Star Gift

Chapter Three

When Blake's cell phone alarm went off the next morning at eight o'clock, he quickly shut if off, sparing his friend still soundly sleeping in the bed next to him. He got up quietly and started the coffee machine in the room. Going over to his jeans draped over a chair, he took the key from his pocket and looked at the address on the worn paper tag attached to it.

Opening his navigation app on his phone, and typing in the Farmington street address, Blake could see the location of where the key would lead them. It was in an area out of the center of the town and what appeared to be an industrial area. Pouring out two cups of coffee, he brought one over to his friend.

"Hey man. Russel wake up!  Were on a mission."

He struggled to open his eyes. "Where the hell are we, Captain?"

Blake laughed. "Not in San Diego yet. But if you get up and we make it out of this hotel, we might be on our way to the bars and babes before high noon."

"High noon. Right. Wasn't that some kind of cowboy movie?"

"Yeah. And we're in it right now, pal. Remember the hats and boots of those people in the bar last night?

Russel slowly sat up, squinted his eyes and reached out for the coffee cup. "Thanks man. Yeah. Real cowboys. And did you see those women?"

"Come on, pal. Some of those cowgirls were pretty fine."

Russel just looked at his friend blankly.

"So, what's the plan, boss?" he finally asked.

"Look. We're going to blast out of here. Go to where this key leads us. Check things out. And then power back across the desert to San Diego."

"Yeah and how many hours will that take?"

"If we drive all night . . . about . . ."

"All night? God, don't tell me, Blake. Let's just get on the road."

"Alright. Five-minute showers. Whatever breakfast there is down there. And were mobile."

"What you said, man. Let's go!"

* * *

After the breakfast—surprisingly sufficient for the two former high school basketball players, Blake and Russel had located Rosita Way, a frontage road on the outskirts of Farmington. The heat was already intense at ten o'clock, and many large trucks were docking in front of supermarket warehouse storage facilities. Moving onward to the street number 25, with the help of Blake's GPS locator, they found themselves in front of a massive complex of storage buildings under the sign Wrangler Public Storage Co. They parked the car and walked up to the gate that led into the center, a security guard in a baseball cap quickly drove up to them in a golf cart.

"You guys here for storage business," the young, well-built man asked.

Blake then realized the key he had, leading them to 25 Rosita Way, was obviously to one of the locked storage rooms on the premises.

"That's right," he told the employee, cautious of what else he should reveal to him. 

Tan-faced and wearing a white golf shirt, the young man took out a clip board and pen.

"It's policy here for you to just give me an ID before I allow over to the storage sheds," he said in a friendly voice.

Blake did not comply immediately.

"So then, are you renting new today? Or do you already have a contract and key?"

Blake froze again, trying not to give his ignorance about the place away.