CHAPTER ONE FALLON #3
“He was looking for lodging,” I say, moving my way around the counter. “I thought it would be better to help him here instead of letting him get back in his car. I didn’t know he was going to... shut his eyes forever here.” I press my hand to my forehead. “I mean, is he really, you know...?”
“Dead?”
“Yeah, that. Is he? I can’t see through that stupid suit. This is getting ridiculous. We need to check his pulse. Call an ambulance.”
“And tell them what?” Jaz says, growing serious. “That we carried a drunk man to your lair, where he just happened to die? I have a record, Fallon. This does not look good on me.”
“It’s not my fault you’ve made it a hobby to go around and slash tires.”
“I’m a vigilante!” She raises her fist to the air.
“Dear God, this is getting out of control. For the love of everything holy, just feel for his pulse.” I shove her toward the couch.
“Ew, no way. You do it. You’re the former nurse, and the one with a romantic involvement.”
“It was one blind date.”
“Still, you are more attached, and bringing him here was your idea. I touched him with the umbrella! I did my service; now it’s your time.”
I shake my hands while jogging in place. “Can you at least be ready with the hand sanitizer?”
“That I can do.” She drops the umbrella and snags the bottle of hand sanitizer from the counter next to the computer. She holds the bottle out in front of her, legs spread in a sturdy stance and one finger on the nozzle, ready to attack. “Okay, I’m ready. Touch him.”
Mentally preparing myself, I convince my brain that I’m not about to touch a dead person, that in fact, I’m just touching a man who is sleeping.
I slowly inch toward him. One scoot at a time until I’m hovering over him.
Slowly—wincing the entire time—I reach down to his lifeless wrist and press two fingers to his skin—
“Mashed potatoes!” he yells, sitting straight up. I fall back on my ass and scream bloody murder.
“Satan!” Jaz yells, squirting him with the hand sanitizer.
I scoot backward, crab-walk-style, until I’m far enough away to catch my breath after the heart attack he just gave me.
His inebriated eyes land on me, and he slowly wavers in his seat, bobbling to and fro as he stares down at me. Languidly, he holds up his index finger and says, “One plate, please.” And then he collapses back against the couch.
Frozen in fear, we catch our breaths and then calmly distance ourselves a little more.
“I think it’s safe to say he’s not dead, just very drunk,” I say with relief as I stand from the ground and brush off my hands.
“With some ghost possessing him, maybe the owner of that suit. It can’t be new—has to have been dug up from somewhere.” Jaz picks up the umbrella again and gradually runs the tip along his shin. “Looks like old fabric to me.”
“Stop stroking him with the umbrella, and hand me his wallet so I can get him checked in and then get him the hell out of here.”
Jaz fetches the wallet from the ground and tosses it to me. She holds the umbrella up to him like a sword, probably warding off any more abrupt pleas for mashed potatoes, while I flip open the old, torn leather of his wallet. My eyes land on his ID and his name.
Sawyer.
Ahh, see, I knew it began with an S .
It takes me a few minutes, but once he’s checked in, I grab the key to cabin eight—it offers a wonderful mountain view, because I’m nice like that—and together, Jaz and I lift his arms over our shoulders. We drag him to his cabin and dump him on the bed once we’ve unlocked the door.
Jaz tosses his wallet at his passed-out body and then catches her breath. “You couldn’t have picked a closer cabin?”
“He asked for a mountain view.”
Her eyes flash to me. “I hate you.”
“I know.” I sigh. “But hey, at least we can say we did a good deed. He’s safe in his cabin, and no one robbed him.”
“So you think,” Jaz says, holding up a twenty-dollar bill between her fingers.
“Jaz,” I scold, reaching for it, but she stuffs it in her torn-up jean shorts. “Call it a bellhop tip. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a man waiting for me at my place.”
“What?” I laugh. “Who?”
We walk out of the cabin, and I lock it up with my spare key so no one can get in—just in case, since we’re pretty much crime-free here—and Jaz ruffles her hand through her hair. “That marine I met two years ago—he’s on leave and drove up for some fresh air.”
“Wait... Hunky Hakeem is waiting for you back at your place?”
“Yeah, and he sent me a picture of himself spread eagle on my bed, so your attempt to be Mother Teresa has put a dent in my fun.”
“You should have told me.”
“And let you take care of that yourself? No. I might have a wicked soul, but my heart still has some good in it. Couldn’t have let you go about that alone.
” We make it back to the main office, and she heads toward the front door.
“I’m assuming since there isn’t much rush on your end, Peter isn’t headed up here this weekend?
You’re usually prepping and primping, getting ready for him. ”
I shake my head. “His shift ends on Sunday. He’s coming up Monday.”
“Well, at least you have some entertainment until then.” She nods toward the back cabins.
“The less entertainment, the better. Have fun with Hakeem.”
“Oh. I will.” She winks and then takes off.
I lock the door behind her, turn off the vacancy sign, and shut down the main office before heading upstairs to the residence quarters.
Fridays are usually my favorite days. Peter, my boyfriend, travels up here from a long shift at Palm Springs General Hospital’s emergency room.
Sully spends the weekend with Tank, giving me a break, and I can just take a deep breath.
But the disturbance from the runaway groomsman has put a kink in my plans to relax.
At least I can go to bed knowing he and his terrible suit will be heading out of here tomorrow.