Page 25 of Off Plan

Fuck. My. Life.

“I need to speak to Mr. Goodman,” I said tightly.

Fenn leaned his forearms on the roof of the car, watching whatever expressions were flickering over my face. A little smile danced around his mouth. “You sure do. But first, let me give you the tour! Bet you’d like to know what the Wi-Fi passcode is, right?”

I nodded, wiping the sweat off my forehead. “What is it?”

“N-O-N-E. As in, there’s no password, because there’s no Wi-Fi.” He tapped out a rim shot on the top of the car, pointed finger guns at me, andfired.

“Hilarious.Whereis Mr. Goodman’s office?”

“The tour’s barely begun! You look hot, Loafers. Let’s check out the ice machine over in the breezeway.”

He pointed to a large archway in the center of the ground floor of the motel that was completely pitch-black, like that one spot had absorbed all the light around it.

I suppressed a shudder.

“Let’s not. Mr. Goodman?”

“I’ll have you know, that ice machine was here before men landed on the moon, and it still works. Same with the washing machine. And at only five cents a load, it’s a total bargain.”

“Great.” I folded my arms over my chest. “I’m sold. Is the tour done now?”

“Might wanna watch out for the dryer, though,” Fenn continued, proving he was much better at ignoring me than I was at ignoring him. “Last time I opened it, there was a giant snake in there. Roberta and I decided it’d be better if I hung my clothes to dry.”

“Roberta?”

“The snake.”

“Of course.” I shuddered again, for real this time.

“Feel free to renegotiate,” the asshole said cheerfully. “You might have more leverage, given that you’re wearing the skin of her brethren on your feet.”

“Her brethren? My shoes arenotsnakeskin! They’re Italian—” I looked down at my shoe, and a tiny pair of reptilianeyeslooked back.“Gaaaah!” I did a little jig in place, kicking my foot like a cancan dancer to get the littlewhatever it wasoff me.

Fenn burst into laughter so loud it rang around the deserted parking lot.

“Shut up! Did you see that? Holy shit, was that a… a snake? Was it a spider? Is itpoison?” I demanded.

“That was agecko,” Fenn wheezed. “A tiny,harmlesslittle hashtag-gecko. Like on the insurance commercial, but without the British accent? The poor baby just wanted a selfie with you and you terrorized him, Loafers! Where’s your love of hashtag-wildlife gone?”

I ground my teeth together. “You’re enjoying thiswaytoo much.”

“Well, I’m notnotenjoying it, Loafers,” he said, wiping his eyes. “And that’s the damned unfortunate truth.”

“What the fuck does that mean?”

Fenn sniffed and sobered. “It means I’m ready to go back to the airport when you are.”

My molars creaked. Fenn Reardonwasa serial killer. The kind whoannoyedhis victims to death.

“I’ll go find Mr. Goodman myself.” I set off across the cracked concrete toward the motel. There had to be some kind of office attached, right? Probably right next to the nonexistent cabana beside the nonexistent hot tub I’d been promised?

“The Goodmans’ house is the next lot over,” Fenn called from behind me. “Rafe does all hismayor businessfrom his home office. Through the trees to your right. Can’t miss it.”

“Fine.”

I stalked off in that direction, and I heard Fenn’s flip-flops smack the ground as he followed me.