out into the rain.

As you do, headlights glow on the road. You stop and turn to look. A huge SUV comes into view, slowing down noticeably. It doesn’t turn into the lot, it just crawls by.

The taillights vanish into the storm. That’s a brave driver. Maybe it means some of the roads are still passable. You aren’t about to risk it, though. Getting behind the wheel again is even less attractive than spending the night here. The numbering on the doors, at least, is not that complicated. Finding room 18 is easy. There are lights on in a couple of other rooms, but not very many of them.

You let yourself into the room.

It has two double beds with horrible, orange blankets on them. There’s a CRT television, a desk with a chair, and the wallpaper is a green and brown pattern. The carpet is one of those very short ones that’s a mottle of different colors that comes out to something like gray. The room smells like a cheap hotel room and it’s cold. The AC unit on the wall is coughing and halfheartedly producing warm air. Taytum has the closet open and is hanging up wet clothes.

She wears only her panties: salmon-colored bikini cut, probably from somewhere like Old Navy. She’s as thin as you are, yet somehow her body looks less angular. Her belly looks flat and sexy instead of gaunt. Her hips are round her rear is pert instead of flat. She has actual breasts, although they aren’t big. You try not to stare at how her nipples stand out.

The shower is running; Bian must be in it, warming up.

“You OK?” Taytum asks you.

“Of course,” you reply, closing the door. Taytum walks over to you, coming up close.

“What the hell happened back there?” she asks you. “Take all that off.”

“I don’t know,” you tell her. “It was weird.”

“Lyna, you’re dripping on everything.”

You are. But before you take your clothes off, there’s something bothering you.

The money intended for the buy is still hidden in the car, which you can’t see from this room. Someone already went looking for it once. You are deeply confused by the night’s events, and also anxious.

Move the money?

Or leave it hidden?