Page 51 of Awry
Did one of Presh’s brothers sleep here?Or a guard they brought in?But … I can tell it wasn’t Doc or the guard I can still sense beyond the exterior door …
I step away from that riddle.It’ll show up again if it’s something I need to pay attention to.
The motel door isn’t locked.I step out into sunshine, which is a lovely change from the endless rain that drowns coastal Cascadia at this time of year.
I slip on my sunglasses, tilting my face up for a moment to enjoy the kiss of warmth on my cheeks, neck, and collarbone.
“Hungry?”I ask Grinder without looking at him.
The huge, medium-brown-skinned tattooed biker shrugs, leaning back against the exterior wall to the side of the door.With burly arms folded across his leather-swathed chest, he hasn’t taken his gaze off me.But he’s smiling, just a little.Taller than me by a lot, his hair is grayed at the temples, with more silver speckled through his beard, accumulating in a white patch on his chin.
My other senses aren’t fully functioning yet, but I can’t see or feel anyone other than the clerk in the office in the immediate vicinity.
Aknowingtugs at me lightly.
“I need fries and a great milkshake.Possibly two.”
“And some protein,” he grumbles.His voice is deep and full of gravel.And oddly comforting.
I hadn’t realized I was feeling … discomforted.I’m not totally back in my body yet, with some part of what makes meme— separate from being the Conduit — still hovering in the aether.Tethered to my mortal form, but not fully inhabiting it.
It might take weeks to settle.
Unless I just … lose that chunk.Because I have a sense, though no concrete proof, that I’ve lost chunks of myself before.Not just losing some of my life force, which is an obvious side effect of dying.But losing part of … my soul, my essence?
Grinder unfolds his arms, continuing the conversation as if I haven’t just been staring at nothing for a few moments.“There’s a diner you might like in town.”
He steps by me toward his massive motorcycle, reaching for a smaller second helmet that’s already set on the back seat.Maybe Grinder catches hints of the future as well.Or maybe he’s just smart about things such as his chance of keeping me in the motel room if I don’t want to stay.
But then a gentle thread of aknowingtugs me to the side, not toward the bike.
“Let’s walk,” I say.“You can store your bike around back, along with your jacket and cut.”
I’m fairly certain his leather vest with all its patches of allegiance is called a cut.He doesn’t correct me.He does raise an eyebrow questioningly, though.
I smile at him as I quash the urge to ask him what sort of shifter he is.Mixed-clan shifters are always harder to read.And being mixed clan doesn’t actually mean his beast isn’t broadly classified as a bear, wolf, cat, or boar.Just that he chooses to identify as mixed clan.
He nods a little stiffly, then grabs his bike and pushes it, keeping pace alongside me as we traverse the shortest length of the building — passing the office — and circle around the back.He moves the heavy bike effortlessly.But then, he is a shifter, and inherent strength even in human form comes with the internal essence all shifters wield.
After parking the bike, hiding it from view of the main road, he tucks his jacket and vest in his saddlebags, leaving him clad only in a tight black T-shirt and leather pants.From there, I allow theknowingto tug us down a side road and along a parallel street that runs between the water’s edge and the main thoroughfare.
A few cars, also heading south, pass along the main street, and I catch sight of a few people walking along the beach with their dogs.Locals, I presume, given that it’s late winter.The one- and two-storey houses that line the streets beyond the Crescent Moon Inn are small, but on large lots.Well-kept in hues of white, blue, and gray.Just like the motel we’ve left behind, the surrounding area is obviously prosperous but not flashy.
Grinder doesn’t offer directions, so I assume we’re heading toward the diner he’s mentioned.The milkshakes had better be worth the walk, because I’m pretty certain we’re not all that near the commercial center of town.
We’rea number of streets farther along, and still heading steadily south, based on the glimpses of the ocean to my right.And just as we’re about to cross yet another perpendicular street running up from the water, the ear-blistering sound of more souped-up motorcycles draws Grinder’s attention toward the main street, still one block up to our left.
His steps falter, just for a moment.
A trio of bikers speeds past, not slowing.Not even glancing our way.If they’re displaying their club allegiance, I don’t catch it.But Grinder grunts, perturbed.He tugs his phone out of his pocket, texting as we meander along the next two blocks.
He tucks the phone away, and we walk in silence for a while longer.No other cars or pedestrians pass us.A community mailbox is situated on the next corner, yet more evidence that the township of Cannon Beach is prosperous and well maintained.
“What did you see?”Grinder finally asks.
“I don’t see,” I say, not offering any other clarification.Mostly because theknowinghasn’t tugged at me again.
“But you knew … you asked me to remove my cut.”
