Page 39 of Small Town Hunter

“Let’s find a place to sleep,” he says.

“Okay.”

We endup driving for hours. Why? Because every motel only has one bed available and this information seems to send Crash into a worse and worse mood. We try three different places before Crash accepts defeat.

The place is in Cimmarron County — with one bed.

And it’s three hours from Tippalonga. That’s three hours too close for me. We’re going in circles.

But there’s not much I can do. Crash won’t let me leave his sight and I’m not ready to jump ship just yet. If he doesn’t help me I need to go with Plan B, which is infinitely scarier.

There might be more men like the Biker out on the road. Worse men. I think that’s what Crash is afraid of. After the biker guy he watches me like a hawk in public places.

How can I get to California without Crash?

Sell the engagement ring. Get a car. True I have an old license and the last time I drove one was senior year of high school, to the grocery store. But it’s an option.

“Crash, I’d like to get some money today. For myself.”

“I’m not an ATM, Trina.”

“I have money,” I tell him. I think of how best to say it. “But I need to withdraw it.”

“What’s your bank?”

“Um, the pawn shop.”

“Okay,” he says, looking up from his computer, which seems comically small next to his giant frame. He seems to accept this. “I’ll take you after you give me some more details on this grandmother. Think. What do you remember? Anything will help.”

“Her name is Arabella Johnson.”

He starts typing furiously. “Good,” he says. “Well, that’s a –- ”

“But she changed her name a few years ago,” I interrupt.

He scowls. “To what?”

“ ‘Moonlight’ something. Since her last husband died she’s into pagan things. Her last name is a Hindu goddess.” I shake my head. “It’s such a shame but I hope God forgives her.”

“I’m sure he’ll find it in his heart,” says Crash. “Any other details? Date of birth, maybe?”

“November 4th, 1952. No, ’53. Maybe ’54…”

I sound like a fool. This is so bad.

“I honestly don’t know,” I tell Crash, totally embarrassed.

“Anyidea where in L.A she might stay at?”

“I need some more time,” I admit weakly.

“Well that’s a huge help,” he says.

“Sorry.”

I watch the big strong muscles of his back as he bends over the desk to make another note.

I never really mixed with men my age who weren’t in the church. Since I didn’t go to college, and I was engaged to the Reverend, options were limited when it came to the opposite sex.

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