Day three of our hotel stay, and still not much is known about the waiter. I've been watching him every chance I get. He is a tall, dark, handsome lad of about twenty-three years old. Of course, this is a mere guess on my half—I could be entirely wrong about his age, and furthermore, wrong concerning everything about him. Regardless, nothing is going to convince me to let my guard down to anyone. Blaize was a rare occasion. Nobody else gets that sort of trust out of me—not right away.
As if on cue, we heard strange noises outside our room last night. Blaize says it could just be neighboring guests, but I have an awful gut feeling that something bad is going to happen. I know he just wants me to feel comfortable and safe, but false promises of safety do not help anybody in the least; particularly me, since I know better.
There is a small calendar in the bathroom, and as I finish getting ready for the day I glance at it. Friday the 13th. I gulp and leave. Blaize is seated comfortably on the floor with the blankets he ordered from room service, and he is watching TV. I clear my throat to get his attention. "Do you know what day it is?"
"Sure I do. It's Friday."
I hear some tussling in the outside hall. "Do you hear all that?"
"Yeah, it's probably just more guests. It's the weekend after all. That's when hotels get busy."
"Yeah, but what DAY is it?"
He scratches his head. "Honestly, Alyssa. What kind of a game is this?"
"It's Friday the thirteenth," I state smartly. "And I have a bad feeling about today. Those sounds outside our door are not from guests. You know that, but you just don't want to think it's real, because you think you're sparing me from fright. You don't want to scare me. Well, I tell you now that lying to me does no good. I can see through it all." And with that I turn to pull my pistol from beneath a pillow, just to ensure it's ready when I need it. Blaize stares at me nervously, as if he expects me to shoot. I roll my eyes at him as he gets off the floor. He grabs his briefcase and plops his hat firmly upon his head, adjusting it just so above his eyes. I watch him with my mouth open and he nods courteously, slipping on his sunglasses and leaving the room before I can even stop him. At first I begin to panic. Why would he do this to me?! And so soon? I rip the door open and peek down the hallway, but I don't see him. Boy, he's fast. And irritating. I shut the door quickly and lock it, then turn around to face the empty room. The television is still going and the window is open a crack, letting a breeze come in to tangle with the curtains. It's entirely too disturbing for me, but I can't seem to move. Why am I freezing up? Nobody is in our room; otherwise Blaize wouldn't have left; and besides, I would have known by now. So I force my body to move. Crossing the room swiftly and stiffly, I clamp the window shut and peek behind the curtains despite knowing that they were moving beforehand, then I search under the bed just in case.
After promising myself that nothing will grab my ankles, I stand staring at the TV as a chaotic movie ad plays across the screen. I look around for the remote and quickly find it, turning the television off and thus silencing the disturbing picture. I toss the remote limply onto the bed and kick Blaize's blankets into a heap near the nightstand.
Suddenly I get an idea. If Blaize is not here, I will go try to find out who the waiter REALLY is. He doesn't bear any resemblance to Mr. Gilvard, and being the people-watcher that I am I can tell they are not related. Which means not only is the boy lying to me, but Mr. Gilvard is too. Because he told Blaize that the waiter was his son. Blaize claims to know Mr. Gilvard personally. But does he really? Maybe Mr. Gilvard just lied to Blaize, but Blaize trusts him and doesn't know that it isn't true. Which would make him ignorant, so he wouldn't exactly be lying to me. Not directly. Hmm, I will have to think about this later. Turning and making sure my things are ready in case I need to bust out of here, I zip my backpack and place it in a corner where I know I can easily grab it: right by the bed. Then I take the hotel room key that Blaize conveniently left and lock the door behind me. I go down to the dining room and find it empty; everybody must be away, or not hungry. I sit down at a nice round table and look around at the quiet, still place. I have the same awful feeling that I woke up with this morning; the feeling of dread that something is creeping up on me. I skittishly glance around all sides, but I see nothing. The hair prickles on my neck as suddenly the waiter bursts through the swinging doors of the kitchen. He spots me and comes over, cloaking himself in a concerned persona. Ah, just what I was looking for. I knew he was a faker. He acts, too. Because he has something to hide. I watch as he suddenly takes a seat across from me and leans forward with a questioning expression, yet I see hostility in his eyes. And now that I'm closer I recognize his face in a very detailed way. He is not as young as I perceived him to be at first. He is much older. His ears have a very familiar shape and his eyes are—blast it!—steely gray. I grasp for the tabletop as he rips off his hair—just a wig—and pulls a gun on me. My move is too slow; I am too late. He fires. In my desperation to get away I pull the table over on top of myself, badly damaging my left ankle. I can feel it begin to swell almost instantly and I'm sure I broke it, but I still manage to break free and crawl desperately across the slippery tile floor. My heart can't even keep up with me, it's beating so fast that I can feel it pulsing in my head. The waiter, who is really one of the murderer's minions, pounces from the floor and fires his gun at me again. I whip mine out and fire a round of shots back at him. He should know better than to mess with me. Suddenly I feel my wrist being gripped and I fight him away; I can't let him get my gun; Blaize gave it to me, so it's not even actually mine. Although, I don't think he'd be upset with me for losing it in a battle against one of my stalkers. So long as I got out alive. The gun is wrenched from my hands and I jump to my feet to strangle the man, but then I'm shot in the left shoulder and I drop to the floor in a cold defeat. Then his hands are upon me, and something heavy hits my head. I don't know a thing.
YOU ARE READING
The Strays: Volume 1
Mystery / Thriller"That's easy," I offer him an optimistic smile. "We're good at hightailing. We're drifters." Alyssa Carpenter had riches one day and finds herself eating out of dumpsters the next. She always feels like she's being followed but doesn't know why. Det...
