see the wheels turning inside her head. She’s probably wondering how long a walk it is back to that truck stop or if she can flag down another ride.
“Don’t even think about it,” I warn.
We stare at each other a long minute in a contest of wills. I outlast her, and she deflates with a sigh. I climb on the bike and fire it up.
“My things are at my girlfriend’s hotel in the Quarter.”
“I’m not riding all the way back to New Orleans to get them. Besides, I can’t haul a suitcase on the bike. Your friends can bring your stuff back.”
She crawls on the back without another word.
I twist the throttle before she has a chance to argue.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Memphis—
We ride for hours, stopping only once for gas, where I text Rock to let him know I have Lola and am bringing her back. The sun’s sliding below the horizon now, and with all the shifting Lola’s been doing, I know she’s had about as much of this bike as she can take.
The last three or four exits we’ve passed have had nothing I could see, no motels, no food, not even a gas station. I’m wondering how much farther I can make it on what gas I have left when I come over a rise and traffic is backed up in a line as far as I can see.
Fuck.
I let off on the throttle, and slow to a stop, checking the sky. Dark clouds line the northern horizon and misty trails of rain fall in the distance. I take the shoulder, hoping there’s an exit up ahead. I ride it for about a mile before I see a sign indicating the Natchitoches exit.
There’s a line of cars with the same idea of exiting the backed-up interstate, and it takes a while to finally make it to the stop light. When I do, there are only two places to stay right off the interstate—an Econo Lodge and a Fairfield Inn.
I try the Econo Lodge, pulling under the portico and climbing off the bike. Lola does the same, stretching and rubbing her ass.
“Wait here. I’ll see if they have any vacancy.”
Through the automatic glass doors, I spot a line at the counter. A guy in an Atlanta Braves cap walks out as I walk in.
“Don’t bother, man, they’re full up. A tractor-trailer jackknifed and spilled its load about twenty miles up, and everyone’s getting off the interstate.” He jerks his head back toward the clerk. “Clerk said he heard they won’t have it cleared up for six to eight hours.”
“Damn. Guess I’ll try the Fairfield.”
“I just came from there. They’re booked, too. I’m gonna head into Natchitoches. The clerk said some of the B&B’s might still have room. Said there’s several down by the Cane River near the downtown historic section. Otherwise, you’ve got to double back about fifty miles to find the nearest chain with vacancies.”
“Thanks, man.” I walk out to the bike and tell Lola.
“What are we going to do?”
“It looks like rain’s moving in. If we double back, chances are we’ll get caught in it. Let’s try farther in town.” She nods and we climb on the bike. I fire it up as the guy in the ball cap pulls out in an Escalade. I roll out and follow him toward town. A few miles later, we turn down Church Street and I spot a quant, little inn. I stop to check there.
One couple stands at the counter, the desk clerk just finishing up with them, handing them their key card and explaining there’s a free breakfast in the morning.
They move off, and I step forward.
He smiles up at me. “May I help you, Sir?”
“You have any rooms left?”
“I’m sorry. That was our last one.”
I run a hand through my hair and blow out a breath. “Okay, thanks. You wouldn’t happen to know any other places, would you?”
“Let me make a call.” He dials and talks in a low voice to someone, then looks up at me. “One-thirty-five a night okay?”
“Yeah, sure.” I’d pay twice that now just to get off the road.
“Your name?”
“Rafe Ballard.” He repeats my name to the person on the phone. When he hangs up, he points toward the road. “It’s on the other side of the river. Take this street through the intersection and across the Church Street Bridge. Make a left and it’s the second place facing the river. Riverside Bed and Breakfast. They’re holding a room for you for the next