my cash level. $15. Well, that's definitely not going to pay for a room at the Canary. I look back at Goth Geek, who is currently sitting on the curb with his head between his knees. I walk over there and shove him forward and pull his wallet out of his back pocket. He has eighty bucks. I eye the Motel 6 across the street warily.
“I think that's my wallet,” he says.
“Shut up,” I tell him. Are those places sanitary? I mean, are we talking motel-where-truckers-get-some-shut-eye, or motel-where-hookers-go-to-die?
I sigh heavily. Whichever it is, it's not like I have much choice. I look down at the Geek, and sigh again. Not like I have much choice there, either. I haul him to his feet, sling his arm over my shoulders, and pull him across the street. At least the motel won't object to a drunk guy in their lobby—they're probably used to it.
As it happens, the clerk gives him a sideways look, but I smile brightly and he takes the cash readily enough. Bastard gives us a room at the very end of the long hallway though. My shoulders are aching from holding up the Geek by the time we get there. I fiddle with the stupid key card, and when I finally get the door open, the Geek stumbles through and falls down again. I'm tempted to leave him there, but the door wouldn't close if I did. I kick him gently in the side, and he rolls over.
“Get up,” I say, and point at one of the beds. “Go pass out over there.”
He looks over at the bed, shakes his head, and curls back up on the floor. “Too far. Comfy here.”
I bang the door into his side. “You can't stay here.”
He glares at me and crawls over to the bed, but he can't quite get himself up on it. Unbelievable.
“You're pathetic,” I say. I crouch over him and reach my arms around his waist to shove him up on the squeaky bed. Who needs weight-lifting when there's drunk-lifting?
As the Geek snores, I look at our remaining cash, and shrug. Enough for a pizza delivery, anyway. I use the flier the motel has so helpfully tucked next to the phone, and order a pizza from “Three Brothers from Italy.” The voice that answers the phone is clearly Hispanic, but whatever.
While I'm waiting, I look around the motel room. It's not that bad, I guess. It's kind of dim, and the furniture is cheap, and the painting on the wall is incredibly tacky, but it does seem to be clean. Mostly. I sniff the sheets suspiciously. I did specify a non-smoking room, but it totally smells like smoke in here.
When the pizza arrives, I wave a slice temptingly in front of the Geek's nose, but he barely stirs. Probably for the best—I'd much rather the smell of smoke than the smell of vomit. I eat until I'm full and flick through cable until I fall asleep.
Day TWO
When I wake up, it's barely light out. I groan and roll over. The Geek snored so freaking loud all night long, there was just no chance of my getting any sleep. The couple having sex next door didn't help either, though at least they quit after an hour or so. The Geek kept at it all night long. I sigh heavily and get up to go take a shower. The lock on the bathroom door is broken, and I eye it suspiciously. The Geek is still snoring (though at least it's at a reasonable volume now), but he could be faking it. I sniff my armpit and make a face. I'll have to take the risk.
I shower quickly, though. For one thing, the water pressure sucks, and it's not what you'd call particularly hot, either. I hold up my still stiff and scratchy shirt and wrinkle my nose. I wish I had enough cash to buy some clean clothes. Apparently running away goes better if you do a little advance planning. Who knew? I don't even want to talk about putting on yesterday's underwear.
I walk out of the bathroom feeling a little better than I did, though, and poke the Geek in the shoulder. I needn't have worried about the lock—he still hasn't moved. I poke him harder, but still don't get a response. I resort to shaking.
“What?” he mumbles.
“We have a bus to catch,” I say loudly.
He opens one eye and looks up at me. “Barbie? What are you doing here?” He