Highway Kismet

Moab

"Whores in this house, there's some whores in this house," I sang doing a fist pump dance while Mitchell opened our room door.

"Whores in this house, there's some whor-" My singing was abruptly cut off by Mitchell – who looked at me with irritation.

He just got the room door open when he looked at me over his shoulder and said, "You just asked a very stupid question about paying for a room by the hour and now you're singing about," He paused and looked around before continuing in a softer voice, "Whores."

"What will people around us think? This is a motel and the walls are very thin." He added.

Mitchell sure loved to keep up an image and the way he said the word motel, showed what a snob he was. He spoke of it as if it were degrading to be in one. Besides all of that, I wasn't singing to annoy him, that one line of the song which I heard in the car, was catchy and stuck in my head.

"Aw Mitchy," I cooed and trailed a finger down the side of his face, "All they're going to think is that you're my gigolo and I plan to get my money's worth tonight."

I winked at him and entered the motel room. Mitchell walked in after me and shut the door behind him while I took in the appearance of the room. It was nothing compared to any room we stayed in during the course of our trip.

The room had a very rustic feel to it, the entire area had wooden paneled walls, matched with wooden furniture, including the little coffee table, two chairs, one single closet, and even the headboard. The floors had a blue, faded carpet and the beddings weren't the crisp white I was used to, instead it was caramel-colored with a tribal pattern on them. There wasn't an air-conditioner either, it instead had a ceiling fan hanging directly above the center of the bed.

The room was relatively small but cozy, it smelt of rain and wood polish. Mitchell walked past me and tossed the keys on the little coffee table, making his way to the bathroom.

I dropped my backpack onto the foot of the bed before looking around for any paintings on the wall and spotted three. I walked in the direction of the first one and lifted it slightly, peeking behind the wall checking for any holes. I was glad that there was none.

I headed towards the next one and did the same, I looked for any sort of peepholes or weird things which would give someone access to seeing into the room from elsewhere.

"What are you doing?" I heard Mitchell ask.

I turned to see him wiping his hair with a towel and looking a little less drenched. He looked at me curiously and after putting the painting back in its place, I headed towards the last one.

"Looking for peepholes in the wall." I answered him.

"I'm most likely going to regret asking, but why?" He questioned.

I looked underneath the last one and was content that there were no signs of spyholes in the wall.

"I once saw a movie where a young guy owned a motel off the side of the road and he would leave spyholes in the walls behind paintings and watch people get busy and then he'd get off on that." I answered casually.

Mitchell opened his mouth to say something and then closed it again.

"I knew I shouldn't have asked." He mumbled to himself.

I turned around and said in a low tone, "And then when he was done, he would sneak in at night and kill the guests."

Mitchell simply rolled his eyes and shook his head in response. I guess he figured it was a safer bet if he reserved his comments.