my hand and walked away.
Oh, crap.
C HAPTER 5
I wheeled my suitcase out of the elevator on the third floor and headed left toward room 334, my new home away from home. The carpet and wallpaper screamed â70s, just like the lobby.
Honestly, I didnât get it. This whole section of Henderson hadnât been developed back in the day, so just why the decorator had wanted to incite motel guests to throw on some bell-bottoms and dance the bump to Brick House, I didnât know. My best guess was that the Culver Inn management had gotten the furnishings from some other bankrupt motel chain at a discountâa whopping discount, obviously.
At the end of the long hallway, I turned left again. Just as Amber had said, only four rooms were in this wing of the motel. I found mine on the left at the end of the hall.
From the look of things, this area hadnât gotten any attention from the housekeeping crew in a while. The place was dusty. Something smelled weird.
Jeez, I hoped that wasnât the scent of toxic mold growing under the carpet.
I stopped outside my door and glanced around. One room next to mine, two across the hall. An exit sign above the door at the end of the corridor flickered in the dim light. It was deadly silent up here.
Maybe a week at the spa with my mom wouldnât have been so bad.
I pushed that thought away, hurried inside my room, threw the dead bolt, slid the security chain, and switched on all the lights.
The room boasted amenities not found in the upscale hotels in Vegas: end tables with lamps bolted to them, pictures screwed into the walls, the TV remote tethered to the bed frame. The bathroom was small, the closet smaller. Orange shag carpet, a silver and brown bedspread, and avocado green drapes completed the bad-acid-trip look the decorator seemed to be going for.
Actually, a week at the spa with Mom might have been okay.
I pulled back the drapes, sending a flurry of dust motes into the air, and looked outside. This particular room wasnât raking in an upcharge for its incredible view.
The Culver Inn was U-shaped, and my room was on one side of the U. Below was a swimming pool, now drained; leaves and mud lay in the bottom. A dozen ratty umbrella tables surrounded by broken chairs completed the patio-from-hell effect.
A couple of large boulders, a half-dozen tall palm trees, and a wrought-iron fence enclosed the grounds and separated it from the motelâs service area. There was a small building that I guessed held the pool and maintenance equipment, and some Dumpsters.
Beyond that, the desert stretched for a few miles to a housing tract just visible on the horizon. In between lay piles of rock and construction debris. Seemed the construction companies didnât bother to haul away their leftover crap, just dumped it in an open spot in the desert.
Spa week with Mom flashed in my mind.
I looked down at the swimming pool again.
I thought about Mom and the beauty queens.
Yeah, Iâd rather be here.
I took a quick shower, pulled on my pajamas, and yanked back the bedspread. Nothing crawled out. I crawled in.
Â
A really annoying buzzing sound woke me. I rolled over and realized the alarm clock was going offâat two in the afternoon. Not unusual for Vegas. The alarm had probably been set the last time the room was used, back during the Bush administration, I guessed.
Immediately, a hunger pang hit me. I threw on jeans and a T-shirt, stuffed my laptop into an awesome Betsey Johnson tote, and left the room.
Despite the fact that my room was crappier than crap, I was grateful for it. I intended to thank Amber for putting herself out there so I could use it, but when I got to the lobby, she wasnât on duty. Another woman in the hideous Culver Inn uniform stood behind the registration desk. I got my car from the parking lot and hit the road.
Driving was the ideal time to check phone messages, Iâd found. Of course, it could be against the law to use
Oh, crap.
C HAPTER 5
I wheeled my suitcase out of the elevator on the third floor and headed left toward room 334, my new home away from home. The carpet and wallpaper screamed â70s, just like the lobby.
Honestly, I didnât get it. This whole section of Henderson hadnât been developed back in the day, so just why the decorator had wanted to incite motel guests to throw on some bell-bottoms and dance the bump to Brick House, I didnât know. My best guess was that the Culver Inn management had gotten the furnishings from some other bankrupt motel chain at a discountâa whopping discount, obviously.
At the end of the long hallway, I turned left again. Just as Amber had said, only four rooms were in this wing of the motel. I found mine on the left at the end of the hall.
From the look of things, this area hadnât gotten any attention from the housekeeping crew in a while. The place was dusty. Something smelled weird.
Jeez, I hoped that wasnât the scent of toxic mold growing under the carpet.
I stopped outside my door and glanced around. One room next to mine, two across the hall. An exit sign above the door at the end of the corridor flickered in the dim light. It was deadly silent up here.
Maybe a week at the spa with my mom wouldnât have been so bad.
I pushed that thought away, hurried inside my room, threw the dead bolt, slid the security chain, and switched on all the lights.
The room boasted amenities not found in the upscale hotels in Vegas: end tables with lamps bolted to them, pictures screwed into the walls, the TV remote tethered to the bed frame. The bathroom was small, the closet smaller. Orange shag carpet, a silver and brown bedspread, and avocado green drapes completed the bad-acid-trip look the decorator seemed to be going for.
Actually, a week at the spa with Mom might have been okay.
I pulled back the drapes, sending a flurry of dust motes into the air, and looked outside. This particular room wasnât raking in an upcharge for its incredible view.
The Culver Inn was U-shaped, and my room was on one side of the U. Below was a swimming pool, now drained; leaves and mud lay in the bottom. A dozen ratty umbrella tables surrounded by broken chairs completed the patio-from-hell effect.
A couple of large boulders, a half-dozen tall palm trees, and a wrought-iron fence enclosed the grounds and separated it from the motelâs service area. There was a small building that I guessed held the pool and maintenance equipment, and some Dumpsters.
Beyond that, the desert stretched for a few miles to a housing tract just visible on the horizon. In between lay piles of rock and construction debris. Seemed the construction companies didnât bother to haul away their leftover crap, just dumped it in an open spot in the desert.
Spa week with Mom flashed in my mind.
I looked down at the swimming pool again.
I thought about Mom and the beauty queens.
Yeah, Iâd rather be here.
I took a quick shower, pulled on my pajamas, and yanked back the bedspread. Nothing crawled out. I crawled in.
Â
A really annoying buzzing sound woke me. I rolled over and realized the alarm clock was going offâat two in the afternoon. Not unusual for Vegas. The alarm had probably been set the last time the room was used, back during the Bush administration, I guessed.
Immediately, a hunger pang hit me. I threw on jeans and a T-shirt, stuffed my laptop into an awesome Betsey Johnson tote, and left the room.
Despite the fact that my room was crappier than crap, I was grateful for it. I intended to thank Amber for putting herself out there so I could use it, but when I got to the lobby, she wasnât on duty. Another woman in the hideous Culver Inn uniform stood behind the registration desk. I got my car from the parking lot and hit the road.
Driving was the ideal time to check phone messages, Iâd found. Of course, it could be against the law to use
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