Motel From Hell

Check In

Ding!

A pungent odor attacks my nose, oh god, it stinks like rotting flesh in here! Ugh! This place looks like it hasn't seen a broom in forty years. My hazel eyes water with the stinging smell, forcing me to breathe slowly through my mouth, but that just makes me cough hoarsely.

The lobby, if you can call it that, is a dim room with barely any sunlight poking through the dirty windows, that are covered by heavy, ugly brown drapes. A cloud of dust litters every surface of the room; the muddy chipped title floor, the old wooden check in desk, and every piece of scattered torn furniture. Even though the lobby is filled with old broken furniture, and dust, there isn't one soul in here. I clear my throat, trying to use my voice.

"H-hello?" I choke quietly out in a scratchy voice. My little voice makes the building come to life, a huge crash echoes in the little office behind the check in desk, and the door bangs open. A tall guy with a head full of brown locks, and beaming green eyes stumbles out.

"Hello!" The twenty something guy greets. His friendly grin falters a little with one look at me, dirt covered skin, worn clothes, grimy hair, and all. I look like Jane after a week with Tarzan.

"Are you okay?" He asks.

No.

"Nothing a hot shower can't fix." I vaguely answer.

"Okay," He says. "Just one room?" He asks, and I nod. He holds out a bronze key with a huge tag with the number 213 written on it.

"Thanks," I say, eagerly taking the key, and clutching it to my heart like it's a lifeline. I start to limp away to the door, already fantasizing about the hot water from the shower head.

"You lied." I nearly jump out of my skin at the sound of the guy's voice right by my ear. I hurriedly stumble around, making me hiss in pain.

"W-what?" I ask, thinking the worse. Shit, he knows I'm a runaway, he's probably going to call the cops, have them drag me back where I came from.

"You lied," he repeats, standing to close to me. "You're not okay, you're limping." He says, giving my ankle a concern look.

"O-oh, that. No, it's fine." I lie.

"No, you're not, you can't even walk." The boy protests, seeing right through my lie. Just as I open my mouth the guy bends down, and hoists me over his broad shoulder like a bell boy carrying a guest's duffle bag.

"Ah!" I yell out. "W-what the hell are you doing?! Put me down!" I freak out, trying to wiggling myself free.

"I'm taking you to your room." He answers simply.

"You don't have to do that! You're just a receptionist." I say, my head a foot away from the ceiling, and the floor looking like it is miles away.

"Actually, I'm the owner of this fine establishment." The boy answers, with me still thrown over his shoulder as he casually carries me out of the lobby. Each step he takes is a huge leap, and makes me feel like I'm on a tree during an earthquake.

"Holy crap, you're really tall!" I say nauseously, as he climbs up the stairs to the second floor.

"Yeah, I'm 6'2."

"Please put me down." I beg, each step higher makes feel like I'm climbing up a roller coaster, only to plummet back down on the ground.

"Sure thing," The boy says, making my stomach settle. "Once we get to your room." He adds with a sadistic tone of amusement. My stomach flips upside down, somersaults left and right, lurches diagonally to the verge of nausea.

"Put me down!" I demand, my voice cracking at end as I force myself not to hurl, but this only earns a snicker from the owner. Finally, finally, the boy reaches my room. The jiggling of the keys seem to ring in my ears forever till the sound of the lock clicking makes me relax.

"There," The owner starts, dropping me on the bed gently. "You're down."

"You can forget any tip." I say flatly. "But thank you for carrying me all the way up here." I admit, even though it was against my will, it was thoughtful. How many hotels will literally carry you to your room?

"Fine, but you better give me a good review online." He bargains. With what smart phone? I left that behind when I ran away, I don't want anyone to find me. And is there even wifi, or internet all the way out here in the middle of nowhere?

"We'll negotiate when I check out." I joke, but I catch a knowing smirk on his handsome face just before he hides it. What was that smirk for? A guy smirking usually is never good.

"Alright, make sure you stay off that ankle, okay customer?" The boy insists.

"Customer? My name is Blake, Mr, Owner." I say, my witty remark earning me a grin.

"You can call me Chester." He says. "But you can call me Mr. Owner." He says with a broad, sly grin.