Going Home

Rick

The Saleen looked more than a little out of place outside the motel in Greenwood, Indiana. All the other vehicles were either crossovers driven by young families, sedans owned by business people, or pickup trucks.

My car caught more than a few eyes from the people lounging near the swimming pool on the right side of the motel when I got out and crossed the parking lot to duck into the lobby to book a room.

A young man, probably twenty-four or so with curly red hair and trendy black-framed glasses, looked up from his phone screen, took his feet down from the desk, and pulled his headphones off.

“Good evening,” he said a little hurriedly, realizing he’d been caught in the act of slacking off while getting paid.

“Evening. I’d like a room, please.”

“For one?”

I nodded.

“Name?”

“Benjamin Harris,” I lied.

Torq had been on my tail ever since I’d left LA three months ago, but over the last few weeks, I’d managed to shake him, and I was fairly certain that this time, he wasn’t going to ca