The problem with motorcycles was room. The brunette woman couldn’t help but feel that life would be simpler if she just caved and bought a car. ‘It could be a cool one.’ She reasoned as she removed herself from the bike, kickstand in place so it wouldn’t fall over. ‘A decent American muscle car. A Challenger.’ And her red lips curved into a smile at the thought.
Of course, once her green eyes moved down to the bike, that smile softened, “I’d never give you up. Not for all the money in the world,” or, apparently, all the convenience. A sigh parted her lips and she trekked on up to the motel lobby doors, chains along her waist jangling. She liked the sound—they really served no purpose except to make her feel like a badass. Well, maybe the silver of them kept werewolves away.
No one was there immediately, so she crossed her arms over the counter and leaned forward, leather jacket riding up on her back. She drummed her nails over the counter, rather than ring the bell. Eventually, a balding man with glasses came out to see her, and she gave him a bright smile, “I need a room.” A room she would need for maybe two nights, which would store yet another dress-suit that she’d end up abandoning because she couldn’t fit it in the motorcycle bags alongside all the other things that were in there.
Seriously, she needed to work this out.
“It’s $10 an hour, or $40 a night.”
Oh, great, it was one of those motels.
“Two nights right now, champ.” And she pushed off the counter so she could remove her wallet from an inner pocket. She laid $100 on the counter, and received a little back—curse taxes. A key was then handed to her.
“Just you?”
“For now.” She patted the counter, “Thanks,” she saw the number on the keyring and flicked it into a closed fist as she walked back out to her motorcycle. She didn’t go to the room first but did go to acquire ‘proper’ clothing. She was posing as a real estate agent today, after all, so that she could get a good luck at a house that was causing some troubles.
The last family who owned it were all dead. If it weren’t for the way in which they’d passed, she would have ignored it, but Kenny seemed to find it suspicious. Since she was near the area anyway, she decided to check it out, despite his protests that someone else was already on the case. Some ‘Hereford’—which, if it was one of those Herefords, she didn’t want them anywhere near the case.
To acquire the proper attire, black pencil skirt and white blouse, Morgan paid in stolen credit cards. These, too, would end up left behind. She’d get more later. She always did. She didn’t have enough in cash to buy the clothing and heels.
With those in hand, she drove back to the motel, changed (always keeping the leather jacket on), and called a cab. ‘Can’t show up in the motorcycle.’ Somehow that was just improper for the role. She got odd looks, anyway.
Soon enough, a cab showed up, and Morgan gave him the address to the house. He seemed to think nothing of it, and took her there.
No one was there, so she paid the man and dismissed him. ‘Darn.’ She had hoped to talk the interested party into paying for her cab fare. Oh well. This would give her a chance to scope the place out.
It didn’t look like anything spectacular. It was just a ranch-style house with a basement, two-door garage, on perhaps three acres of land. Plenty of space between them and the neighbors, but not enough to feel isolated in the least bit. Morgan walked up the path to the door, and tried to peer inside the window on the door, cupping her hands around it to try and get a good view of the interior.
‘Pretty basic. Lots of mirrors.’ She appeared to be looking into a dining room. Mirrors lined the wall. ‘Bit creepy.’ She wondered if this trend of mirrors continued throughout the whole house. ‘Better not break anything.’[/color] The last thing she needed was seven years of bad luck. ‘Oh god, is this bloody Mary? Are we dealing with bloody Mary?’ That’s what always came to mind with mirrors.
She rarely encountered legends, though. Well, at least not the namesakes of legends.
