Page 49 of Rider Daddies
To sum up—no, the odds are very slim.
But it’s all I’ve got.
I bite my lip. The plan does have one positive, regardless of which way the pendulum swings. It will show me the biker brothers’ true intentions.
Will they live up to the image of merciless criminals I have in my head?
Or will they surprise me?
“Why does this place smell like decaying cat piss?” I whisper as Allie and I make our way downstairs, one quiet step at a time.
“I don’t know,” she whispers back. “It’s been abandoned ever since the eighties.”
“This whole thing feels like anAmerican Horror Storyepisode.” I look up and watch water drip, drip from the flight of stairs above us.
A thin strip of carpet protects our feet from making contact with the wood underneath, but it’s barely sanitary. I don’t know who or what has been walking down these steps before us, but they were definitely carrying some sort of disease.
“We should have worn socks,” she says.
“I’m not wrecking my one pair of socks,” I retort.
I take the lead, guiding us both down yet another flight of stairs. Given that our rooms were on the second floor, it’s certainly a trek.
We make it to solid ground and pad through the corridor. There’s so much mold across the ceiling that it almost looks like it’s been painted green. We pass more rooms and eventually make it to the front desk—unoccupied.
“It’s always like this,” Allie says, standing beside me. “Always too quiet.”
I take a look at our surroundings, locating security cameras. I look up and already see two staring directly down at me like two eyes.
Fucking great start.
I’m sure I’ll find a way to disable them if I can get into the office.
“It’s just through there.” Allie points at an ancient door behind the desk that I can already tell is locked.
Paperwork has been stacked into three neat piles on top of the front desk. Checking over my shoulder, I walk behind the desk and take a look at the text. The paper looks fresh, the only part of this motel that doesn’t look like it has deteriorated.
I skim-read. Most of what’s on here are names. Girls. Clients.
Holy fuck, they have some big ones. Ewan Webster? I’m almost certain Mamma has mentioned him before, a high-paying client for the company she works for in San Jose.
Looks like he has his fingers in a fair few pies.
There are so many names.
Too many names.
My pulse spikes. I don’t dare lift the pile and leave any trace that I was here, but I’m sure the rest of the documents underneath this one contain the same thing.
“How many people are involved?” I ask.
“Ignorance is bliss,” Allie says, walking around to the front of the desk.
I huff out a breath and turn around to the office door.
Here goes nothing.
I tuck my hand under my sleeve as a makeshift glove and try the door.
