Knot so Lucky (The holidates series Book 2)

eleanor

“Home sweet hepatitis,” I whisper to myself, walking the three steps from the curb to my motel door, avoiding the décor of cans and discarded strip club flyers in front of the building.

My hair’s hanging in my face, so I brush it away before digging into my purse for my key card. All the funny disposition I had before now vanished. Because the moment I hung up with my sister, the adrenaline from my walk of shame plummeted, and all I was left with was a hangover and the mystery filth coating my back.

A tired breath whooshes out as I shove the key card in, but it just beeps, and the little light goes from green to red. So, I jiggle the handle before trying again. But the same thing happens—green to red.

What the hell?

“Dude, I’m too tired for this shit,” I grumble, tilting my head back to the sky before I look back at the lock and try again…only to fucking fail.

“Fuck my life.”

On the upside, I’m staying in the shittiest motel in Vegas. This means I don’t have to walk down luxurious hallways or take gold elevators to the front desk. I can walk about twenty or so feet to the small coffin-sized lobby—that smells like hot dog water—where you can rent a room by the hour, day, or week.

A little bell dings as I open the lobby door, and I’m greeted by a middle-aged guy in a black soccer jersey sitting behind a counter.

He’s licking his fingers clean of whatever sauce is on his chicken wings. Eww, who eats wings at the crack of dawn? Eh, somehow, that seems on-brand for him.

Regardless, the smell makes my stomach gurgle.

He uses his shirt to wipe his licked hands as he lifts his chin to speak.

“Right. Room 17. I’ve been waiting for you.”

He’s got one of those Irish accents that’s hard to understand, like Brad Pitt in Snatched. Except he doesn’t look like Brad, and my attitude is the only snatch I’m introducing to him. I half roll my eyes, not at him, just over the moment as I answer.

“Yeah, my key card doesn’t work. Which you clearly already know. Are you guys having a problem or something?”

I gently toss it on the countertop, trying not to react as he clears his throat, hacking up too many sounds. Ewww.

“Allergies,” he offers, skating my key card across the cheap fake-wood laminate counter toward him.

All I can do is smile tightly because, for fuck’s sake, just get me the hell out of here and into my less gross room. The fact that I can think that should be considered a health violation.

“Here’s the thing, love,” he levels. “I can’t make you another key. It’s impossible.”

“Are you kidding me? How long will it take to get a new one?” I shoot out quickly, but he shakes his head as his words sink in.

What. The. Fuck.

“Your credit card declined. You birds chose to pay by the day. No cash, no room.”

Fuck. Fuckkkkk. We only did that in case we could get a better room.

I open my purse, running my hand through my hair. But all that’s in there is some Mentos, my ID, and a slot machine cash-out slip for $0.32. I left my debit card in my room and took cash with me last night.

Shit.

My chest begins rising and falling faster because what am I supposed to do? Call Millie? Call my sister? The bank? Oh fuck, the bank…they think this is fraud.

“Listen,” I rush out, hoping to negotiate. “All my stuff’s in the room. Just let me in, and I can change out the card. It probably declined because the bank thinks the charge is fraudulent—”

His face says no before he does.

“No. Can. Do. Call your bank. Clear it up. The room’s yours again.”

My shoulders sag as I let out a harsh breath, narrowing my eyes at him. I’m going to punch this dude in the fucking face.

I reach inside my purse so I can call said bank, but as I pull it from my bag, staring back at me is a black screen…the kind that only a dead fucking phone produces.

“Come on,” I growl-scream. “Are you fucking kidding me?”

All my patience gives. It straight-up leaves my motherfucking body, and I punch the air like I’m fighting with a fucking ghost. I’m huffing, a little breathless but not embarrassed, as I blow my hair from my face and look back at D-rate Brad, who shrugs, picking up another wing, talking as he chews.

My palms lie gently on the counter as I say my words with forced calm.

“It seems as though my phone is dead. So can I use your landline, please?”

He shakes his dumb fucking head again.

“Nah, can’t do it. Guests only.”

The rest of my words come out as sarcastically as I mean them.

“That how you got your five-star rating? By being a dick?”

“No, it’s because of the blow jobs the cleaning crew gives,” he counters, tossing the slurped-over bones back into the Styrofoam carton.

I groan, looking down at my phone before I hold it up to drive home my desperation.

“Look, just let me charge my phone for five minutes. Then I’ll call my bank. And I’ll get you the money.”

Our eyes meet again, and without missing a beat, he says, “Chargers cost five bucks.”

I almost scream, Motherfucker.

The grip on my phone is deadly. I feel like I could bend the metal. My molars clamp down so hard they might break as I stare back at him. But if they do, I’ll look like a fucking crackhead.

I blow out a harsh breath, gripping the edge of the counter as I lean closer to him, my voice perilously close to murder.

“Listen to me. I just did an epic fucking walk of shame through a Vegas casino, wearing this peekaboo tummy dress and dried sweat. I’m wearing whore clothes in the daytime. Whore clothes are meant for the night…for when people are whoring.” I hear the bell jingle on the door behind me as my hand slaps the counter. But I’m officially at rock bottom, so I don’t care who hears me. “I’m pretty sure there’s still cum on my back from last night. Actual fucking dried-up jizz. Check-in Charlie…I just need a Big Mac. Fries. A Coke…with light ice. And a goddamn shower. In that order. So, what do I have to do to make that happen? And don’t say you because I’ll vomit all over your shitty lobby.”

A laugh from behind me immediately draws my attention.

“Thank god,” I breathe out, throwing my arms in the air in celebration, locking eyes with Millie over my shoulder. “My fucking bank card declined. I was dangerously close to giving five-dollar blow jobs for a charger.”

Check-in Charlie chuckles and wags his brows, so I flip him off as Millie sashays over, pulling her credit card from her wallet.

“We wouldn’t want that… P.S. You look like sex. Like straight-up fucking, Eleanor. Exactly what happened last night with the football team after we parted ways?”

Her card hits the counter as she turns toward me with a smirk, waiting for my answer. I smile, biting my bottom lip, and shrug.

“Let’s just say I put a quarter into the slot machine of life and got a full house.”