Stacey Kade - The Hunt

That didn’t seem to reassure her. Frowning, Ariane ran her hands through my hair, plucking out a few leaves and dropping them to the floor.

Under her touch, I wanted nothing more than to stay right here.

She lowered her hands slowly, her gaze searching my face, looking for what I wasn’t sure. But her eyes seemed brighter, shinier, closer to tears than they’d been.

“All better?” I asked, my voice thick.

“Yes.” She reached out as if she might caress my cheek, not for the purpose of cleaning me up but just to do it, but then she seemed to catch herself and turned to stare out the window instead. “Be careful, okay?” she said.

A little baffled by the quick change in her mood, I nodded slowly. “Yeah. I’ll be right back.”

I climbed out of the van, my legs protesting the sudden movement after hours in the cramped space behind the wheel, and headed for the office door.

As soon as I got about ten feet away, the strangest feeling came over me, the insistent intuition that Ariane would be gone by the time I returned.

No. She wouldn’t do that. Would she?

I looked over my shoulder at the van and waved, but I couldn’t see whether she waved back.

Better just to hurry up and not chance it.

An old-fashioned bell rang as soon as I pushed open the door. After a long moment, a big dude in a flannel shirt appeared behind the registration desk.

“Help you?” he asked, rubbing his eyes with a meaty fist.

“Yeah, man, road trip gone wrong, you know?” I shook my head. “Got lost, flat tire, the whole deal.” I gestured at my banged-up face. “Gotta get some rest before I keep going.” I could hear myself rambling and yet couldn’t seem to stop. What the hell. I used to be good at this kind of stuff.

He eyed me carefully, and I worked to meet his gaze and not fidget.

Then he gave a yawn, one that made his jaw crack. “Credit card.” He made a give-it-to-me gesture.

“Cash. But I’ve got ID.” I slid two bills across the counter and pulled my driver’s license from my wallet.

He looked at the money and my license and then back at me. “No trouble from you, though. Got it?”

“No, not at all,” I said. “Just need a quiet place to sleep for a few hours.”

He grunted. “All I got is a double. And checkout’s at eleven.”

He tapped at the computer halfheartedly for a few seconds, then the money disappeared into his pocket without any mention of change, even though there was no way this place cost two hundred bucks a night. Good enough.

“Room 205.” He shoved key cards across the scarred Formica counter to me. “Second floor, on the end.”

That had been easier than I’d thought it would be. Then again, the guy was half-asleep. And/or completely apathetic. I wasn’t sure which, but either way it worked to our advantage.

I nodded my thanks, took the cards, and headed back out into the parking lot, trying not to look as if I was rushing.

The van was where I’d left it. The relief almost made me dizzy.

Once the manager could no longer see me, I picked up my pace and trotted directly for the passenger-side door.

Ariane, watching for me, opened it as I approached.

“Room 205. Second floor, on the end,” I said.

“Any problems?” she asked, her gaze flicking between me and the parking lot, staying alert for someone approaching, no doubt.

“Nope.”

She nodded and swung down from the van, the duffel bag over her shoulder.

I led the way up a creaky set of wooden stairs that bent beneath my weight to the last door on that level. After a momentary struggle with the key card, we were in.

The room was small and seriously fugly with carpet in a shade between aqua and green that hurt my eyes. It smelled damp and mildewy, like laundry left in the washer for a few days—thanks, most likely, to the actively dripping AC unit on the far wall. Still, the second the door shut behind me, I felt better, safer. It was probably a false sense of security, but I found it reassuring all the same.

Ahead of me, Ariane carefully placed the duffel bag on a battered-looking armchair near the foot of the queen-size bed. The lone bed in the room. A dresser with a TV bolted to the top of it and a bedside table with a grimy-looking phone were the only other pieces of furniture.

“They didn’t have a room with two beds, sorry,” I said, my words sounding absurdly loud in the small room.

Without looking at me, Ariane shook her head. “It’s all right.”

Trying not to crowd her, I took an extra step to the right to turn on the lights in the bathroom and look around. “Not too much worse than the locker room at school,” I said, attempting to keep the mood light. “But—”

Ariane was in front of me when I turned toward the main room.

“Sorry,” I said, and tried to get out of the way, feeling as ungainly and awkward as I had when I’d first shot up over six feet.

She moved with me, her gaze meeting mine directly, and it took me a second to realize she’d done it deliberately.

Rising up on her tiptoes to examine me more closely, Ariane sucked a breath in through her teeth.

“Sit,” she said, pointing at the toilet.

When I frowned at her, she held up the first-aid kit. I hadn’t even noticed it in her hand. “I can’t reach you unless you’re sitting,” she said.

She was still worried about my face. I shook my head. “No way, your arm—”

“Looks much worse than it is,” she said calmly.

Oh no, I’d accepted that answer before because I’d been caught off guard. But now?

I folded my arms across my chest. “You first.” I could be stubborn too.

Ariane glared at me. “I can take care of it myself.” But she pulled her arm closer to her body, protectively, as if I might try to grab it. Which told me that she was hurt worse than she wanted to let on.

“One-handed?” I asked, doing my best to keep my voice flat, even. She seemed to respond better to logic than emotional pleas when it came to her own well-being. I could play that game. Part of me wondered if she just wasn’t used to it, used to someone caring about her.

“It’s my left arm. I’m right-handed,” she argued.

I rolled my eyes. “Yeah, I’m sure that’ll be no problem.”

Her mouth tightened. “I said I’m—”

“The longer you argue with me, the longer we’re going to stand here,” I said, leaning against the counter.

Her fingers tightened on the first-aid kit as if she were contemplating throwing it at my head.

“And the longer my injuries go untreated.” I gave her a pitiful look.

She heaved an irritated sigh. “You’re making this much more difficult than it needs to be,” she snapped, thrusting the first-aid kit at my chest as she pushed past me to sit on the closed lid of the toilet.

“I’m really, really good at that,” I said, unperturbed. “Or so I hear, anyway.”

“You don’t have to look so smug,” she grumbled as I set the kit down and washed my hands.

“Are you kidding? I think that’s the only argument I’ve ever won with you. I’m going to put it on my college applications in the Special Accomplishments section,” I said.

“Funny,” she said. “Besides, you didn’t win. I quit. There’s a difference.”

“Uh-huh. Whatever lets you sleep at night.” I dried my hands on one of the threadbare white towels on the counter.

“How are you with blood?” she challenged, unzipping her jacket and shrugging it off her shoulders.

“I play lacrosse. I think I’ll be fine,” I said dryly. “Plus, my dad comes from the school of ‘rub a little dirt on it and get back out there,’ so I’m not going to faint on you, if that’s what you’re worried about.”