Page 6 of Red's Peril: Part 1

It’s a statement, not a question. I grin widely. “Fuck normal people.”

Giggling now, she glances outside once again, and I see the look of hunger in her eyes. Fuck knows why, but I hear myself saying casually, “Got a pillion seat if you’re interested.”

A bark of laughter comes from her. “Yeah, right. Just like that? I couldn’t possibly.”

I raise an eyebrow in challenge.

“And anyway,” she starts to justify herself, “I haven’t got any riding stuff. I’d need a helmet to start with.”

I don’t know why I just don’t leave it. For some reason, her riding behind me is something I’d like to experience. I’ve only taken one of the other mechanics on the back before in an emergency, and he was hanging on to the hand grips, obviously struggling to keep his junk well away from my ass. But her? She’d be up close, her soft breasts pushing into me, her hands around my waist… And just like that, I harden as much as I had before.

Damn cock. Behave.

“You wouldn’t need a helmet while we’re in Illinois.” And anyway, I’ve got a spare. I’ve also brought along the half-helmet that I wear when it’s warmer.

A spark comes into her eyes, a slight flush warming her cheeks. Her lips purse as though she’s really thinking. Then she snorts and mumbles under her breath, the words meant for herself, “Don’t be stupid. This is crazy. I don’t know anything about him.”

“Cheryl? Those tables clean?” a loud voice booms.

My eyes look in that direction to see a middle-aged man wearing a chef’s hat leaning on the counter, his narrowed eyes glaring in our direction. I give him a polite raise of my chin, and he, clearly not wanting to offend a paying customer, gives me a slight nod back.

“Yeah, Joe,” she answers.

He slaps the counter with his palm, but only lightly. “Get your ass back here and give me a hand then.”

“Sure.” Immediately, she sends me an apologetic look and starts to stand, placing her hands on the table and wearily pushing herself up.

Reaching out my hand, I place it on her arm, halting her progress. “Anywhere you’d recommend to stay around here?”

Her eyes widen slightly. “You sticking around?” At my shrug—as yet I’m undecided, I may have unexpectedly found a nugget of gold in this godforsaken town—she confides, “Momma Branston has a place down the road. Just carry on that way.” She waves with her hand. “You can’t miss it. It’s basic, but clean. She’s usually got vacancies.”

Chapter Three

Out of Cheryl’s sphere of influence, I wonder what the hell I’m doing as I ride about a mile further down the road and come to a cheap-looking motel set back from the road. Damn woman must have cast some kind of spell over me. If I had any sense, I’d stick to my plan and continue riding. But a sense that I might be missing something important pushes me into making the turn.

Huh.I might have no choice. The unkempt parking lot makes me suspect the place is closed and that Momma Branston might have gone out of business. All I can see is a beat-up car outside one of the rooms, and the rear of a truck of some sort parked around the back. Part of me thinks fate might have stepped in and given me a reason to keep heading south. But seeing as I’m here now, I might as well explore my chances.

The door I expected to be locked, opens when I push on the handle. Still unconvinced, I step into the reception area which clearly has seen better days, noting there’s not a speck of dust or dirt even though the decoration is shabby.

There’s no one in sight, and no sounds come to me. Dubiously, I press the bell on the counter, hearing the ring echoing down the empty corridor. Then, there’s a shuffling. Widening my eyes, I purse my lips.Seems they might be open after all.Part of me is disappointed. I wanted an excuse to get back on the road.

A woman who looks like she’s in her eighties comes slowly along the corridor that leads to the back of the building, heavily leaning on a stick, the tip of which she lifts and places down deliberately, then allows her slipper-clad feet to catch up, before lifting and positioning the stick once more. When she reaches the desk, she takes her time easing herself behind it, and only looks at me when she’s seated on a stool.

She pulls a register toward her. “You after a room?” Her voice is gravelly as if she’s smoked too many cigarettes.

Raising and lowering my chin, I give her a response, “Sure, if you’ve got one.”

She gives a semi-smile. “Honey, you can take your damn choice.” She opens the register, flicks to a page, then turns it around, and pushes it over at me.

Noting the last guest seems to have checked out two days ago, I enter my name and the required details. “Business slow?” I ask, conversationally.

“You could say that.” She doesn’t seem particularly bothered about it as she checks what I’ve written.

Turning, she reaches for one of the keys hung up on the wall behind her. “Room eight, at the end of the row.” Leaning forward, she points to the door, then waves her hand to the right. “That do you?”

“Sure.” I shrug. As long as it’s got a bed, I’m not particularly bothered. “And it’s for just one night.”

“Payment in advance.”

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