Page 15 of Along for the Ride

Gentry’s eyebrows furrow. “Just let me handle it.”

“Sure thing, Gentry. You’re the boss,” I say, and he doesn’t miss the sarcastic bite to my words.

I leave him standing in the hall and retreat to my room. Gentry has always been the boss to an extent, but I’m sick of being on a leash. The moment I get loose, I’m getting rid of the excess baggage. The little thief isn’t the only dog with teeth.

* * *

Gentry

I standin front of my room in the ghostly quiet hall. Karson doesn’t understand. To be fair, neither do I, but this is my show and I’ll run it how I damn well please. If he doesn’t like it, he can take his chances with George.

The key card reader flashes green and I push open the heavy metal door. The girl is stretched out on the bed, her chest heaving as if the walk to our room was more of a monumental task than I could ever imagine. A lamp on the bedside table casts a dim yellow light over her face, and the shadows under her eyes stand out like two dark valleys on either side of her slender nose. Her scent comes toward me, and I wish she hadn’t dropped onto the comforter while reeking of vomit.

“Go on and shower,” I tell her. I want her cleaned up because I’ll never get to sleep if I have to smell that rancid perfume all night, but I worry what she’ll look like when that thin layer of grime and sweat isn’t coating her skin. I’m already fighting a strange attraction to her when she looks a mess, so I don’t know how I’ll react when she’s soft and clean.

She climbs out of bed like she’s fighting against a body that weighs a thousand pounds. It’s a familiar, struggling action my father made so many times. Maybe that’s why I’m so intrigued by her. Maybe I need to see if she’ll die like our father or find the will to live.

But then how can I kill her?

Because you have no choice.

She enters the bathroom, and the sound of running water silences my thoughts. I slip off my shoes at the door, flop onto the bed, and flip on the television. Watching TV is a really mundane luxury most people don’t think twice about. We didn’t have one growing up. Well, wetechnicallyhad one, but the big boxy piece of shit was just a giant paperweight. I have no memory of its screen ever lighting up. Karson entertained himself by pulling the legs off of bugs in the weed-filled yard, and I preferred to spend my childhood trying to make a few dollars so we could eat something more than peanut butter sandwiches and stale saltine crackers.

The shower turns off and the girl emerges from the bathroom doorway in a puff of steam. I swallow hard because she looks more than half pretty when she’s clean. She’s wearing a bathrobe, the belt tied tight around her slender waist. She probably doesn’t have shit for clothes to wear, and she sure as hell can’t put on the vomit-soaked clothes she had on before.

But there’s another problem more present on her mind. I’m lying on the only bed in the room, and I have no intention of giving up my spot.

“No clothes?” I ask.

“My bad. I didn’t expect to travel across the country when I left my cardboard box this morning.”

I shake my head and pull off my shirt, fighting off a laugh. Her wit annoys the piss out of Karson, but I like it. “Here, take this,” I say, tossing the shirt into her lap. It’ll be big on her, but it’s better than that scratchy bathrobe.

“I have one other outfit in my backpack, but it stinks worse than the vomit ensemble. It’s not easy to wash clothes when you’re on the street,” she says.

I gather her discarded clothes and find the backpack just inside the bathroom door. As I dig around for her extra outfit, my hand hits something small and square. It’s a wallet. I pull it out and flip it open, reading the name on her license. Tucked behind it is another license. It’s expired by several years, but that’s definitely her picture.

Leana Moore.

At least I now know the name of the intriguing little stranger. I return the wallet to the backpack and leave the bathroom before she sees me snooping.

“I’ll go launder these,” I say as I pass the bed.

As I reach for the door handle, her soft voice stops me. “Why are you being so nice to me?”

Really weird fucking question. I’m not being overly nice by giving her clothes to wear and not killing her...yet.

Instead of answering her, I slip on my shoes and leave the room.

I don’t think she has the energy to make a run for it, but I still need to be cautious. I stop by Karson’s room on my way down the hall and ask him to listen out for her. He’s pissed, but he does as he’s told and sits beside my door.

The on-site laundry room isn’t hard to find. It’s on the first floor, tucked away in an alcove off the lobby area. From the look of the dated machines, they cared more about the appearance of their entrance than the client amenities. I drop her clothes into a washer and spot a stain on my jeans. I don’t need to sniff it to know what it is. I strip off my pants and toss them in as well, leaving me in nothing but my boxers. I don’t worry that anyone will say something to me about it, because I don’t have the most approachable face. Besides, it’s late and the hotel seems fairly empty.

When I reach our hall, Karson is no longer seated by the door. He’s either deserted his post or...

My breath catches in my throat. I was worried she might escape, but I hadn’t considered what Karson might do to her if I wasn’t there to stop him. I shouldn’t care, but I do. I practically handed her to my brother on a silver fucking platter.

I pull the room key from the waistband of my boxer briefs and slide it into the slot. The light turns red, and I realize I’ve held it the wrong way in my panic. I turn it and the light blazes green. When I rush through the door, I’m able to breathe again. Leana is lying in the same position on the bed, wearing my black shirt instead of the robe. Her wet hair sticks to her skin and dampens the collar of my shirt. Her bright blue eyes stare at the television.

---