Little Fury: Book 1 of The deadly Little Thing Trilogy
Little Fury: Chapter 6

Hotels sprinkle the highway as I drive. I arbitrarily choose one to spend the night at. I need food and sleep. I pull into the hotel lot and go inside to rent a room for the night. The hotel is just like all the others on the highway. It’s small, clean and has a 24-hour diner attached. I go up to the desk and ask for a room for the night. The clerk smiles at me and asks for my identification. I reach into my pocket and grab my ID. The clerk takes it and enters all my info into the computer. He hands me back my driver’s licence.

“Thank you, Miss Blake. How would you like to pay?”

He asks me,

“Cash, please,” I say, handing over a few bills. He takes them, gives me back my change, hands me my key card,

“You are in room 227. If you drive down to the end of this side of the building, that door is the closest to your room. The stairs are right there for you. I hope you enjoy your stay with us, Miss Blake.”

I move my truck closer to the door at the end of the building and grab my stolen goodies and one of the bags of clothes from my unit. Making my way inside, I replace the stairs waiting for me, and I flip them off as I begin to climb the one flight up. I’m in my room about 2 minutes later. All I want to do is fall into bed, but I have things to do before sleep gets to claim me.

Dropping my bags on the dresser and suitcase stand. I take my phone, key card and laptop and make my way back out into the hallway. Some of the most hideous carpeting designed for the sole purpose of masking all sorts of sins that land upon it greets me. The hallways have that thick ribbed wallpaper, the same generic wall art, and white sconces as all the others. It’s nondescript, just like every other hotel along this highway.

Stepping into the diner, I happily seat myself in a booth at the back of the restaurant. I sit in the teal-coloured booth and look down at the chipped Formica on the table. The diner is the only non-generic thing about the hotel. It’s an era-themed diner. Not the 50s or 60s, not even the wonderful neon days of the 80s. No, I’m sitting in a diner that boasts its love for the 90’s. Being born at the turn of the century, I heard my fair share of 90’s music thanks to having a mom who was a 90’s kid. So, seeing the posters on the walls of bands like Nirvana, Pearl Jam, Audioslave, and Alice in Chains, as well as the plethora of one-hit wonders the 90’s produced like Natalie Imbruglia, the Proclaimers, Aqua and Sixpence None the Richer, I can’t help but think of her. Hear her singing horribly to all those songs and bands. “One Headlight’ by Jacob Dylan is playing over the speakers.

Ignore it, Ava, pick up the freaking menu and decide on your dinner. The faster you eat, the sooner you will be in that shower and then unconscious in that bed.

I really do give myself the best advice. LOL. Is it odd to say the letters L O L when I talk to myself? I feel like it’s a little weird. I audibly sigh, annoyed that no one hears just how funny I am. At the same time being grateful nobody can hear those thoughts.

I look at the menu as the waitress approaches. “Ready to order?” the waitress asks me. She is young, probably 19, wearing a Smashing Pumpkins T-shirt and an insanely wide-legged pair of jeans. Once my order is placed and the waitress, whose name I now know is Ollie, drops off my milkshake and water, I open my laptop and jump onto my phone’s signal.

I quickly log into the server Ben has set up for us to speak with each other without worrying about our conversations being hacked. Don’t ask me to explain it. While I can do basic computer stuff and some very rudimentary coding when Ben needs help, I couldn’t begin to explain what kind of system he’s set up for us.

There are five messages waiting for me. The first one makes my heart lurch.

Harrison logged on 24 hours ago.

‘I’m not sure if anyone is alive or will get this in time, but Marcus’s guys are here, and they aren’t here for a pint. It has been a pleasure, Ava and Gents. Thank you for taking me into your fold. I genuinely enjoyed the second half of my life because of you. I’m taking these cunts with me. Cheerio, my friends.’

“Fuck” feeling my eyes start to sting from tears I won’t let fall.

Ben sent two messages, telling us that he got Harrison’s message but, unfortunately, was too late to help and that he was halfway home.

I log off and close the laptop. Leaning my head back against the seat and take another deep breath. I am happy to know the other three are okay and that I will see them soon. I close my eyes and send a silent goodbye to Harrison. He was one of the best sharpshooters I’d ever seen. Even at 54, he could shoot the wings off a fly a football field away.

I met Harrison in a park in Germany, of all places. His wife had just died, and he was travelling aimlessly. He had sold everything. His house, all its contents, his car, everything. He told me if it had touched her in any way, he wanted to get rid of it. He could barely handle the thought of her; everything reminded him of her, so he sold it all. He told me of his time with the British Military and that he was a marksman, a sniper. He was so sad and lost and angry. For whatever reason, I asked him if he missed the rifle. He looked at me and said, “It’s complicated. I miss being great at something. I was great as a sniper and at being her husband.”

I told him I could offer him a job if he had questionable morals and wanted to pick up the rifle again. He chuckled at that (I instantly miss his laugh. It was big and bold). He said he had always had questionable morals but kept them in check for his wife. He looked at me, then really looked at me and said, “Well, my dear, what do you have in mind?”

My food arrives while I’m still lost in thought about Harrison, but the minute I smell that burger, I turn ravenous. If Jake were here, he would laugh at me and tell me how classy I was,

Fuck Ava! You were doing so good not thinking about him. You’re such an idiot.

I sigh out loud and very quickly put the thought of Jake back in his little box and put that box in a deep and dark little corner of my mind. Fully compartmentalised, I dig back into my food. The burger is a thing of beauty, flat top cooked with melty American cheese, lettuce, tomato, and fried onions; the rings are hot and crispy and have a really nice spice on the coating. I eat every bit of it. The milkshake is fucking amazing. The pie also doesn’t fucking disappoint. I’m not sure if it’s just that I’m insanely hungry or if the food is that good, but I don’t care. I leave money on the table with a generous tip for Ollie.

I’m barely through the door of my room when I begin to peel off my clothes. I’m in the shower fast, needing to wash the drive from me. I do my best to wash my hair and body and not get my injuries under the spray. Once I’m done, I towel dry my hair and throw another around my body. I step up to the sink, grab my toiletry bag, replace my toothbrush and toothpaste and quickly brush my teeth. I put moisturizer on my face and body. Some habits are just too ingrained not to do, no matter the situation.

Staring at myself in the mirror I realise all those women in the movies and books weren’t wrong. Grabbing the scissors out of my bag, I give myself a nod and cut. Five minutes later, my once waist-length hair now hangs to just below my shoulders. With one last look in the mirror, I grab up all my hair and shove it in a garbage bag with the towels and washcloths. I may not be on a job, but I still can’t leave any DNA behind; it would feel wrong.

I crawl into bed and grab the laptop to check the server one last time before going to sleep.

Closing the laptop, I put it on the bedside table, turn off the lamp, and sink into the bed, surprised by how comfortable it was. I fall asleep quickly, not waking up until 8 a.m. the next morning.

I’m out of the hotel within 30 minutes of waking. Every surface or thing I used is either wiped down or in one of my bags to go with me until I can dispose of it properly. It’s complete overkill on my part, but the old Scotsman would grumble at me if I didn’t. I load the truck, drive to the front of the hotel, and go inside to check out.

Dropping the key off at the front desk I wait for the day clerk to print off my bill. Today, the clerk is an older lady who reminds me a lot of Ross and Monica’s mom. I give myself a mental high 5 for my Friends reference. “All right, Elena, you are all ready to go. Thank you for staying with us, and have a safe trip,” Mrs. Gellar tells me. I give myself another mental cheer for the Friend’s reference. And yeah, Elena is going to take some getting used to.

My parents named me Ava after my mom’s grandmother, and I love that name. I close my eyes and feel the loss of yet another thing that my parents gave me. And for the first time, I feel a surge of anger at Marcus for what happened and what I’ve had to give up because of him.

I stop at the nearest gas station to fill up the truck. Inside the mom-and-pop store is a little coffee shop. I grab a freshly baked tomato and feta pastry and a sausage and egg breakfast sandwich and order myself the largest London Fog they have.

Ben plotted my path to the meet-up spot and sent it straight to my GPS. I must remember to kiss that guy when I see him. I am mentally drained and physically exhausted; the thought of my vehicle telling me where to go is… well, making me tear up. Hello, mental exhaustion emotions. He made the route through small towns, on smaller highways, and backroads, all in the name of disappearing. I turned some music on and let my pre-set navigation tell me where to go.

“Skin” By Zola Jesus fills the cab as I start along my plotted-out path home to my guys, to what remains of my team.

My brain won’t turn off, won’t just let me be. No. Instead, that bitch wants to replay it all. She wants me to see it all again, regardless of us what I already having lived it. I have nothing left in me to fight her, so instead, I give in. Surrender to the memories; watch it all as it happened then.