Badass Blonde

Chapter 7

I do not own Teen Wolf.
Obviously.

"Listen up! The meet's been pushed till tomorrow. This is the closest motel, with the most vacancies and least amount of good judgement when it comes to accepting a bunch of degenerates like yourselves. You'll be pairing up. Choose wisely. And I'll have no sexual perversions perpetrated by you little deviants. Got that? Keep you dirty little hands to your dirty little selves!" Coach yelled as he passed out keys. The bus left as soon as everyone got off and had a key but Lydia and I stood still, not wanting to move. I have a bad feeling about this motel.

"Lydia? Taylor?" Allison asked once she realized we hadn't moved an inch.

"We don't like this place." Lydia said while I nodded along.

"It gives me the creeps." I stated.

"Guys, I don't think the people who own this place like this place. It's just for a night." Allison told us, laughing at her (bad) joke.

"A lot can happen in one night." I said, following after Allison.

"I'm getting a shower." Allison stated once we got to our room. "Ew oh my god, smell the towels!" Allison yelled, stuffing a towel in my face as I gagged. "Oops." She said, laughing at me as I coughed from the strong nicotine smell.

"I hate you." I said, glaring jokingly.

"You love meeeeee." Allison said, poking me "And because you love me oh so much, you should go get some more towels."

"Ugh fine, give me the freaking towels." I groaned, taking the towels from her. "Lyds, you coming?" I asked, walking out of the bathroom to find Lydia passed out on the bed. "Guess not." I sighed, walking out the door, down the stairs, and to the front desk. "Excuse me? The card on the dresser says we have a non-smoking room, but somehow all of our towels reek of nicotine." I told the lady behind the desk that had her back to me.

"Sorry about that sweetheart." She said, turning around with a tube in her neck. I didn't want to be rude so I looked around the desk noticing the number '198' on the wall.

"What's that? That number?" I asked, pointing to the number.

"It's a kinda inside thing for the motel, my husband insists on keeping it up." She told me.

"What do you mean?" I questioned her.

"It's a little bit morbid, to be honest. You sure you wanna know?" She asked.

"Tell me." I said, leaning on the desk.

"We're not gonna make the top of anyone's list when it comes to costumer satisfaction," She said.

"Obviously." I muttered under my breath.

"But we are number one in California when it comes to one disturbing little detail. Since opening, more than any other motel in California, we have had the most guest suicides." She informed me.

"198?" I asked nervously. All I wanted was towels, not nightmares.

"And counting."

                                ---

"198?" Allison asked after I told her what I saw downstairs.

"Yes, and we're talking 40 years, on average that's... 4.95 a year, which is actually expected. But who commemorates that with a framed number? Who does that? Who?" I asked, still confused about the whole ordeal.

"All suicides?" Lydia asked me.

"Yes. Hanging, throat cutting, pill popping, both barrels of a shotgun in the mouth, suicides. I don't know about you, but me, I-"