Page 2 of Hunting Ground

“Do you know what room they’re in?”

Joel shrugs, and takes another hit off the vape. “Haven’t seen ‘em go in anywhere. Just sitting out here with their windows half down. Hard to miss, since it’s a real nice brand new thing. 2025, if I had to guess.” He lets out a whistle at his own observation, but I just look at him, unimpressed.

I don’t know enough about trucks to know what my proper reaction should be, but I do glance around the front parking lot, looking for the truck in question.

Just like when I’d gotten here an hour and change ago, there isn’t one in sight. Just Joel’s old truck, my sedan, and the three cars of the guests checked in. A small white car sits near the front door, in the check in parking, and I assume that belongs to the woman currently waiting inside.

“Shit,” I sigh, having forgotten about her. I already feel bad enough that she’s waiting inside while I’ve had to help Room 7 learn how to use a door, and I hurry along, pushing the door open back to the office.

“I am so sorry,” I tell her when I see the woman standing at the counter with a pamphlet in her hand. A styrofoam cup of bad coffee steams on the counter beside her, and at my words, she turns to give me a kind smile.

“No, no, you don’t need to be sorry,” the woman tells me as she lifts the hand without the pamphlet to wave dismissively at me. “I understand how these late night shifts can be.”

“Did you ever work at a motel?” I ask, sliding behind the counter and moving to stand directly opposite her. My eyes drop to the pamphlet she’s holding and I can feel my mouth twist into a surprised half-smirk. “Was that on the wall?”

“Hmm? This? Why, yes. I’m sure I found it over there somewhere.” The woman sets the pamphlet down on the counter and smooths her hands across it. “Should I not have picked it up?”

“Oh, no it’s not that.” I reach out but then pull back, feeling a little bit of nostalgia when I see the slightly faded image of Wonderlight Pier on the front. “Wonderlight has been closed for uh, six years now?” I do the math in my head. “Yeah. Six years now. So I’m surprised we have any pamphlets left–you know what, I’m not surprised.”

It’s not like Roger ever goes through them to make sure the travel pamphlets are still relevant. And if he doesn’t care, then I don’t either. Besides, I haven’t seen anyone pick one of those up in…quite awhile, if I’m being honest.

"My stars, that’s a shame.” The woman smooths her hand over it again. “I always did like amusement parks growing up. I hate seeing so many of them gone by the wayside.”

“Yeah,” I agree half-heartedly. I can’t show enthusiasm, when it was not my favorite summer job I’ve ever had. Still, it was the one I went back to over and over, until they closed, and I would be lying to myself if I said that I hadn’t enjoyed parts of it. “Sorry, umm–are you checking in? Did you have a reservation already? If not, that’s totally fine. We uh, always have vacancies.”

Literally always. Our vacancy rate and our standards were both impressive, in opposite directions.

The older woman gives me another polite smile and folds the pamphlet up to slide it into her pocket. “I was just looking for a bathroom,” she admits. “And a recommendation for a good place to get breakfast.”

It goes without saying that she is not staying here, judging by the way she’s refusing to commit to a reservation.

“Sure.” I can’t even be upset. I don’t think I’d stay here, if I had to stay somewhere for the night, and I go to the pamphlet shelf to pluck two out of it, both of them needing to be shaken free of dust. Unlike most places, we haven’t exactly embraced the joy of social media marketing yet.

But the woman looks thrilled to be able to physically peruse the sample of the menu, and she sets a twenty dollar bill on the counter before picking up her coffee. “Have a good night, dear. I hope the rest of it is better than what I’ve seen.” her smile is kind, like the caring grandmother I never had, and I can’t help but give her a big one in reply. Probably the first I’ve given anyone here that wasn’t full of customer service falseness.

“Have a happy Halloween,” I call to her, figuring it’s a safe bet that she celebrates, since she’s wearing a knit sweater with a jack-o-lantern design on the front. She doesn’t reply, but neither does she turn and curse me in the lord’s name, so I decide I haven’t committed some crime against her faith.

The night quiets for a little while, graciously allowing me to sip on my iced caramel macchiato while I sit on my spinning stool behind the counter. It isn’t mine, exactly. But when the elderly day shift manager Rosie had complained about ADA rules and compliance long enough to get one, I sure as shit wasn’t about to complain. Especially once I learned the stool spins.

The phone rings and I pick it up, answering in my usual sort of friendly, sort of flat tone with, “Thank you for calling Rest Easy Inn, this is Sable speaking. How can I help you tonight?” The man sounds drunk, and asks me four times about vacancies for the next week, which I answer with less and less patience every time.

“No, sir, we are not full on the fourth,” I say, again. This time I pull out my pad of blue sticky notes with the Rest Easy logo on the top and doodle a little ghost with my pen, giving it a little speech bubble with the word BOO in it. “Yes sir, you can still make a reservation. Or, honestly, you could walk in and probably be–”

He doesn’t like the word probably, and immediately sets up an argument that has me rolling my eyes and cursing my shitty choice of words. Before I can say something to assuage his drunken fears, however, I hear the sound of a large, powerful engine outside, accompanied by the worst kind of jarring, too-loud music that I’ve ever heard.

Though that might just be because the bass is cranked up and modified to an unholy level that shakes my bones and has me gritting my teeth. “I suggest you call back later, sir,” I tell the man on the phone. “Maybe when you uh, are capable of making a reservation. Or you can do so anytime online.”

I barely catch his mumbled reply before I hang up the phone, nearly slamming it back into the cradle on the desk before I walk out from around it and stride towards the front door. This is absolutely ridiculous. It’s after midnight, and while there might only be three or four guests here, it’s the principal of the thing to not be so fucking rude.

The truck sits dark outside of the office, taking up three parking places haphazardly. My grimace of distaste grows, though I have to squint to not be blinded by the white, LED headlights blazing at the door.

“What the fuck?” I grumble, rounding the side of the vehicle. The windows are tinted in a way that feels like it might be illegal, and rolled up all the way so I can’t see inside. Yet somehow, the music blares loudly enough to be inside my skull anyway. I can’t help my quick, irritated eye roll, and I reach out to rap on the window when it doesn’t roll down.

Nothing happens.

I do it again, feeling my irritation growing. “Hello?” I call, unable to keep the irritation out of my voice. “Hello? Can you turn your music down? And if you aren’t a guest or checking in, you can’t be here.” That’s not quite true. Roger never enforces the no loitering sign that’s hanging on the brick facade. But it sounds good anyway, and I’d like this person to leave before they manage to piss off Room 7 and make that my problem again.

Yet again, there’s no answer. I won’t try to rip off the door like the she-hulk, but more because that would be embarrassing for me rather than it would be rude. Though I also don’t want to go to jail for scratching the fancy, expensive truck’s paint job.