Free The Sun Down Motel by Simone St. James Page B

wondered what the heck I thought I was doing.
    On the second level, the door to one of the unoccupied rooms swung open, showing the darkness within.
    I squinted. There was definitely no one staying in the room, no one in the doorway. Yet the door hung open now, banging gently in the wind.
    The lock must be broken, or the knob. I crossed the parking lot and climbed the stairs, huddling deeper into my coat because it seemed colder up here. Late fall in upstate New York is no joke. My ears were stinging and my nose was starting to run.
    I grabbed the knob to the room door—it was room 218—and pulled it closed. I tried turning the knob and found it was unlocked, and I had no key. I opened the door again and found it had a disc on the inside of the knob that locked it. I turned the disc and closed the door again.
    Two doors down, room 216 opened.
    That was it—just the soft squeak of the door opening, then nothing. The wind blew and the door creaked, waving.
    Something inside my mind said, This is not right .
    Still, I walked to the doorway and grabbed the knob, this time taking a second to sweep a glance through the dark room. Bed, dresser, TV, door to the bathroom. Nothing else there.
    I turned the disc and shut the door, making sure to pull it all the way closed. It swung back open again, even though the knob didn’t turn. I grabbed it and banged it closed again, harder this time. It stayed shut for a stretch of maybe ten seconds, then creaked open again.
    There was a faint sound from behind the door, as if someone were standing there. A rustle of cloth. The soft tap of a footstep. I caught a whiff of flowery perfume.
    “Hey,” I said, and reached my hand out. Before I could touch the door it slammed shut, so hard the door frame nearly rattled.
    My breath had stopped. My arm was still out, my hand up, my fingers cold. A wash of freezing air brushed into my face, down my neck. I couldn’t think.
    While I stood frozen, the door to 210 opened.
    My chest squeezed inside my coat. I made my feet move, bumped back against the railing. Dull pain thudded up my spine. My hands were like ice as I tried clumsily to turn my body, to back away. There were heavy footsteps.
    A man stepped out of room 210 and into the corridor. He was a few years older than me, maybe. Brown hair, cropped short. Worn jeans and an old dark gray T-shirt. Stubble on his jaw. Laser blue eyes. His hair was sticking up, like he’d been sleeping.
    I stared at him, dumbfounded. He was real, but I’d looked at the guest book, and he wasn’t supposed to be here. Room 210 was unoccupied. Which meant I had no idea who he was.
    “Hey,” the man said to me as if he belonged here. “Who the fuck are you?”
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    •   •   •
    I exhaled a breath that steamed in the cold. I took a step back. “Um,” I said, “I’m—”
    “Banging doors in the middle of the night,” he finished. “I’m trying to sleep in here.”
    That wasn’t me. At least, I don’t think so. “You’re not supposed to be here,” I said to the man. I pointed to the doorway behind him. “In that room.”
    He scowled at me. “What the hell are you talking about?”
    “I’m calling the cops,” I said. I was impressed with how I sounded, considering I was terrified out of my mind. Too late, I remembered that the pepper spray Heather had given me was in my purse, back in the office. I moved my feet back again and turned to leave.
    “Wait,” the man said after me. “I’m staying here. It’s legit. I have a key and everything.” There was a clinking sound, and I turned to see him hold up a familiar leather tab with a key dangling from it.
    I paused. “What’s your name?”
    “Nick Harkness.”
    “You’re not in the guest book.”
    “I never signed the guest book. It’s legit.” He put the key away and reached into his back pocket. “You want to check me out? Here.” He pulled out his wallet and tossed it to the ground between us, where it made a heavy sound