7. Lyla
Lyla
The Sage Brush Motel was the only thing with availability when I came back to Sage Valley.
My savings will tide me over for a while–not indefinitely–and they would have afforded me somewhere decent to stay had there been any availability. There are no fancy hotels here, and no rooms at any of the cute little B’n’B’s in town either. Rodeo season also attracts a lot of out-of-towners.
Sutton had offered me a place to stay on her couch, but with her sporadic shift schedule and crazy on-call hours, I didn’t want to get in her way. I don’t want to get in anyone’s way. I’m trying to turn over a new leaf, be considerate, not step on too many toes.
Staying with Austin isn’t an option. He lives in the bunkhouse with the other ranch hands and to me, that sounds worse than a dumpy roadside motel.
I’m opting to look on the bright side. I love having my own space, where I can relax and be completely myself, unfiltered.
Critter greets me as I enter, his adorable snaggletooth sticking up and pushing in his top lip. He’s a tiny chihuahua mixed with something that no one can be sure of. Whatever he is, he comes with a feisty personality and a lot of love to give.
I found him when I was doing my usual scroll through the animal rescue pages online one night, and I connected with him on a soul level, even through the screen.
“Hey Critter,” I reach down and scratch him between his ears and he wags his skinny tail, his whole body wagging with it, back feet just about lifting off the ground. “I missed you today.”
I look around the tiny motel room when I enter and shut the door, making sure to turn the deadbolt and do up the chain. Sage Valley doesn’t have a significant crime rate, but I’ve watched enough true crime documentaries to know this is exactly how they start.
A single woman, staying in a roadside motel, in a room at the end of the building, tucked away and out of sight.
I head into the bathroom to take my makeup off, but a mess of torn toilet paper all over the floor stops me in my tracks.
“Critter…” I warn, finding the culprit standing in the doorway, head cocked as if to say what? “You been getting into trouble while I’ve been gone?”
His head tilts the other way, bug eyes showing absolutely no trace of guilt.
“I have to be able to trust you to be on your own,” I say.
It’s not exactly like the motel was in great condition when I arrived.
There’s a mystery brown stain on the bed I’m choosing to ignore, but was definitely there before Critter and I arrived.
Still, I don’t need to be on the hook for a damage deposit.
My phone chimes from my back pocket, and when I pull it out, the knot in my stomach tightens.
The name on my screen is an old coworker.
She and I had been good work friends, getting lunch together and drinks after work, but I never got the chance to say goodbye when I made my sudden departure.
She also hasn’t bothered to reach out until now.
MELISSA
I miss you at the office. It’s been a fucking shit show since you left. Everything is falling apart. Brad has been freaking out. Full on crash out.
I don’t know whether I should be flattered at the fact that I was apparently integral to the functioning of the firm, or shame-ridden that their downward spiral falls solely on my shoulders.
You know me, I always like to leave a lasting impact.
You sure do. Everyone is talking about what happened, you’re like the talk of the office. You’re kind of a celebrity.
I swallow down the bile that’s risen to the back of my throat.
It’s only been a few days since I left the city, but she makes it seem like my plan to wait for things to blow over could take ages.
Deep down I knew it, too. It’s not like people are jumping at the chance to hire the girl who yelled at her boss and called out his unethical practices in front of an entire office.
The look on his face when our second biggest client told them they were taking their business elsewhere will forever be seared into my mind.
I wish I could say I regret what I said, but I don’t.
As far as I’m concerned, I don’t have anything to be sorry for.
I wasn’t about to make nice with a company who wasn’t operating ethically.
That seemed to be the nail in my coffin as far as my boss was concerned.
No remorse, no insight, he said, disappointment casting a shadow over his face.
I would argue that I have too much insight, it’s just delayed. Because I can feel the exact moment when my words land on someone the wrong way. I can practically feel them flinch as if it’s happening to me.
In some ways, I know he’s right. I need to find a way of censoring myself if I’m ever going to repair my reputation. But his words echo through my mind, painting a picture of the kind of person I am, the reality that I have only myself to blame for this predicament I find myself in.
All I send back is a “LOL” that I hope will end this conversation. I don’t want to be the topic of water cooler gossip. I want to be known for being good at my job. Passionate, sure. Opinionated, fine. But not this. Not off the rails, escorted out by building security level of lost her mind.
When I close the conversation with Melissa, I see my text thread with Austin. The last message he sent was to wish me luck talking to Wade. My heart sinks as I think back to how poorly it went, how I managed to stick my foot in my mouth already. So much for growth, taking steps forward, changing.
I shouldn’t have been so forthcoming with my opinions on ranching, it doesn’t exactly bode well for someone claiming to want to make improvements.
I saw the way Beck frowned at me as I ran down the steps and stormed off to my car.
I could feel his gaze on me as I stopped to pick up that little vole and put him in the grass, safely off the driveway.
I’d be willing to bet that I could reenact the conversation he had with Wade. Beck probably threw around phrases like not a good fit and doesn’t know the first thing about cows.
Melissa doesn’t text me back, and I let out a cleansing exhale as I throw my phone down onto the bed, being careful to avoid the mystery stain. Luckily it’s a warm night, and I can take the comforter off to sleep. But then I don’t want to think about what’s lurking under the covers.
I throw on my favourite pair of pajamas, pour myself a glass of wine from the bottle I packed with me, and flick on the TV.
I’ve laid out towels on the bed for now, so I don’t wreck my matching silk set. Tomorrow I’ll go to the store and get myself some new bedding. May as well make myself at home here.
I flick through the channels, landing on a serial killer documentary detailing the murders of young, brunette women. Why? Couldn’t tell you. Maybe I’m a masochist, but I think the more you know about the patterns of serial killers, the better equipped you are at avoiding getting murdered yourself.
A harsh knock on the door interrupts my thoughts, and my heart thunders in my chest.
This is it. This is how I die.
My documentary will make sure to highlight my stunning good looks, my infectious smile, contagious laugh.
My breathing becomes shallow as I pad softly over to the door. I don’t turn off the TV, whoever is outside would probably hear it. The door doesn’t have a peephole, and the window beside it would be too conspicuous to peek out.
I’ve typed the number 9-1 into my phone, my finger hovering over the 1 so I can quickly dial if I need to.
“Who is it?” I shout through the door, because I have no other options, so I choose the most brazen one. I hear feet shuffling before the perpetrator answers.
“It’s me,” a familiar, deep voice rumbles from the other side. It’s gruff and gravelly, and yet warm. Something about it feels safe. “Beck.”
I crack the door open to make sure he isn’t lying, although I’d know Beck’s voice anywhere, and find him standing outside under the glow of the buzzing light next to my door.
His arms are crossed over his chest, sleeves still rolled to his elbows and his forearms flexing like tight cords under his skin.
“Oh,” my voice squeaks, because the fresh air when I open my door has my nipples hardening and I’m suddenly aware that I’m standing in front of Beck in nothing but a flimsy silk camisole and shorts that hardly cover my ass.
A tense silence hangs between us, as I try to find anything to say that might bridge this weird gap between us and repair whatever damage I did earlier. The only sound is the crickets chirping in the long grass around the motel until Beck finally speaks first.
“Pack your things,” he says, the muscle in his jaw flicking, as if he’s annoyed that he’s even here.
“What?”
Is he trying to run me out of town? The fucking nerve.
I didn’t think his disdain for me went this far.
“If you want to get rid of me, you’ll have to do better than that.” I cross my arms over my chest, mirroring his defensive stance, but to my surprise, he drops his hands to his side and sighs.
Beck shakes his head and scrubs a hand over his beard like I exhaust him. “I’m not trying to get rid of you.”
My mouth opens and closes but no sound comes out, so I squint at him in question.
“You can’t stay here,” he says, as if that explains everything.
“I’m perfectly fine where I am,” I say, tipping my chin up in defiance. So much for trying to build a bridge.
“Ok, then tell me what that unknown stain is on the bed,” he says, eyes flicking up over my shoulder toward the bed. The stain isn’t even visible from here.
“What– how did you–,” I stammer.
The corner of his mouth tips upward like he knows he’s won whatever game he was playing. “Lucky guess. Get yourself changed–” his eyes trail over my body, sending goosebumps scattering across my skin. “–and pack your things.”