Page 8 of Heartbeats & Highways

“I bought some new laundry detergent,”Agnes said. “And some dryer sheets.”

The middle-aged woman who owned the motel handed me the key to the laundry room.

“Thanks.”

When I’d shown up at the motel in the middle of the night scared and alone, Agnes hadn’t asked questions, and more importantly she hadn’t demanded to see my ID. She’d just looked me over, paused for a moment to take me in, and then given me a key to a room.

She was the closest thing I had to a friend.

“Are you sleeping okay?” she asked as her prematurely wrinkled brow furrowed. “You look tired.”

“Iamtired.”

I hadn’t been sleeping well. Every sound jarred me awake. And in those hazy moments where I was neither asleep nor awake, my mind drifted to Savage.

It had been three days since the taco truck incident, and I’d spent more time than I wanted thinking about him.

“How’s the fighting ring working out for you?” she asked.

“It’s working out well,” I admitted. “Thanks for vouching for me.”

Agnes had been my contact for getting me a job at the fighting ring. Because fighters stayed at her motel, she had a direct line of communication to the owner.

“I think I need something else, part time and during the day,” I stated. “There are only a few fights a week. I have way too much time on my hands not to have a second job.”

Way too much time on my hands to think.

“You’ll have to commute into the city,” she said. “I’d hire you here, but I’m not busy enough to warrant another employee.”

“I get it.” I lifted the laundry basket off the floor. “You’ve done more than enough for me already and I appreciate it.”

“I’ll keep my ears to the ground and let you know if I hear about any jobs you might want.”

“Thanks.”

Agnes surveyed me. “I didn’t say anything . . . but I saw you that night. You came home from the fight a lot earlier than I expected.”

“Oh, yeah, they let me go early.”

Her brow furrowed. “You sure that’s all there is to the story?”

I chewed on my lip. I was dying to talk to someone about Savage. “One of the fighters, the one who won . . . he wanted me to go home with him.”

“I see,” Agnes murmured.

“So I skipped out of there as fast as I could before the night was over, only . . .”

“Go on.”

“I ran into him a few days ago at the taco truck you suggested.”

“That seems . . . I don’t know what that seems. Was he mad that you ditched him?”

I shook my head. “No. He wanted to take me out. I said no.”

“Smart. You don’t want to get involved with someone who fights in an illegal fighting ring.”

“Or who’s in a motorcycle club,” I blurted out.

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