Page 159 of Seeking Vengeance

I pull to the curb, slowing as I come up beside them, and lower the passenger window.

“Excuse me.” I raise my voice. “I need your help.”

The girls glance at me in unison, each of the teenagers sporting raised brows and expressions of disdain toward the Bentley.

“How could we possibly help you?” the closest asks, glancing from my face to the car and back again.

“There are men chasing me, and I have no phone or money. Can I borrow your cell to make a call?”

The one on the far end snorts, flicking her bleached hair behind her shoulder while she continues to walk ahead.

“Please.” I crawl the vehicle along beside them. “It’s only one phone call.”

“Get fucked, bitch.” The closest curls her lip, then turns to her friends, all of them breaking into laughter.

Goddamn teenagers.

I pull away from the curb and plant my foot, speeding farther along the street. I need to ditch the car, and fast, but I need security first.

I zigzag my way through the suburb, eventually coming to a four-lane street with heavy traffic, fast-food outlets on either side, and a hotel sign looming ahead that sparks hope.

I keep one eye on the road, the other getting a brief glimpse of the dark tan four-level building as I drive past, then take the next turn in the opposite direction. I continue down another street, then turn and accelerate along another, not pulling to a stop until I’m at least a few blocks from where I want to be. Then I ditch the car and start running.

I take shady back alleys and cut across house yards. I don’t stop looking over my shoulder or scrutinizing every car that passes, but none come close to the extravagance I found in the Costa family garage.

I make my way back to the main road, then continue into the hotel parking lot, my stomach bottoming at the full-frontal view.

What my split-second, drive-by glance didn’t ascertain is that this place is something out of a horror movie.

Windows are cracked with grey electrical tape holding them together. The cheap blinds inside are broken and disheveled. The balconies to the three upper levels are nothing more than a red metal fire escape, the staircase exposed to the elements and rusted in parts.

But it’s the man eagle-eying me from the third-floor railing, his wifebeater dirty and boxers loose that concerns me the most.

I recognize that opportunistic expression, and I have no intention of being a part of it.

I glower, letting him know I’m not in the mood to be fucked with, and keep jogging to reception, my skin prickling the closer I get to the chipped paint of the front door.

Inside is worse.

The scent of stale beer and urine hits my nose as I walk into the small room to find a middle-aged man sitting behind a counter, the sound of porn coming from his computer, his scuffed buttoned shirt crinkled, his hair thinning and skin pale.

He looks up at me, his blue eyes narrowing. “Lost?”

I contemplate retreat, but I have nowhere else to go.

“Can I use your phone?” I keep my voice strong. “It’s an emergency.”

He sighs and turns his attention back to the computer. “Five bucks.”

“I don’t have any money.” I raise my empty hands. “Not on me, anyway. But if you let me make a call I promise I’ll be able to repay you with more than spare change.”

“Promises come easily around here, Gucci belt.” He relaxes back into his chair, his gaze remaining on the screen. “Find someone else to buy your bullshit.”

“Please.” I cringe through the plea. “It’s one phone call. It won’t take long.”

“It’s always just one phone call. One extra pillow. One more towel.” He shoots me a two-second glare. “So unless you’ve got money, I’m busy.”

I bite the inside of my cheek, holding in aggression.

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