Veiled (Ada Palomino 1)

We’ve pulled into a parking lot of a roadside motel. In the dark it looks epically creepy and I have half a mind to tell Jay I’ll sleep in the car because I’ve had just enough creepy for one day.

“It’s nearly midnight,” Jay says, turning off the engine and twisting in his seat to look at me. “We need some rest.”

“Yeah but . . .” I say, staring at the motel.

It’s not like the Bates Motel, thank god, but it was definitely built in the 50’s or 60’s. A long sloping roof slicked with wet moss, water dripping from the eaves even though it hasn’t rained in a few days. There are ten rooms all facing out to the cars and an office at the end with a blinking neon sign.

“Looks like there’s room,” Jay says, there only being three cars in the lot.

“Yeah and probably with good reason,” I tell him.

Still we both get out of the car and I grab the duffel from the backseat, along with his backpack. He eyes me over the roof of the Mercedes, his face looking sharp and white in the wane light of the single streetlight at the side of the empty highway. “Are you afraid of ghosts? Or just staying in a place that’s not the Four Seasons?”

“Oh please,” I scoff. “When the hell would I have stayed at a Four Seasons? And by the way, there are some hotels that combine luxury and the undead. Ever heard of The Benson in downtown Portland?”

He just nods at the office. “Come on, princess.”

The office manager is a creep. Not in the “Welcome to my haunted hotel” kind of way and not in the wide-eyed, “I’m a good boy with secrets” Norman Bates kind of way. But in the way that he’s staring at my chest the whole time Jay is signing forms and paying for the room, to the point where he licks his dried lips.

“Eyes up here, buddy,” Jay says sharply, pointing his pen at the manager and then at his own face. I’d never seen Jay look remotely murderous before, not even when demon fighting, but murderous seems a good way to describe his eyes now.

“Huh?” the manager looks up at him with a dull stare, oblivious to all except my non-existent chest. He snorts in something awful and swallows it down before handing the keys to Jay. “Room seven.”

Gross. Gross. Gross.

I abruptly turn and step out into the night air, trying to keep my dinner down, Jay coming right after me, the blinds rattling on the glass door as it slams shut.

“What a fucking creep,” I swear as we head down toward the room.

“Fuck if I’ll let anyone look at you like that,” he says, his voice taking on the lilting Irish accent again. It would be extremely flattering—his protectiveness—if this accent business didn’t throw me off.

“Uh, Irish accent alert,” I tell him as we stop outside the door.

He frowns and gives me a quick glance while he fiddles with the keys. “What are you on about?”

“You sounded Irish again. You know. Top of the morning to you, I’m a leprechaun,” I say, myself sounding like a fucking Lucky Charms commercial.

“That’s racist,” he comments as the door opens. A whiff of musty air comes forward. He flicks on the lights showcasing a hotel room with a Super 8 meets mountain lodge appeal. Which is to say, no appeal at all. Thick yellowing curtains, a green carpet with a myriad of stains, a double bed with itchy looking bedspread. Shitty paintings of trees and pheasants adorn the walls.

Wait. Back up.

Double bed.

“Should we go get a room with two beds?” I squeak.

He steps in the room. “If I go back in there, I’ll ending up punching that guy in the face.”

Now that he didn’t sound Irish, I take a moment to revel in his possessiveness. I like my alpha males and I’m not ashamed to admit it.

He locks the door behind us, slides the chain across, and then flicks on the noisy air conditioner underneath the window. The curtains dance. Then he throws his backpack on the bed and gives me a discerning look. “If you want me to sleep on the floor, I have absolutely no problems doing so.”

“Don’t be silly,” I tell him, though the back of my brain is hemming over the fact that sleeping on the floor wasn’t his first assumption. He automatically thought he’d be getting into bed with me. Which meant . . .

Well, probably nothing.

Unless . . .

Shut it, Ada.

I put my bag on my side of the bed and start rummaging through it, curious to see what he packed.

“Jay,” I say slowly, flipping through my clothes faster and faster. “Did you pack me any actual clothes?”

I look up at him. He shrugs, bringing out those dangerously thin pajama pants of his from his backpack. “I just emptied a drawer.”