Page 5 of They Call Her Dirty Sally

But the tall, dark, and“who do we have here?”man who winks down at me wasn’t on my list of possibilities. The only flaw I see in his perfect features is a faded one-inch scar to the right of his chin. If you can call it a flaw. In the way it goes with most men, that scar only adds mystery.What hurt you? What life obstacle did you overcome? Want me to kiss it and make it better?I feel my face grow hot from my internal monologue, but it isn’t my fault. Men who look like that don’t exist in towns that look like ours. I would guess he’s here for next week’s memorial, but the reporter-types aren’t scheduled to arrive for at least another five days.

“Can I help you?” I ask, a rare onslaught of nerves making my voice crack a bit on that last word. I’m immediately ashamed and internally chide myself.You’re Billi Ellis, and you’re tougher than this. Get it together.So, I do. “You at the wrong place, or are you checking in?” There’s the no-nonsense voice I know and love. I focus on my registry book and scan it for a name I don’t recognize, but there’s nothing here. This city boy is a drop-in who didn’t bother calling ahead.

“If this is the Sunset Motel, then I’m checking in,” he says, pulling a credit card out of his leather wallet and sliding it across the counter toward me. The card is gold and shiny, which translates to fancy with a high spending limit in my book. Which means our little motel isn’t the kind of establishment he’s accustomed to. Which translates to him being two wide stratospheres outside any social circle I want to be associated with.

I clear my throat because why am I thinking about our social circles? I glance at his name and barely suppress a laugh.

“Your name is Phineas?” I ask, unable to keep a bit of incredulity out of my tone as I side-eye him through my lashes. He does not look like a Phineas. A Brad, maybe. A Tom, perhaps. Oddly enough, even Thor would work. I can totally imagine him swinging a hammer and throwing people around.

“We can’t all name ourselves,” he quips. “I go by Finn, actually, so please check me in that way. I’ll be here for a bit, and I would rather not be called by my given name. At least not out loud and in public.”

I reach for the guest ledger, my pulse tripping on thea bitpart. “How long are you planning to stay?” Hopefully, that sounded as casual as possible. I write his name on the next blank line, my brief anger already replaced by curiosity.

“At least a week, maybe longer.”

“And you’re positive you want to stay here?” I ask without thinking. Rule one of managing a motel: don’t complain about it in front of the guests. Not ever, even when the list of things to gripe about stretches farther than the forty-foot phone cord my mother bought yesterday.

He smirks. “This was the only availability within thirty miles, so I’m pretty sure I don’t have a choice. What’s wrong with it? Are the rooms haunted?”

“Only with the half-dead souls of the people who run this place, both past, and present.” There I go, criticizing the job again. Hopefully, he isn’t a man who concerns himself with the ins and outs of small-town life. One word to the higher-ups from a guy like him, and I would definitely be fired. It wouldn’t even matter that my dad is Higher-Up-in-Chief. I punch in the credit card numbers and slide them back to him.

Finn laughs as he tucks the card back into his wallet. “Then I look forward to meeting them, but only because they’re half dead. It’s the fully dead you’ve got to worry about.”

I wave a hand in the air. “Oh, the fully dead left this place long ago in search of something better. Last I heard, they were roasting marshmallows from a spit and singing campfire songs in hell.”There I go again with the free-flowing criticisms.What is wrong with me tonight?

He laughs again, and the little flutter low in my stomach suggests that something is going right.

“And they collectively decided hell was better than this?”

I shrug. “Look around. What do you think?”

“I think I wish a nicer hotel had a vacancy.”

“Well, lucky you, you’re stuck with us.” I move to the wall of keys and slyly exchange his terrible one for something better, a room that still smells like smoke but is stain free and has a lovely view of the parking lot. What can I say? My initial impression of him improved in less than two minutes. Impressive, this one. I hand him the key. He eyes it and raises his gaze to me.

“You’re already giving me an upgrade from the trashy room you first chose? Lucky me indeed.”

I try furiously not to blush, but I’m failing miserably, judging from the fire inside both cheeks. “That obvious, huh?”

“I was a bit of a jerk when I first walked in, so I suppose I deserved it.” He palms the key and picks up his bag, turning to look at me from the doorway. “You know my name, so it’s only fair I know yours.”

I make what I hope is a skeptical face. “I’m not sure about that.” I pick up my trusty advice tool—the same one I’ve had since I was seven years old—and give it a shake. Some people might think it’s silly, and they would be right. But in over twenty years, it hasn’t failed me yet.

“Magic 8-Ball,” I ask it, “should I tell this strange man my name?”

I set the ball on the desk and wait for the triangle-shaped answer to appear.

“Says the strange woman asking a Magic 8-Ball for advice.”

“Don’t knock it until you try it.”

“Fair enough. What does it say?” The fact that he seems honestly interested adds another point to the positives column I’m currently constructing in my head.

I sigh. “It says, ‘it is decidedly so.’ I roll my eyes. “My name is Billi. But like you said, we don’t get to name ourselves.”

He winks. “Billy Idol, Billy Joel, Billy…Graham? It’s a good name.”

I roll my eyes. “For a man, and I’m no saint.”

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