In six months, Gwen Johnston turns thirty, and when she does, she vows she'll have her life together. She'll no longer be jumping from one job to another, from one relationship to the next. A new, more mature, Gwen will have emerged. She's giving he...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
Gwen proves her worth when she finds us dinner at a hole in the wall in a little settlement not far off Highway 16. The restaurant is tiny but clean, and the food is exceptional. Elk stew and Bannock have never tasted so good. Gwen had never had either before, and she took a lot of interest in the ingredients and cooking method, which seemed to be welcomed by the staff.
She peppers me with questions while I drive, but she reads me well, and the minute I'm even the slightest bit uncomfortable, she shifts gears to something else. For some reason, she's easier to talk to now that it's just the two of us in the cab of the truck.
It's late when we drive into Prince George, and Gwen rattles off the address for her hotel. It's just off the main highway on the other side of the city. We drive past my well lit chain hotel on the way to hers.
At our last bathroom break, I did a search to determine how dangerous Prince George is. Most of the issues were property crime or theft, but there'd been a homicide as well as more than a dozen aggravated assaults. Too high for a small city, if you ask me.
Ahead is a motel with a broken sign that has one large overhead light in the parking lot. The white paint on the building has a grey tinge and is chipping in places. There's one dented, rusty car in a parking spot, and I'm guessing the rest of the units are either vacant or will eventually be rented by the hour.
I don't bother pulling into a space or putting the truck in park, instead I keep the car idling in the middle of the parking lot as I gaze up at the sign proclaiming rooms are only thirty dollars. Dollars is missing the A.
"No," I say. "Absolutely not."
"It's not busy," Gwen says. "And it's cheap. It's probably very clean inside."
"It looks like a murder hotel," I say. Any potential "clean" smell is likely from the bleach they use to remove evidence of crimes. "I didn't rescue you from the roadside of Highway 16 to put you in a hotel where you'll be murdered." I eye her in the semi-light streaming in from overhead. "What's your plan for tomorrow? More hitchhiking? I don't know if there's public transit from here."
"No plans. I'll figure it out in the morning," she says. "I appreciate the ride. Truly. Thank you." She opens the door, and I grab her elbow before she can get out.
"Gwen, I have a hotel with two queen beds. You can't stay here." I take a deep breath and question my sanity. "I can't let you stay here." I reach across her, shut the door, and press on the gas pedal to get us moving.
Even as a spike of irritation goes through me, I catch a strong whiff of whatever body wash or shampoo or perfume she uses. Whatever it is, the tangy familiarity is definitely causing an unwanted reaction. At least from over here, her citrus scent hasn't inspired the usual craving, but that hint of close proximity is a good reminder of why I should not be taking her to my hotel room.
That crime rate, though. Too high. Dangerous, even. Her chosen hotel was in disrepair. Leaving her there would have been irresponsible. I steer out of the parking lot and back on the highway toward my hotel.
