Joel
The encounter with Martin afforded me just enough of an edge to try to outrun the impending storm, and just enough paranoia to do what should have already been done. I put the pedal to the metal of that old Ford, but I didn’t go home. I decide to pay Layla—not her real name, of course—a visit.
By the time I park the truck outside the Apricot Inn, darkness has fallen like a veil of mourning. The wind had picked up like the whirring of gears as the clouds amassed over the pavement. The storm brought with it a chill, and though I’ve never minded the cold, it looks like the sky is going to open up at any minute. I hate for my bags of feed to get soaked, but this is a visit that can’t wait.
Two raps on the door to room number seven and there stands Layla in a pink nightie and fuzzy slip
