Nowhere but Here (Thunder Road 1)

Maybe our situation isn’t that dire, but it’s close. The past few hours have been the worst sleep of my life. With no rental and no Louisville cab company willing to spare a driver to take us back into the city, we’re stuck here. To make matters worse, Snowflake is limited in overnight accommodations and, short of pitching a tent, this is where we ended up.

The stain on the sheets of the bed I lie in gives me the bugs-walking-on-the-back-of-my-neck creeps and, speaking of bugs, I’m sure there are a hundred million of them nesting in the innards of the mattress. Something continuously moves in the corner of the room, but disappears each time I click on the light.

It doesn’t help that Mom and Dad have been sharing a whispered intense conversation all night. Yes, they had a lot to discuss after the funeral home debacle, but a call from the room phone around eleven caused a new round of conversations. Most of it taking place in the bathroom.

For hours, I stared at the light streaming from the crack under the bathroom door. Occasionally their voices would rise, but they were still too muffled for me to understand. Even when I tiptoed to the door to listen.

I’m impatient for daylight yet the minutes drag into days. It’s 3:03 a.m. and I’ve been parched since two. The thought of interrupting Mom and Dad in the bathroom for a drink of water doesn’t thrill me, so I roll out of bed. In the darkness, I shimmy out of my pj pants and into a pair of shorts. There’s a vending machine a few doors down and a bottle

of cold water is calling my name.

Oz

THE SLAMMING OF a car door jerks me awake. My heart hammers with the realization—I fell asleep. I scrub a hand over my face to wake myself, then grab the phone. It’s after three and there are two missed messages. Eli’s going to kill me and I deserve his wrath. I messed this up big time.

Message one: What’s going on?

Message two: You better be awake and taking a piss or you better be dead.

My fingers hover over the cell as my attention is drawn to movement from the right. On the opposite side of the parking lot are two guys who stand near the front of a blacked-out SUV. Cigarettes burn in their hands and I don’t like how they’re watching Emily’s room.

I scan the rest of the area and my stomach drops. Dark chestnut hair. Tanned, toned legs. Damn me to hell, Emily’s walking toward the vending machines. One of the guys drops his cigarette to the ground and smashes it with his foot.

His mouth moves as he talks to the guy next to him and in the barely dim light surrounding him, he slips off a cut. I don’t catch the entire patch, but I see enough. With a surge of adrenaline, I start the truck and then my fingers fly over the letters.

The Riot are here.

Emily

GOOSE BUMPS RISE on my arms when I open the door and the early-morning Kentucky air drifts over my skin. It’s the first time I’ve stayed at this type of motel—the type with no interior corridors and only exterior doors.

I flip the security latch to prevent being locked out and follow the hum of vending machines. The lights of the overhang burn bright enough for me see where I’m heading, but are dull enough that I’m again reminded of walking into a horror flick.

The night surrounding the motel parking lot is dark. Very dark. My dad once told me that it gets darker before the dawn. I shiver. He must be right. I’ve never seen anything so black that it’s completely void of light.

I turn the corner and pause. My back itches like I’m being watched. The sensation crawls along the fine hairs of my neck and my heart pumps hard. In a slow movement, I peer over my shoulder. Nothing but darkness. Nothing but small bugs swarming near the overhead light that leaves a green tint to the world. Nothing. Nothing but my overactive imagination.

One foot angles in favor of the room, but the rest of me pushes forward. Five seconds to get a drink and then back to the room. Maybe ten. With my stomach in my throat, I brave the enclave, slip the fifty cents into the coin slot and then attempt to shove the dollar into the machine. With a whine, it spits the money back out. With a second whine, the machine cranks the bill out again. “Come on!”

My skin shrinks against my bones. Saran Wrap tight, my flesh feels like it needs to be shed. There’s something wrong out here. Something evil. With shaky hands I try one last time and the machine inhales the dollar.

A push of a button. A racket that could wake the dead. My hand swipes up the water. A flash of black to my right and I suck in a breath to scream.

Black hair. Blue eyes. Broad shoulders. Taller than me. And he blocks my way.

I stumble back, tripping over myself. The water thumps to the concrete and a hand whips out and grabs my wrist. Air leaves my lungs in a hiss when my body slams into the cinder-block wall.

My mouth opens again and a hot hand presses against my lips. A sob racks me and blue eyes lower to mine. “It’s me, Emily. It’s Oz. Right now I need you to be quiet. Do you hear me? Quiet.”

He’s whispering while he muffles my scream. Quiet is not what I need. My eyes dart around. We’re wedged in a small space between the vending machine and the wall. His body is pressed tightly to mine, so much so that it’s hard to draw in air. Cobwebs touch the top of Oz’s head. A spider the size of my fist swings precariously above us, its legs twisting as it spins its web.

A sound leaves my throat as a tear cascades down my face.

“Quiet,” Oz demands again. “Please, Emily. Be still.”

I blink at the please. His blue eyes soften and my senses go on alert. Almost like my energy is reaching out to find the real threat—a threat my instincts inform me is worse than what’s in front of me.

Oz slowly withdraws his hand from my mouth and the flood of cold air on my face causes me to tremble. He continues to lower his hand to his hip and wraps his fingers around the hilt of a blade stuck inside a leather sheath.