A Cry in the Dark (Carly Moore #1) - Denise Grover Swank Page 0,6
just text it to you. What’s your number?”
His face was a blank slate as he rattled off a number, which I entered into a text message and typed. I started to enter my real name, the one I needed to keep hidden, then deleted it and entered Moore. Damn, that was going to take some getting used to. I pushed send, only to get an error message. I still didn’t have service.
“I don’t have cell service in town,” I said, holding it up as though to offer proof. “So my phone number won’t be of much use.”
“I’ll just call you at the motel, then,” he said, his gaze on my phone.
I stuffed it into my purse. It wasn’t like it was going to do me much good here. Besides which, I had no one to call. “Do you have cell service?”
“Nope.” Then he turned and headed for the cab of his truck.
If he didn’t have cell service and neither did I, why was he asking for my number? At least his attitude had dampened my attraction to him. The last thing I needed in my life was to be distracted by a handsome man.
I decided not to waste any more time on it and resumed lugging my suitcase toward the tavern. It continued getting stuck on chunks of gravel, so I eventually picked it up and carried it to the front of the building. It kept banging my shins, likely hard enough to leave more bruises. I almost admonished myself for packing too much, but other than my car, all my worldly possessions were either in my purse or my suitcase. When I reached concrete, I tried to roll it, but one of the wheels was wobbly and the suitcase started going sideways.
I might as well have gotten my honeymoon luggage from Target instead of Neiman Marcus for as well as this bag was holding up.
Honeymoon luggage.
I’d bought this blasted suitcase for the three-week Hawaii vacation I’d planned with my fiancé, Jake. Back then, I’d thought I was happy, or happy enough. I’d thought I understood the world and my part in it. But it had all been a lie. I’d heard something after our rehearsal dinner that had opened my eyes to the truth. Instead of taking this bag on my honeymoon, I’d brought it in my getaway car—and, thanks to my last broken-down car, to Henryetta, Arkansas. To the people who’d given me a new life.
The thought of Henryetta and the friends I’d made there brought back a fresh wave of grief, but I took a deep breath and pushed it down. I could feel sorry for myself later. Now, I needed to get a room for the night…or more likely for the next several nights.
What was I going to do if I didn’t have enough money to pay for the repairs? Because I needed to face the possibility that it might happen.
I’d deal with it when I got the estimate.
I opened the front door and walked inside. The décor was dark—wood, floors, and ceiling—but it felt homey rather than off-putting. A family sat in a booth to my right and ESPN was playing on the large screen TV mounted to the back wall.
A man with dishwater blond hair stood behind the bar, leaning his elbow on the counter as he watched me enter the establishment. He was young and good-looking, and the shit-eating grin that spread across his face when he saw my suitcase indicated he was pretty confident in his own skin. “I have a lot of people comin’ into the tavern, but I’ve never had anyone want to camp out here.”
He didn’t look anything like Wyatt, but something about his grin reminded me of the man who had just dropped me off.
“You must be Max,” I said as I fought my suitcase to follow me across the floor.
He laughed. “Should I be worried that you know who I am, but I don’t remember you?”
So he was a player, not that I was surprised. He had that cocky confidence most players wore like a glove.
“We haven’t met,” I assured him. “Your brother told me about your bar and your motel.”
His eyebrows shot up in surprise. “Wyatt?”
“Drives a tow truck?” When he nodded, I said, “He towed my car here.” I gestured to the luggage. “Hence the suitcase.”
“So you need a room for the night?” he asked.
“Probably several nights. He said it would take a few days.”