Page 4 of A Home for Tyler (Omegas of Animals #14)
Tyler
It was my wedding day. Or at least it was supposed to be.
And here I was, having crossed the country aimlessly, about to walk into the seediest motel I’d ever seen. According to some random post I saw on social media, there was “a reason why they always have a help wanted sign up.”
Did they have really a job opening, or was it a joke based on the fact that this place looked like it could be a location shoot of a horror film?
I had no idea. But I still had enough money to could pay for a few weeks here, although my funds were getting pretty slim.
It was time to settle down, stop the nonstop travel, and try to find a real job.
Any job would be better than a forced mate bond with a cheater.
I got out and thanked the guy who had given me a ride. There had been a time when I never would’ve believed I’d be taking buses and hitchhiking rides from strangers. But here I was. And still…it was better than being mated to Joseph.
The motel was single story and shaped like an L, with the office sort of slapped on the end like an afterthought. My family would never have designed it that way. I was the architect reject and could see that.
I walked into the front office. It smelled like stale cigarettes and spilled coffee.
The walls had a yellowish tinge from years of indoor smoking, and the ceiling light flickered, the old fluorescent tube on its last breath.
Sure enough, there was a help wanted sign posted in the window.
Next to a little bell sat a sign that read: Don’t ring if you don’t mean it.
I rang the bell anyway, assuming that needing a room was “meaning it,” and waited.
I rang it again, five minutes later.
After the third time, I nearly gave up. But where was I gonna go?
It wasn’t like someone was going to pick up a random fox shifter and offer them a beach house and breakfast. They probably wouldn’t even risk slowing their car in front of the property.
This place looked like it was filled with roaches at best and dead bodies at worst—but at least it was shelter and possibly a job.
Eventually, a man came in, his hair damp, shirt stained and a tired like his face.
“You need a room?” He asked.
I nodded.
“You’re gonna have to wait.” Wasn’t that helpful.
“Okay?” It came out more of a question, and thankfully he took it as one.
“Guy who owns this place is usually here around dinnertime to collect the money,” he said, dropping an envelope into a battered slot in the wall. “He’ll be here then.”
As quick as he came, he went. I watched him walk down the cracked sidewalk in front of the doors and disappear into one of the units.
My fox was itching to get out, to run around. Between the scents in this place and the fact that I’d been stuck in my skin for so long, he was ready to bust out. I decided to explore the property while I waited for the owner. Maybe there was a place to let my fur out.
It wasn’t a bad spot for a shifter. There were little patches of scrub behind the building, just enough cover to shift if I needed to. I’d need to be careful about being seen, but if I timed things right, it could work.
But the building itself was on its last legs—peeling paint, warped wood, busted lights.
I scented far too many rodents, too. Some I didn’t even recognize.
But they all had that distinct musk that came from things with long tails—things my fox loved to eat, and I hated to have anywhere near where I slept.
As the dinner hour approached, I went back inside. And waited.
And waited.
And waited.
Eventually, a beat-up old sportscar car pulled up. Out came a guy, probably in his forties, wearing a stretched-out tank top, fake gold chains, and a permanent scowl.
“Great,” I muttered under my breath.
He stormed right into the office.
“What do you want?” he asked.
“I need a room.” Approaching him about a job when he was so argh felt like shittastic timing.
“It’s cash only. How long you staying?”
I pulled my wallet out and counted what I had. It looked like I could only afford one night until I hit up an atm.
“Just a night. Then I’ll have to get more cash.”
“Room eight will work.” He stepped behind the counter. “Don’t want any trouble here. Keep to yourself. Don’t expect any fancy treatment—no cleaning or shit. I need help,” he said, nodding at the help wanted sign.
He paused, looked me up and down. “Until then, be glad you got a roof.”
“You—how much you pay?” Not that I cared at this point. A job was a job, and it sounded like anything I might do was a ton more than was currently being done.
That stopped him.
“You get your room and twenty bucks a day cash.”
It wasn’t even minimum wage—not even close. And still, I found myself accepting the offer. Just like that, I became the new manager-slash-housekeeper-slash-maintenance-man of the Desert End Motel.
It was fine. Or at least not my worst option. That honor went to what I had waiting for me back home. Only it wasn’t home anymore. I had the tell-tale mark on my shoulder to prove it.
The job wouldn’t afford me a lot of savings, but it was going to give me time to regroup.
In my first month, I was always busy, which prevented me from getting too down on my situation.
Some of the rooms hadn’t been cleaned in—I couldn’t even guess how long.
One by one, I cleaned them from top to bottom.
Walls, floors, sheets, air units. You name it, I made sure it was white glove ready.
Most of the people were long-term residents.
Ex-husbands who needed a place to stay. A couple of folks trying to save up for first and last month’s rent on a nicer place.
Then there was Bob. I didn’t know Bob’s story.
He spent most of his days sitting outside, smoking, grumbling about “The Man.” Other than that, he shared nothing.
I didn’t mind the job. It was hard, but when I was done with a task, I felt accomplished. Doing minor repairs, making the place actually habitable—that felt good. Real. Useful.
The only problem was that I worked every day, all day. That was the expectation. The owner didn’t want to come down and deal with any of the “bullshit,” so I made sure he didn’t have to.
It was a place to stay. And I kept going and would continue to as long as I could.
I tried planning shifts out back. Times when I could let my fox out.
But it never happened. There was always someone around—usually Bob.
And Bob was pretty much guaranteed to be human.
It was hard to tell for sure with all that cigarette smoke, but I didn’t scent any beasts.
It wasn’t like I couldn’t exactly say, “Hey, Bob, can I get in close and past the Marlboro fog to see if I can catch your scent? Just want to know if you’ve got fur or feathers? ”
That wouldn’t have gone over well.
I was taking the trash out when I ran into the man from number six, who I’d met the first day. His name was Gary, and he was here trying to save money, hoping to eventually get to California to live with a relative. Some relative he still hadn’t found yet, but he knew was somewhere on the coast.
I didn’t have the heart to tell him California was a whole lot bigger than just wandering a beach looking for someone familiar. He’d figure that out soon enough.
He, too, was a shifter. Only his beast was an eagle and had feathers, not fur. I’d never met an eagle before.
It was impossible not to notice he went out every weekend. And when he came back, he smelled like booze and other shifters. More than once, he even brought one of them home with him.
Finally, I braved it and asked him where he was going when he went out.
He just said, “Animals,” like I was supposed to know what that was.
“Where?”
“It’s a nightclub.” He added, “For people like us.”
“Should I check it out? Is it all people like us? Is it expensive” gods, I was a man of a thousand questions.
“Probably worth a check. It’s mostly people like us and, if you stick with well drinks, it’s not bad.” Gary looked me up and down. “Why? You looking to shift?”
“How’d you know?”
“Your eyes,” he said simply. “Honestly, I don’t know how you made it this long.”
I hadn’t, not really. I’d shifted a few times in my room, but that wasn’t enough for my fox. He wanted to hunt.
“Bob tends to always be around.”
“Good old Bob,” he chuckled.
Sounded like a trip to Animals was in my future.