Total pages in book: 78
Estimated words: 74971 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 375(@200wpm)___ 300(@250wpm)___ 250(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 74971 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 375(@200wpm)___ 300(@250wpm)___ 250(@300wpm)
Not to mention the campgrounds.
If this wasn’t home, but was rather a hideout spot, that was something we would need to look into as well.
“Guess that’s where we’re staying,” he said, jerking his chin toward a three-story white stone building with several red, green, and white flags hanging from the front.
Judge’s girl, Delaney, had been the one to handle the arrangements for us, jotting down where we’d be staying, and where we should stop to fill up for fuel and food on the way, so we didn’t find ourselves without gas on the side of the road or starving.
And, given the general rundown look of the town, the inn looked like a decent enough place to crash. I’d certainly stayed in worse places before.
“Let’s go check in. Then see if we can find some dinner,” I added, glancing around dubiously.
“Checking in?” the short, smiling older lady at the desk asked. If she had opinions on the bikes, on our leather jackets, on the tattoos snaking down our necks and arms, and in Coach’s case, on his face, she said nothing.
In the off-season, she was probably excited just to have some business.
“Yes, ma’am,” I said, giving her a smile that never failed me. “Any idea if our friend Murphy has checked in yet?” I asked, figuring now was as good a time as any to put feelers out. Coach occupied himself by walking through the lobby—decorated in that shabby chic old lady way of New England inns—and looking over the books in one of the cases on each side of the fireplace.
“Murphy?” the woman asked, frowning. “You’re our only guests,” she told me.
“Hmm,” I said, pretending to seem confused. “Maybe he decided to stay at the campground.”
“They’re very popular,” she confirmed. “Most people come here for the outdoors,” she added.
“Sure they’re nice,” I said as I took the keys—actual keys, not cards—from her hand. “But I will always appreciate a private bathroom and a bed off the ground,” I told her, watching as she beamed even more.
“Breakfast is from six to seven,” she told me. “And we do have a dining room, if you are interested in eating here.”
“Are you cooking?” I asked, leaning on the desk, laying it on thick.
“I sure am,” she said with a proud nod.
“Then we will definitely be interested,” I told her, watching as she flushed.
“Come on. Let me show you to your rooms,” she said, moving out from behind the desk.
The rooms were a lot like the lobby.
Bold carpets, colorful, busy wallpaper, too many colors and patterns in that cluttered, grandmother’s house kind of way.
But, hey, it was a warm place to crash.
Because it was cold as fuck out here compared to home. And if our days included walking the town, the campgrounds, and the fucking forest, we were going to be happy for the fireplaces we each had. And the hot water in the pipes, even if it did take them a while to get going.
The first night was mostly a bust.
We hit the town to grab some basic supplies at the general store, asking some locals if they’d seen our friend Murphy, deftly side-stepping questions about his appearance because the guy was a fucking ghost, it seemed, but getting nowhere.
So we’d had dinner at the inn, then crashed, deciding to hit the campgrounds the next day.
I woke up just in time to grab the tail end of breakfast, which was a spread of some bagels, eggs, and sausage patties with orange juice. It wasn’t Detroit’s famous breakfasts, but it was food. Fuel. For a day when we were going to need it.
“Your friend already had his breakfast,” the inn owner, Maria, told me as I made a sandwich of the bagel, egg, and sausage, and looked around. “He is on the back deck… meditating,” she said, uttering the word as if she were claiming he was doing some sort of animal sacrificial ritual or something.
But, yeah, this wasn’t exactly LA where shit like meditating and yoga were common. Besides that, it always seemed to surprise people that someone like Coach, who looked like a walking criminal record—which he was—actually did shit like clearing his mind with extensive meditation and yoga practices.
He also read a shitton of books, built shit, and entertained himself by pulling pranks on the corrections officers who’d made his time incarcerated miserable.
He was a complex sort of guy.
An hour later, when Coach finally breezed back inside, we made our way out for the day, hanging around at the campgrounds, mentioning our pal Murphy to anyone who struck up a conversation with us.
But no one had heard the name.
And with a name like that, people tended to remember.
It wasn’t a busy time of year for the campgrounds, either, with only two families, a few sets of buddies out for some hunting, and a few solo travelers seemingly here for the hiking and shit.