Page 3 of Her Nosey Biker (Savage Kings MC #10)
CHAPTER TWO
GRACE
*SQUEAK*, *SQUEAK*, *SQUEEEAK*
I wince again at the sounds the old cart makes as I roll it, piled high with cleaning supplies, down the hall one room at a time.
“Just one more room, then I’ll give you a break, I promise.” I know I probably sound crazy talking to an old cart, but there is no one else around. Honestly, I’ve been alone most of my life, so I’ve become somewhat accustomed to talking to inanimate objects.
Right now, though, I just want to get this last room taken care of so I can get back to my bed and finish my latest project, but work calls, and I’m no slacker.
Of all the traveling and jobs I’ve done over the years, this might be the hardest. Currently, I work as a maid here at the Devil's Rest Motel, cleaning rooms and trying to stay out of everyone's way. Being a maid is the perfect job for me, seeing as I’m a loner among loners, and this job makes me practically invisible. I’m able to spend my days alone, scrubbing and bleaching floors.
I wince with every noise the old wheel makes, especially as we pass room seven.
Strictly off-limits, that room is forever reserved, as I’ve been told, and “nothing for me to worry about,” the owner and my boss, Eddie, kindly but firmly let me know.
To say I got the point - stay away from room #7 - would be an understatement. His worried stare wasn't hard to read.
While I have cleaned every other room in this place, and take pride in what I’ve accomplished since falling into town, that door, however, number seven, I won't even look at.
I don't want any kind of trouble; in fact, I'd rather no one noticed me.
I just want to do my job, return to my complimentary room, and finish my ever-growing pile of crochet projects.
The last thing I want to do is put my nose somewhere it doesn't belong.
My mom, lord love her, that was her specialty.
Being where she didn't belong, putting herself — and by extension, me — in places we had no business being. After growing up with a free-spirited, nature-loving nomad of a mother, all I’ve ever craved was somewhere to settle.
A cottage in the middle of the woods, a short bike ride away from town, but tucked back in the woods, completely secluded and all mine.
I want to plant a garden. I want to make my mark on something that I own.
It's something I’ve been saving for my whole life.
It's also why I’m currently gagging over a clogged toilet.
I'll have it sparkling again before the day's done, though.
It might not be the most glamorous job — cleaning bathrooms, changing sheets, vacuuming, and fluffing pillows — but it gets me a free room tucked in the back corner where no one bothers me and an extra hundred dollars at the end of every week.
It might not be a lot, but I put every extra dime I make into my house fund.
I eat from the vending machines, not a healthy option, I know, but sue me…
It's affordable, and I only spend my money on essentials.
And yes, yarn counts as a necessity. Speaking of which, my stash is running low; it won't be long before I’ll have to venture into town to find somewhere to restock.
I finish the room, collecting the dirty towels and throwing them into the bin on my cart before moving on to the next room.
This is how my days go, every single day.
It’s a routine, and one I know all too well.
Room after room, bed after bed, toilet after toilet.
I continue on, singing in my head, but before long, I’m humming out loud.
I do it often, not even realizing it. Heck, I’m alone most of the time anyway; no one knows me in this town besides Eddie, and even him I keep at a distance.
Living in the shadow of the most outgoing woman on the planet makes any type of rare attention I receive feel way too uncomfortable.
I’m in my zone now, not paying attention to my surroundings and backing my cart down the hall.
Sometimes I switch things up when the squeak gets too loud.
Pulling it backward can sometimes make the sound quieter, or maybe it’s my singing.
Still, anything is better than that loud, constant, annoying…
“Ahhhh!” I scream as my bottom and back hit a solid wall.
“Well, you didn’t have to accost me, darlin’. You could have just said hi,” a smooth male voice comes from the wall.
Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit. I squeeze my eyes shut.
This is something straight out of my nightmares.
I turn my head to see who I accidentally hit, but my eyes freeze on the door number in front of me.
Triple shit, room seven. Which can only mean the man I bumped into was coming from the very room I’m supposed to pretend doesn't exist.
I don’t say anything, stuck in silence with my eyes wide and looking around anywhere but behind me. Maybe if I don’t say anything, I can just scoot away. I can just push the cart forward, and when he tries to stop me, blame it on the squeaking. It’ll work, right?
“Oh, don't go trying to run off without even telling me your name,” the smooth voice says from behind me.
This time, my eyes and vajayjay don't give my brain any other choice; they have to know the owner of that voice. Unfortunately, as I turn around, I release a groan. Yup, he’s hot, like movie-star-model hot.
Like Photoshop, perfect, but in real life.
They haven't come out with real-life body filters yet, have they?
I don't know, but what I do know is that it almost hurts to look at him. Then common sense picks back up, and I realize I’ve been staring, and by the smirk on his face, he noticed.
That's my cue. I don't waste any more time; instead, I just turn and run, cart and squeak and all. I hear him call out after me, and maybe a dog whine? Still, I don't waste a second by turning around. Instead, I decide I’m done for the day. I only had one room left, and I can pick it back up tomorrow. There is no way I’m risking running into that room or anyone coming out of it ever again.
Placing the cart and supplies back into the supply closet, I peek my head around the door, looking both ways.
No sign of him, good.
Quickly, I bustle out of the closet and straight to my room, closing the door behind me and breathing a sigh of relief.
The relief, however, is short-lived when I realize I didn't stop by the vending machine to pick up a snack.
I look around at the meager belongings I have and realize it's going to be a long night.
I have only a couple of dollars in my pocket, and I don't know what I'm more worried about: running into that man again, room seven, or my boss.
In the end, I decide the best course of action is to just suck it up for the night, so without further delay, I head to the bathroom, take a quick shower, and then hop into bed.
For as eager as I was to get back to the room and finish up my crocheting, now I can’t seem to crochet a single stitch without my thoughts drifting back to that cocky, deep, taunting voice.
Maybe it’s time to move on from this place. Staying any longer might be dangerous for my sanity and my self-imposed seclusion.