The Easy Way Out

35

Fortunately, Alex's massive Tahoe was the lone vehicle riding the black ribbon of two-lane asphalt through the wooded terrain, headlights piercing the darkness. So transfixed by his dash navigation system, he scarcely watched the winding road, occasionally jerking the steering wheel when he'd veered into the oncoming lane.

Blake slumped against the passenger door unconscious, his ankles and wrists bound with duct tape.

Alex hollered, "Yo, bitch. You still breathing?" He gave his prisoner a shove.

Blake stirred. To him, consciousness meant only one thing. Pain. Throbbing, deepening, vice-like agony tethered him to the world of the living. The dull ache in his lower back no doubt signaled some level of organ failure and most likely internal bleeding. His strategy, if this panicked excuse for a plan could be labeled a strategy, was to buy time. Buy time to look for an opportunity to signal for help. Admittedly, it was a plan born of sheer desperation with terribly low odds of succeeding but if it worked just long enough to provide Rachel a greater chance of escaping, then it was well worth it.

"You better not be making me drive all the way back to Pittsburgh for nothing." Alex shook his mega head. "You think you been through hell already? You ain't even knocked on the front door." He grinned, overestimating his clever remark. "There it is," he said as Getty's Motel faded neon sign came into view. "What a fuckin' dump."

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Reclined on a spacious king-size bed, Damon popped a few Percocets into his mouth then washed them down with a long drink of beer. He heard a man's voice from the hallway, "Room service. Your champagne, sir."

Damon lifted his head then haltingly, got to his feet, grunting in misery. "Coming."

The bathroom door flew open. Rachel emerged wearing only a bath towel and a stern expression. In an angry whisper, she growled, "What're you doing?!"

The delivery man knocked on the door. "Sir?"

"Just leave it," Rachel responded. The clatter of the champagne bucket outside the door drew her to the peephole. She turned the stink-eye on Damon.

"What?" He shrugged. "Nobody saw me come in here."

"You're willing to bet your life on that? And mine?"

"Trust me. I've been careful. Super careful. Why can't you just chill like a normal person?"

"You think you're normal? That's hilarious."

"Lighten up." He opened the door and then returned with a bottle of champagne nestled in a silver ice bucket. Between his fingers, he carried two champagne flutes. He set the glasses down then tugged at her bath towel, his eyes bright. "Let's get this party started."

"I don't see a steak."

"It's probably on its way."

She made an evasive half-spin when he groped for her towel and came up empty.

"No steak, no party."

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Alex was right. Getty's Motel was a dump. The dark, wood-paneled walls stunk of mold and cigarette smoke. He sprawled across the bed nearest to the door, his eyes on the TV, his muscled, tattooed arms protruding from his T-shirt.

On the other bed, Blake's wrists were duct-taped to the bedposts. Slouched against the headboard, his discolored face was scarcely recognizable, though both eyes were now functioning.

A dim second-hand table lamp stood on the nightstand between the two motel beds along with a roll of duct tape, and car keys.

A muted knocking at the door induced Alex to lower the TV's volume. Grabbing his handgun, he gestured to Blake with a finger to his lips. "Shhhhhhh." He peeked through the curtains, then shoved his pistol into the waistband behind his wide back. He opened the door to face a young, unshaven delivery guy who recoiled at the size of the beast filling the doorway.