Chapter 4 #2
Dropping quickly to my knees, I carefully shake the arm of the man lying lifeless on the ground. “Sir, sir. Are you okay?”
He lets out a groan.
“Are you hurt?”
“Nah. I just lose my balance sometimes.” His voice is low, so I have to lean in close to hear him. Surprisingly, he doesn’t smell as if he’s drowning in alcohol. Are pills more his thing? His clothes are disheveled, and he smells like he hasn’t seen a bar of soap in a year.
“If I help you up, think you can walk to your room okay? Or do you want me to call an ambulance?”
“Nah, nah. I don’t need them. If you can help me up, I’ll be fine,” he mutters. Does he even have a hotel room here?
Reaching under his arms, I pull the old guy to his feet. This isn’t too difficult given he likely weighs ninety pounds soaking wet. “There you go.”
He turns to look at me. “Thank you, dear. That was really kind of you. Most people would just keep walking.”
It’s probably what I should’ve done. Ran back over to grab Betty.
She would know how to handle things. But there was no way I could leave him there like that.
Thinking of Betty reminds me of the leftovers she packed for me to take to my room for the remainder of my trip. “Have you eaten anything tonight?”
“No.”
I figured as much. This poor man. I wonder if this area has any homeless shelters. “Are you staying here? At the hotel?”
He quirks a brow at me. An odd expression now on his face. “No.” A smile curls his thin lips. Holy shit. Does he think I’m propositioning him?
I thrust my paper sack full of leftovers at him. “Here. There’s quite a bit of food inside.” It isn’t until I’m waiting for him to reach for the bag that I realize…
He’s touching himself.
“Thank you for talking to me.” He grins, causing my dinner to lurch within my belly.
Dropping the bag and spinning on my heel, I cover my mouth in an attempt to push the bile back down my throat.
Then I remember I just touched that guy and nearly wretch again.
I sprint toward the fluorescent light shining from the motel office window like a beacon.
Lord, help me. I need a scalding hot shower, pronto.
As if that experience wasn’t disgusting enough. I probably have tuberculosis now.
As I approach the plexiglass window, an older man with thinning hair and an unidentifiable accent greets me. Well, if you can call it that. “Yeah?”
“Hi. I saw the vacancy sign.”
“Need a room?” he asks around the cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth.
Really? Why the hell else would I be here?
I swear, sleeping in my car at a campground can’t possibly be any less safe than this.
This place screams Bates motel. They’d honestly make more money renting it out to a production studio to film horror movies.
I consider asking if he has a room with fourteen padlocks and a stun gun, but leave it at, “Yes.”
Clutching my bag even tighter, I hand over the cash to cover the night’s stay and grab the key. Once inside the room that is thankfully close to the office, I flip the lock, bolt the useless chain, and then push the dresser in front of it for good measure.
I quickly move to the shameful excuse for a bathroom and take a scalding shower to cleanse myself of the ick from the last few hours.
The hot water pours down my body. There’s no water pressure, but I’m hoping the heat alone will calm my nerves enough to get some shut-eye before making the rest of my journey to Sycamore Mountain.
Yet, the constant sounds of shouting and hot rods revving their engines outside my door have made this a nearly impossible feat.
Instead of sleep clothes, I’ve dressed in jeans and a T-shirt so I can hit the road at a moment’s notice. Well, that and so I’ll be wearing something respectable if the police accidentally kick in my door by mistake when they come to arrest the drug dealers or prostitutes beside me.
Placing my earbuds in, I find my playlist. Not the motivational one I, and apparently Betty, listen to.
But one that usually helps lull me to sleep after closing my book for the night.
I hit play on “Someday We’ll Know” by the New Radicals, and attempt to drown out my surroundings.
My song choice is probably not smart. After the day I’ve had exploring, observing families enjoying the coast, it makes me ponder things that simply aren’t possible.
My mind drifts to Ellie on her wedding day.
Imagining her walking toward her adoring groom.
That girl grew up facing every challenge head on.
She and I lived on the poor side of Candy Cane Key.
The hardworking, always down on your luck side.
In a town that small, there’s no hiding your story.
Yet my sweet friend kept her head held high. Who’s got the last laugh now?
If only one of us has a shot at a happily ever after, I’m glad it’s her.
The following day, I make good time, choosing to limit my stops.
The remainder of the trip is much less stressful.
But as crazy as the day before may have been, I shouldn’t complain.
I managed to see some great sights, enjoyed the best jambalaya I’ve ever had, and acquired a fairy godmother.
I giggle. Who knows if I’ll ever see Betty again.
But knowing a brassy lady like her would have my back if I needed it…
well, that alone puts last night in the win column.
Lost in my thoughts, my body jolts in excitement as my eyes land on a bright green highway sign ahead. ‘Welcome to Sycamore Mountain.’ Yes! Finally.
Exiting the interstate, it doesn’t take long to see the similarities to Candy Cane Key.
As I approach the light at the end of the off-ramp, a lone gas station sits on one corner, and an off-brand fast-food restaurant and a bait and tackle shop on the other.
There are miles of desolate farmland interspersed with clusters of evergreen trees as far as the eye can see.
Occasional hay bales are dotted amongst the tall grass, instantly making me smile.
The beauty of this mountain town, unspoiled by strip malls, theme park gas stations, and five-star golf resorts, is undeniable.
What the—? I stand corrected. This place may have one blemish.
Cocking my head to one side, I repeatedly blink, attempting to focus on the sight before me.
As I drive closer to the farm on my right, a man standing next to a riding mower comes into view.
An old guy with a beer belly wearing an animal print Speedo.
I can’t help but stare open-mouthed as his form becomes clearer.
He bends over to retrieve something, and my face freezes in shock as his pasty white buttocks resemble two pancakes separated by dental floss. What on earth?
Is that old guy wearing a cheetah thong?