Make You Mine by K.T. Quinn

6

Charlotte

The sheriff didn’t say anything on the way back to the station. He could probably tell based on the look on my face. Or because my fate was predetermined the moment I was pulled over last night.

My anger faded away and was replaced by self-pity. I was stuck in this podunk little town with a power-tripping sheriff and an arrogant judge. Over a hundred hours of community service and a suspended license. And for what? Driving down the wrong road on a rainy night? Pulled over for no freaking reason?

There was a rumble of a motorcycle up ahead. It came around the bend in the opposite direction, passing us on the left. Without a helmet, I was able to recognize Jayce instantly. He wore wide aviator sunglasses and his dark hair fluttered in the wind. The sheriff shook his head as Jayce passed, the rumbling sound of his Harley disappearing behind us.

I looked at Jayce’s jacket in my hand. The judge seemed to be going easy on me until he saw that I had it. As if I somehow had a connection to the man in the cell next to mine.

My anger returned, this time at Jayce. It was his fault. I didn’t ask for his help. I should have left his stupid jacket on the floor of my cell.

The sheriff’s office was empty when we arrived. “Let me get the clerk,” the sheriff said, going around the desk and sitting down. He removed his hat and smoothed back his hair, then grinned like he’d made a joke. “Oh, right. I’m the clerk too.”

We spent the next few hours going through all the charging paperwork. Then I signed a form stating that I understood my Georgia driver’s license was suspended pending the completion of the community service, which was required to be performed in Eastland. Two hundred dollars in Eastland court fees, which I really wanted to protest since my court appearance had taken place at the banks of a river while the judge fished, but I signed my name reluctantly. Then there was the paperwork for the community service itself. The woman I would report to, the duties I would be expected to perform. A waiver stating I had no health problems preventing me from picking up trash or painting over graffiti.

Once the forms were signed, the sheriff spent over an hour sending them one at a time through the fax machine, which was so old the white plastic was now smoker’s yellow. I sat in the corner and thought about how long a hundred and twenty hours was. At eight hours a day, that would keep me here three weeks. Fifteen days. Over seven thousand minutes.

“All set!” the sheriff announced happily. He was in a much better mood this morning. “You’ll report to the community center over on main street to complete your work. Be there right at eight tomorrow. If you’re late, they’ll deduct an hour from your timesheet.”

He handed me a plastic bag containing my belongings that were confiscated last night. The cell phone screen was a flurry of missed texts and voicemails. My parents, I thought with alarm. I hadn’t arrived home last night. They must have thought I was dead.

“Where are my car keys?” I asked. “And for that matter, where’s my car?”

“We had it towed to the town’s motel. The driver has the keys. I’ll drive you there.”

I blinked. “Why the motel?”

The sheriff chuckled as if it were a silly question. “Well, you can’t exactly drive out of town with your license suspended, now can you? I figure you’ll shack up at the motel. It’s the only one we’ve got, so you’d better like it.”

I texted my parents on the way to the motel: Everything’s fine, I’ll call and explain soon. But I’m safe. Don’t worry.

The Hollow Hare Motel looked abandoned. It was long and narrow, running parallel to the road. There was only one floor. The parking lot was spiderwebbed with cracks that had weeds poking through, and the paint from the parking spots was so faded I could barely see the lines.

Next to the sign on the road was a weird piece of metal art. Just like the one I’d seen my first night driving into town, it was a metal skeleton figure. In the daylight I saw more details: it had three long fingers on each hand, like claws, one of which was gesturing at the road. A wide-brimmed hat covered its empty face. Rivets ran up the metal chest like rusty buttons. It was beautiful in a haunting sort of way, but just now it filled my chest with despair.

My car waited in one of the parking spots. Next to it was a tow truck without any business logo on the side. “Have a pleasant stay,” the sheriff said in a bored tone.

I bit back an angry response and got out of the car.

The man who climbed down out of the tow truck had hippy-long hair and wore a faded blue jumpsuit. “You Miss Owens?”

“Unfortunately.”

It took him a beat to realize that was a yes. “You owe me for the tow.”

“Give me a minute? I need to figure out how much I’m paying to stay here.”

He shrugged like he had all the time in the world.

A teenage boy sat behind the front desk with his feet up, playing on his cell phone. He looked surprised, then annoyed, to see a customer come in.

“Huh?” he grunted as a greeting.

“How much for a room?” I asked. I wasn’t sure if I was going to spend the night, but I did know that I wanted a shower and a place to change into fresh clothes.

“Twenty for a night,” the boy drawled, or a hunnid’ for the full week.”

“Just the one night.”

His mouth hung open. “Naw, you see, it’s cheaper to take the week. You end up saving…” He trailed off as the gears in his head tried to do the mental math.

“I won’t be here a week,” I said. God willing.

“Whatever,” he said, as if I was the idiot for passing up the deal.

I held out my credit card. He stared at it.

“Do you not take credit?” I asked.

“Well, sure, we do,” he admitted. “But it’s an awful lot of work. I gotta fish out the scanner from the back room with the spiders. Then I gotta hook up the connection, which is real slow. You’d be makin’ my life easier if you had cash.”

I found a twenty dollar bill in my wallet and handed it over. He accepted it without charging me tax or printing a receipt, then handed me a key attached to a plastic lanyard. “Room one.”

I took the key and frowned. “Am I the only one staying here?”

He was already looking down at his phone again. “We don’t get lots of visitors.”

The tow truck guy was waiting to accost me outside. “Miss Owens, I can’t give you the keys to your car ‘til you pay the balance.”

He seemed like a nice enough guy, so I held back from chewing him out. “My license is suspended, so I don’t really need my keys, now do I?” I smiled to let him know it was a joke.

He took off his baseball cap and rubbed his bald head nervously.

“How much do I owe you?” I asked.

“One-fifty.”

“What!” I exclaimed. “I could stay here for almost two weeks for that.”

His already dour face grew gloomier. “Well, it’s a flat fifty for a tow, plus a hundred for each additional day kept at the yard. You didn’t take possession yesterday, so…”

“That’s because I was in jail last night.”

“None of my business, miss,” he said.

I sighed. “Do you take credit cards?’

“No, miss.”

I fished out my checkbook and paid him without a single smart-mouthed comment about how this was beginning to feel like extortion. Our food truck in Savannah hadn’t been doing very well, so I wasn’t exactly flush with cash. But I was also exhausted, and just wanted to get somewhere private.

Once I had my keys, I grabbed one of my suitcases from the car and then went inside my motel room.