Unscripted

by Jayne Denker

  “I like Mona!”

  “Good thing too. She’s calling you again,” I muttered, as Mona’s voice drifted in from the living room. “Probably needs more mammoth-poop water.”

  “More what? Er, coming, Mona!” he called, then turned back to me. “I still need to talk with you.”

  I yanked open a dresser drawer, rooted through a bunch of tank tops for my favorite ones. “I don’t have time right now.”

  “But—”

  “Jamie! I just don’t! I have to go.” He looked traumatized, and I figured it had to be about money again. As usual, his agonized expression tormented my old bleeding heart. I’d provided for Jamie, off and on, whenever he needed a financial or material boost, ever since I started making my own living. Mainly because I remembered how hellish it was when Mona kicked his father to the curb and got away without paying him a red cent in alimony, even though Ralph was, like his son, long on charm but always short on cash.

  Sighing, I said, “Look, just . . . take whatever you need, all right?”

  “Whatever . . . ?”

  “Whatever. I mean it. What’s mine is yours, you know that. But right now, I’ve gotta go.”

  Mona called again, and with one last disbelieving look at me, Jamie rushed back to her. I finished stuffing an odd selection of clothing into my luggage, then rolled the suitcases down the hall and shoved them into the back hatch of my Cayenne.

  I made my escape while Jamie was busy entertaining Mona. Cowardly? Most definitely. But I just couldn’t hang around a minute longer.

  * * *

  I got out of my SUV and stared up at the blinking neon sign of the Super Duper Nine Motor Court. The place’s slogan was evidently “One Louder”—at least judging by the noises coming from the parking lot and the rooms overlooking it: car stereos, laughter of people around a portable barbecue, slamming doors. It was still hot, but without the searing glare of the sun, the air was a bit more tolerable—except that it was thick with the ozone from the day and the exhaust of countless cars. So much for emission control. Somewhere behind me a siren blared as a police car or ambulance zoomed down the street.

  It was past 10 p.m., but I was still looking for a place to crash. I had barreled as fast as I could out of L.A. and into Moreno Valley, then I had to drive all over the place looking for a hotel. I’d found out pretty quickly, thanks to my handy “find lodgings” app, that there were no luxury hotels anywhere nearby. So I started with the top-rated of the chain hotels, only to learn that they were all booked. Apparently there was some huge convention up the road in Riverside, and Moreno Valley’s hotels had taken the overflow. All but the Super Duper Nine Motor Court, I hoped. And that thought filled me with a sick sort of dread; I was so desperate that I wanted this place to have a vacancy?

  I hesitated with my hand on the office door. I could give this up. I could just go back home—my home, even though it was currently inhabited, and being decimated, by my stepbrother, and my mother was fairly close by for weeks, if not longer. The thought made me shudder, but I could put up with it, couldn’t I?

  And then I recalled the reproachful look Mason gave me when I was repeatedly late for class. I hated to see that disapproving expression on his face; I vastly preferred to see him laughing and smiling.

  Okay, never mind how I preferred to see him. The point was that he was right—if I kept driving from L.A., there was no way I was ever going to be on time. Something was always going to delay me—either my own ineptitude, or the traffic, or both. And for some reason, I desperately wanted to prove to him that I could do this; I needed him to take me seriously. Maybe our last argument had affected me even more than I thought; I truly wanted to do this teaching thing right.

  And if that meant toughing it out at what was evidently one of the worst motels on the planet, then so be it. It would be a small price to pay.

  * * *

  As was the cost of the room, and thank goodness for that.

  “No check. Cash.”

  “I’ve got three different credit cards—take your pick.”

  “No credit card. Cash.”

  I stared at the lumpy man in the flowered shirt behind the counter. “What kind of place doesn’t take credit cards?”

  “This kind. No credit. Cash.”

  “All right, all right . . .” I surreptitiously dug around in my wallet, trying to shield the contents from him, as well as from the dude in the filthy jeans who was hanging out on the ratty sofa a few steps away. I glanced over and was a little relieved to realize I didn’t have to worry about him, as his eyes were going in two different directions, neither of them pointing my way. “How much?”

  “Forty-five.”

  “I’ve got forty-two.”

  “Forty-five.”

  “Come on, man, give me a break.”

  “Forty-five.”

  Growling deep in my throat, I rooted around in the change compartment. “Forty-two . . . seventy-three.”

  “Forty—”

  “Forty-five. Yeah, I heard. Wait a minute.”

  I retreated to my SUV, which was attracting way too much attention from the other motel guests, and collected every quarter, every dime, every penny from every cupholder and crevice in the dashboard, then headed back inside, making sure to lock my car first. The arming bip seemed unnaturally loud as it bounced off the building, and the folks in the parking lot looked at me accusingly, as though offended that I didn’t trust them. Well, too bad.

  I slapped my money down on the counter. “Forty-five.”

  Lumpy sorted out all my change with a thick forefinger. “Forty-four eighty-eight.”

  “Come on!”

  The skinny guy in the filthy jeans, who had fallen over sideways on the couch while I was outside, started giggling. I wasn’t sure if he was laughing at me or something going on in his own reality.

  “Dude, please.”

  He considered for a moment, then shrugged. I had a feeling I was going to get the room next to the ice machine.

  Chapter 13

  I was on time for class the next day. I looked like I’d been run over on the way there, but I was on time. I knew I wasn’t looking my best when I walked into class and the students who were there already halted their conversations and stared at me, open-mouthed.

  Mason bustled in, put his messenger bag on the desk chair, and said, “’Morning, everyone. And Ms. Sinclair, nice to—” Then he stopped dead and stared as openly as the kids. “Are you all right?”

  “Fine,” I growled. Sleepless, jumpy, with a tic in my left eyelid, and starving to boot, since I had no money for food and didn’t have time to find an ATM in my mad rush to get out of the ghetto that was my new neighborhood, but otherwise, just dandy.

  “I dunno, Ms. Sinclair,” Elias said, shaking his head worriedly. “You look like you partied pretty hard last night.”

  If only, I thought. “Thank you, Elias,” I muttered. “Your concern is noted.”

  “No, really,” Brandon pressed. “What happened?”

  Mason recovered from his shock and got all professor-y again. “I’m sure that’s Ms. Sinclair’s business, not ours—”

  But I didn’t want the class to think I was some idiot addicted to the sort of substance that sent my buddy on the motel office sofa into orbit, plus I wanted to get a dig in at Mr. Professor Mason Mitchell, so I blurted out, “I took Professor Mitchell’s advice and decided to stay in the area, so I could be close to school.” I hesitated for a dramatic beat before dropping the bomb. “So I got a room at the Super Duper Nine Motor Court.”

  Trina walked in at that moment; at my news, she let her book bag slide to the floor with a thud. “Seriously?!”

  I nodded, perversely pleased at the horrified looks on everyone’s faces.

  “Ms. Sinclair, that’s messed up.”

  “I have since found that out, Trina.”

  “No, really, you can’t stay there.”

  “Every other hotel was booked.”

  “Well shi
t, you can stay on the couch in my dorm suite. My roommates won’t mind.”

  Dear God, what a choice—crashing on a couch or staying in a fleabag motel. “Thanks, Trina, really, but I’ll be fine—”

  “My cousin got rolled in that parking lot, Ms. Sinclair. You sowill not be fine,” Elias said.

  “I can handle it.” I didn’t tell them that I’d gotten about three hours of sleep, total, the entire night, and that wasn’t about to change if I continued to stay there. Between freezing—I slept on top of the bed, as there was no way I was getting between those sheets—and being jolted awake repeatedly by slamming doors, thuds coming from the other side of the adjoining wall, an ongoing screaming match in the parking lot between a resident and his, er, evening companion of the female persuasion, and, yes, the regularly scheduled rumbling of the ice machine, the absolute last thing I intended to do was spend one more minute at the Super Duper Nine.

  But I wasn’t going to tell them that right now, because I was enjoying the look of remorse on Mason’s face as I lapped up the kids’ sympathy.

  “Isn’t it about time to start class?” I asked innocently.

  Mason shook his head, turned to the students, and worked hard to start the day’s lecture. I smiled to myself and tried to ignore my rumbling stomach and the caffeine-withdrawal headache threatening to mushroom into a migraine. That look on his face sure made it all worth it—almost.

  * * *

  After class, I scooted out the door as quickly as possible. I wasn’t avoiding the students, or Mason—I just really, really needed something to eat. And some caffeine. At the student center, I slid my card into the ATM and punched in my PIN number, shifting impatiently from one foot to the other as I waited for the next prompt. When the withdrawal screen came up, I chose a hundred dollars.

  But instead of the money shooting out of the slot, a notice came up on the screen: “Transaction could not be completed at this time.” And I got a slip with nothing but “Transaction canceled” on it. I sighed and tried again. Same result. Maybe the machine didn’t have enough money in it. I tried a third time, choosing just twenty dollars. The same thing happened.

  “Stupid machine,” I muttered. I threw away all the blank receipts, shoved my bank card back into my wallet, and pulled out my Visa.

  I ran into Mason in line at the coffee counter. He turned to me, still looking worried, and I started to feel a bit guilty about playing the sympathy card in class earlier.

  “Look, Faith,” he said, “you really can’t stay at that motel. Are you sure there isn’t any other—”

  “Not a one. Believe me, I checked.”

  “Riverside? That’s within a decent driving distance.”

  “Nope, not there either.”

  “I can’t allow you to be put in danger.”

  “How chivalrous.”

  He let slip one of his wry smiles, and it seemed we silently agreed that our argument from the other day was behind us. “Imagine my bad advice being the cause of the famous Faith Sinclair’s untimely demise, her body discovered in a seedy hotel room.”

  “Without any of the hotel-room fun first.”

  Oops. I felt the blood rush to my cheeks as I watched Mason’s color rise as well. Note to self: No allusions to sex in front of Mr. Professor Mason Mitchell.

  I rushed on, “I’ve already phoned a real estate agent to find me a house to rent. There’s gotta be something with a short-term lease around here, right?”

  “Plenty,” he agreed quickly, apparently glad to be on less sexy grounds. We stepped up to the counter, and he gestured for me to go first. “We’re still dealing with underemployment, even with the Air Force base in our backyard. A lot of places have been left empty.”

  I ordered a latte and a muffin, then asked Mason, “Do you live around here?” I realized I didn’t know anything about his personal life, but I wanted to.

  “I do. I’ve been here for about six years—”

  But the barista interrupted. “Ma’am? Your card’s been declined.”

  I blinked, uncomprehending. “What? Try it again, please. It’s fine.”

  He swiped the card again and waited. “Um, nope. Still declined. And it says here I’m supposed to confiscate the card. I’m sorry—”

  “What do you mean, ‘confiscate the card’?”

  “I’m supposed to keep it and call the service number—”

  “I know what it means! I mean . . . why?”

  “I don’t know that, ma’am. It doesn’t say.”

  “Can I just have my card back?” I glanced around, embarrassed. Mason was staring, and I was backing up the line.

  “I can’t, ma’am. I’m sorry.”

  “Can you stop calling me ma’am, at least?”

  “Sorry, ma’am—er, I mean—”

  “Never mind.” I sighed and handed him my MasterCard.

  “Uh . . .”

  “What now?”

  “Same thing?”

  “You have got to be kidding me.” My MasterCard disappeared under the counter along with my Visa, as the barista looked sheepish. “American Express?”

  “We don’t accept that one.”

  “This is crazy—”

  To make me feel even worse, Mason handed the guy some money. “Please get Ms. Sinclair her order, add it to mine.”

  I kept my eyes down as Mason ordered a coffee and we shuffled over to the end of the counter. “Thanks,” I muttered. “I—I don’t know what just happened—”

  “Don’t worry about it.” He collected my drink and muffin and handed them to me. “Weird, glitchy things happen with credit cards all the time.”

  “Yeah, but—” But not to me, I wanted to say. My credit was impeccable, my security doubly so. I wondered if all this was somehow related to my motel adventure. There were some highly suspect individuals there last night. Could someone have gotten hold of my information when I wasn’t looking? But wouldn’t they have stolen my cards, not just the numbers? And besides, I kept everything with me, every minute . . . didn’t I? I couldn’t remember. “Looks like I’m going to have to start making some phone calls, straighten all this out.”

  “Any way I can help?”

  “Nope. This is just between me and the credit card companies, I think,” I said, trying to sound brave as I put my muffin and coffee down on a nearby table and dug my phone out of my bag.

  “I’d better let you get to it, then. But . . . may I?” Mason held out his hand. Curious, I turned my phone over to him and he started typing. “My cell number. I want you to call me if there’s anything I can do, all right?” He gave me back my phone and pulled his out of his pocket. “Would you mind—may I have yours too?” I nodded and rattled it off. After he put my number into his contact list, he said, “Promiseyou’ll call if you need anything.”

  “I will. Thanks, Mason,” I murmured.

  Then my phone rang. It was the real estate company I had contacted. As I answered, I looked up, but Mason was gone.

  “Ms. Sinclair? Madeleine Chao. I understand you’re looking for a rental.”

  I scooted out of the packed student center so I could hear her better. “I am. A house, month-to-month lease, for about four months. Oh—and furnished.”

  “Well, I think I can find you a few things to look at. What’s your budget for this? I mean, renting a house can be expensive.”

  I smirked. “I think I’ll be all right.”

  “We’re talking about fifteen hundred a month, maybe more for furnished.”

  Oh, how cute. Rentals in my neighborhood could be nearly ten times that. “That’d be fine.”

  “Well then,” Ms. Chao said brightly, pleased that she had a live one with cash to spend, “are you free now?”

  * * *

  “Hm.”

  “Nice, isn’t it?”

  “It is . . . something.”

  I was staring up at the fourth house Ms. Chao—Madeleine, by this time—offered up for my perusal. It looked exactly like the previous thre
e, which were all so indistinguishable from one another they’d all blended together in my memory already. Exterior: a shade of brown or tan, tile roof, several gables, no character. Interior: vaulted ceilings, white walls, no character. Furnishings: brown and tan, generic, no character. And each one was crammed into housing developments made up of hundreds of identical houses with about six inches of space between them. I sure hoped I liked the neighbors of the house I eventually chose, because I was going to be pretty darn intimate with them, whether I wanted to be or not. I really missed my funky ranch house at this point.

  “Shall we go inside?”

  I tried to muster some enthusiasm while Madeleine chattered on about the home’s amenities. But after dutifully poking my nose into the various rooms, I decided to end this exercise in futility. I just wanted to pick one and be done with it.

  “This is fine. I’ll take it.”

  Madeleine lit up. “Wonderful. I’m sure you’ll love it. Now, I’ll need a deposit—first, last, and another month’s rent as security—and if you could fill out this rental application, I’ll get the ball rolling.”

  I whipped off a check. Just a place to sleep, I reminded myself. Not the Super Duper Nine, I reminded myself. Just for a few months, I reminded myself. And I signed the application.

  After I said good-bye to Madeleine in the driveway, I pulled my phone out of my purse. I thought it had been ringing when we were looking at the house and, sure enough, there were several missed calls listed. As I tried to puzzle out who was calling me, it rang again—the same strange number.

  “Yeah.”

  “Ms. Sinclair?”

  I didn’t say yes, just in case it was a reporter; I was still on tenterhooks waiting for one of them, or a blogger, to figure out where Alex had disappeared to. “Can I help you?”

  “This is Beverly Banking calling. I’m glad we caught you. There’s been some unusual activity on your account.” A bolt of alarm shot through me, although it occurred to me that, really, I had been expecting something like this since this morning. “We’ve frozen your account,” the bank person went on, “but I’m afraid quite a bit of money was transferred out before we did.”