Truth or Consequences

Chapter 3: Not My Type

Fear not for the future. Weep, not for the past. -Percy Bysshe Shelley

The flight to Truth or Consequences is short, but the stress and the emotional strain of the last few hours are taking a toll on my body. Air turbulence shakes the plane. I clench the armrest of the chair, and my knuckles turn white. The plane makes a final fly-by before lining up to land. We taxi down the runway, and my stomach lurches.

I'm thankful I didn't eat breakfast. The pills I took for motion sickness aren't helping, and they only made me moderately sleepy. My emotions are running high. I've no idea what's waiting for me here in New Mexico. Not a single clue. The thought only adds to the growing nausea and anxiety swirling in the pit of my belly.

Once the plane lands, I dig my phone out of my purse. The battery is dead, which is odd because I charged it before the flight. Stephen lets me use his iPad to make a call to the Boyds. We drive up to a little hotel named La Casa Bonita.

Leafy potted plants line the front of the stucco building. Wrought iron fencing lines the eight-foot retaining wall that's candlelight yellow with burnt orange trim. The inside of the lobby provides a splash of color. Each of the four walls is a different shade of paint: blue, orange, green, and yellow.

A red leather couch and four matching chairs form a horseshoe in the middle of the room. Stephen approaches the check-in desk. He provides our names and retrieves two sets of keys from the short, thin woman behind the desk. She climbs the blue stairs to the second level, motioning for us to follow. Limping down the tiled hallway, she shows us to our rooms.

Stephen invites me to dinner, but the thought of eating doesn't settle well. After declining his invitation, I run a bath and soak for a while, contemplating what tomorrow's deposition may hold. What will I find out if anything? Wrapping my pruned fingers around a bath towel, I lift it off the rack, dry it off, and dress for bed.

Silence fills the room. It's a welcomed change. I've not had a single moment to myself since Grandma Mae passed. If the Boyds were not up in my face, then my roommate was. Yep. An early night filled with solitude and a delightful book sounds good. Curling up on the bed, I turn on my k****e and read an old favorite, Mary Shelley's Frankenstein.

* * *

The next day, I rise a little more at ease than I was the day before. Curiosity has taken over. I can't help but wonder what I'm strolling into. Perhaps I'll find out what my family was like and why the courts required me to travel to New Mexico for a deposition and the reading of my grandfather's will. It makes no sense.

Who was my mother, really, and why did she die at such a young age? These two burning questions linger in my thoughts.

Running a soft-bristled brush through my unruly locks, I try to tame my strawberry-blonde hair.

Sighing, I set the brush on the counter, then feel around in my makeup bag. My fingers wrap around a tube of brown mascara. I wear little makeup, but the foundation and mascara help to add color to my naturally pale face.

Slipping on a sundress, I struggle with the underarm zipper. A knock at the door makes me jump. The zipper finally gives, and the garment closes. Unlocking the bathroom door, I step into the primary room.

"Danielle." Stephen's voice echoes from the hallway. "Danny. Are you okay?"

"Yeah, I'm fine." I poke my head around the doorframe. "Come on in."

He enters the room. "How long has this been unlocked?" Crossing his legs, he leans his five-foot, eleven-inch frame against the door.

"For a little while, I wasn't sure what time you were coming." I stifle a laugh, imagining him going door-to-door checking locks. Geez, who is he, the door police?

Eyeing the unmade full-size bed in the room, he lifts a brow. My clothes from last night, still in a twisted pile, remain at the foot of the bed next to my open suitcase. And then, to make matters worse, my nightgown lies on the floor where I peeled it off this morning before my shower.

His intense gaze follows me. He says nothing, but his eyes silently judge me.

I pick up the hot pink garments, tucking them into a corner of my luggage.

"Wow. Can this get any more awkward?" I say under my breath.

The sweltering heat of his consuming gaze rakes over my body. He cracks a crooked grin.

A surge of heat travels from the pit of my stomach to my chest. I know I'm redder than a ruby-red beet that's cooking over a hot grill. The thought makes me even more embarrassed.

"Are you always this neat?" He bends over, picking up a sock I failed to retrieve.

"Uhm, I-I didn't k-know you were . . ."

I take the sock from his hand. Our fingers touch and I jump back. My face heats again.

Get a grip, Danny.

He cracks that crooked grin again. "Are you going to wear shoes today? Or going barefoot?"

"I uhm, I have sandals." I scan the room and frown. Racking my brain, I try to recall where I put them last night.

Clearing his throat, he points toward the bathroom. "Check-in there?"

Turning, I burn a path to where I left them. Squatting, I retrieve them from the floor.

Shuffling back to the bed, I sit and drop my shoes on the rumpled comforter.

This isn't how I pictured starting my day.

Stephen fishes his ringing phone from his pocket. "How much more time do you need?"

He examines the display screen. His body stiffens. Silencing the device, he slips it back into his black slacks.

Stephen's eyes are lighter than the royal blue dress shirt he's wearing. They're piercing; they're as blue as a clear sky on a warm summer's day, and his short-cropped hair is a medium shade of brown that blends nicely with his olive skin tone.

He's attractive, but his intense gaze makes me uneasy because I can't tell what he's thinking. I glance downward and fidget with a buckle on one of my shoes.

"Ahh, I'll be ready in about five to ten minutes."

"If you don't mind, I'll meet you in the cafŽ. It's just across the street. You can't miss it." He steps into the hallway. "And Danny, you need to keep your door shut and locked at all times."

"Yes, Sir." I raise my hand to my forehead for a mini-salute.

"This isn't something to joke about. You're not on campus or at home."

"Sorry, I didn't think about that." My lips turn down into a frown. "I guess it might be a good idea."

"Call me before you walk over. Now, come and lock the door." Gripping the knob, he pulls the door closed.

"I won't be long."

Stephen jiggles the handle from the other side.

"I locked it already." Oh, my God, is he serious? I lean against the door and roll my eyes. This guy needs to chill out.

"I know. I was just checking." The soft tap-tap of his shoes recedes.

The Spanish tile on the floor is cool under my bare feet.

I meander back into the heart of the room. Chips and grooves in the flooring are smooth from old age. It imparts a comfy feel.

Plopping back down on the bed, I work on the twisted strap. Finally, I'm able to unlatch it. I slip my shoes on and fasten the buckles. I plod back into the bathroom for one last check.

I mull over my shoulder-length hair.

It has a mind of its own.

One side turns under, whereas the other flips up. My headband and a single brown hair tie sit on the vanity. Picking up the band, I place it on my head and wrinkle my nose. I turn the light off and exit the bathroom. Strolling past the bed, I grab my purse and head out the door to join Stephen for breakfast.