Page 4 of The Prodigal

Flashing Eden a smirk, I set the chair outside my door and dare her to move it. I’m not above having a spare delivered here, but I’d prefer not to use my credit card and have dear old dad ask why I had chairs delivered somewhere other than his or Vance’s house. It would cause suspicion, and I need my father to stay enthralled with my mother and their new beginning.

They deserve to be happy, and I’m not known for bringing joy to people. It’s better if they focus on building the Georgia branch of Potter’s Plastics and enjoying the new home they just had to build ten miles from the college campus I don’t plan on staying at.

But that’s an argument for another day.

Right now, what Duke and Ramsey Potter don’t know, won’t hurt them.

Sliding the key into the lock, I put my shoulder to the door and shove until it opens. I flip on the light, revealing a single bed and shaggy brown carpet. Unfortunately, I’ve seen worse, but I’m a little out of touch with roughing it. Living the life of luxury for the past couple of years has made me weak, but that’s all going to change starting today.

Tossing my phone on the dresser, next to what looks like a twenty-six-inch TV, I frown. That’s going to be a problem. Not that I watch a lot of television, but I’ll need it when… It’s fine. I can manage. Just because I’ve grown accustomed to being the son and nephew of renowned plastic surgeons in Texas, doesn’t mean I didn’t have humble beginnings. I’ll make it work—no matter what.

Because I’m out of options.

Eden

The new guest is watching me from the chair outside his room.

It’s not in a weird or creepy way, more like he’s amused—if the grin he constantly flashes me is any indication. After he gave me a thumbs-up, while he dragged that stupid chair to his room, I might have googled him to the point of stalking, but that’s nothing new for me.

As an FBI special agent hopeful, I find that online research is the most effective way to get to know someone. You don’t need a coffee date or even dinner. You just need a full name and a location, and poof—a window to the soul of over-sharers.

But Mr. Remington Jude Potter from Bloomfield, Texas, has nothing online. No social media. No scathing Yelp reviews. Nothing. It’s like he doesn’t exist. Or maybe he’s like me, and he doesn’t want to be found. Not everyone wants to put their entire lives online and open themselves up to be judged by the masses. Some of us want to hide in the shadows, so we can run when the past catches up to us.

Regardless of Remington’s reason for not posting pictures of every aspect of his life on the World Wide Web, I didn’t find anything related to the Potter last name either, except for a group of plastic surgeon brothers in Bloomfield, Texas, who each hold a specialty in their field of plastic surgery. Dr. Astor Potter, the oldest brother, is a craniomaxillofacial surgeon, who spends most of his time doing charity work by offering pro-bono surgeries to children. His middle brother, Vance Potter, seems to be the face of the medical practice, specializing in burns and scar revisions. The youngest brother, Duke Potter, is sought-after by celebrities because he specializes in cosmetic and reconstructive surgery. The entire practice is revered. TheBloomfield Timeseven had several articles documenting the brothers’ contributions and fundraising efforts in their community.

But not one of those articles mentioned a Remington Potter being related or having any association with the medical facility. If Remington is related—which would seem super coincidental if he weren’t—someone went to great lengths to keep him a secret, and that annoys me. Not because I’m nosy about the guests who check in here, but because Remington seems to know that I couldn’t find anything on him.

Okay, so maybe that’s all in my head.

It’s not like I talked to him after he left for his room; it’s just the vibe he gives off. The man oozes arrogance, and in my experience, arrogance comes with knowledge—or stupidity—but Remington seems to act as if he’s one step ahead of the public he’s forced to interact with. At least, that’s my observation after dealing with him and watching him subsequently toss the bedding from his room outside the door to the lobby earlier.

If that wasn’t a sign that he thought he was too good for the world, he then settled himself outside in the stolen chair with a cigarette and watched as I gathered up his linens and brought them inside, as if I was the hired help meant to serve him—which I sort of am, but still. He doesn’t have to come off as a pretentious know-it-all.

It was like he knew I was watching him after he checked in, and he wanted to be sure I knew he could watch me, too—but with way more condescension.

What’s worse, though, is I think he actually brought his own linens. I mean, what college-age guy checks into a motel for a night with three large duffle bags? A diva who likely brought his own sheets, that’s who.

I could have called his room and asked if he wanted fresh sheets, but that would have signified that I cared if he slept on a bare mattress—and I don’t. That’s how we here at Midnight Gardens treat our annoying guests—with the utmost care of not-giving-a-shit.

The hotel phone rings, pulling my attention from the arrogant dick in Room 101, still smoking his cigarette as he continues looking directly into the lobby. Argh! Why couldn’t Bill splurge for blinds? Better yet, I wonder if Bill would care if I used one of the sheets Remington dumped to cover the windows. See if the fucker still enjoys watching me then. But then someone would complain, and I’d lose one of my two jobs. Considering I don’t have all that many skills to offer an employer while I obtain my bachelor’s degree in criminology, I need to stay put. Loan sharks don’t appreciate late payments—even if the money was borrowed to pay tuition.

The phone rings again, and I finally put myself into motion and answer. “Hello—I mean, Midnight Gardens, how may I help you?”

The line goes eerily quiet, and chills break out along my arms. It could be a spam call. There’s no reason to think it’shimagain. He doesn’t have my new number, nor has he figured out where I live. But then again…

“Eden.” The gruff voice halts my breath. “Don’t make this hard, sweetheart.”

He says the words like a concerned parent.

But he’s no parent.

“Tell her I’m sorry,” I say, keeping the emotion from my voice as best as I can, “and that I wish her all the best.”

It’s all I can offer right now.

There might be a Saint Michael pendant hanging from my neck, but I’m no saint. Forgiveness is fear, and right now, I can’t afford either one. She’ll have to understand.

“You know I can’t do that,” he says, admitting that this won’t be the last I hear from him. “You owe her, and I never forget a debt.”

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