A.N.: So I got a few encouraging reviews, which was definitely nice. So there's not a ton to say… Except to enjoy the update!
Disclaimer: No, I don't own PJO. Rick Riordan does.
Two: Reyna PoV
I stopped somewhere near the state line at two am, my mind finally starting to get fuzzy from lack of sleep. I pulled into the parking lot of some crappy motel and parked the Cadillac. Tucking the keys into my pocket, I slid my feet into my flip flops and hopped out of the car.
The motel had the feel of something that was holding onto the past, with it's broadway style flickering lights that blinked on and off, spelling out the name: Motel California. How utterly original.
The check in room was done in varying shades of gray. Maybe a few decades ago it had been white. But now the linoleum tile was worn down, and the baseboards of the front desk were scuffed horribly. A girl who looked like she'd rather be out lighting up was sitting in a swivel desk chair chewing a huge wad of pink bubblegum, music blasting from her earphones.
"Can I help you?" she asked, giving me a once over, her eyebrows arching critically at my disheveled appearance as she slid her earphones out of her ears. Well, she could stuff it, because she looked a hell of a lot worse. Her hair was dyed blond, the roots showing, and the ends were purple. Her makeup looked to be a mix of eyeliner and black shit, which gave her the look of a raccoon. And her ratty sweatshirt didn't make things much better.
"One room, one night stay," I said, not bothering with a please. I doubted she would appreciate it anyways.
"That will be…" she trailed off, glancing at the screen of her computer. "Ninety dollars please." I searched my wallet for my emergency credit card, financed by Circe. And if I considered my own sanity and well being an urgent matter, I figured the use of it was pretty well justified. I swiped the plastic card through the machine and it beeped its acceptance.
The girl tossed an old key over the counter. "Room fifty-two," she smacked, popping a bubble before plugging her earphones back. I grabbed the key and wandered off down to the right. Guess she wouldn't be much help for actually finding the room.
After a good ten minutes, I figured out where room fifty-two was, and I unlocked the door. It was gray, a lot like the lobby, and I surveyed the scene. The carpet was dirty looking, but the bathroom looked like it had been recently cleaned, at the very least. I headed back outside to the parking lot to grab one of my suitcases and locked the Cadillac behind me before returning the room.
I decided I wouldn't take a chance sleeping on the bed, and instead opted for the floor. The comforter had some weird hair on it, and I didn't waste time wondering how it had gotten there in the first place. Luckily, I'd had the common sense to pack my pillow, so I changed into a pair of baggy sweatpants, a sports bra and a sweatshirt, flicked off the light and curled up.
Luxury for a girl like me, huh?
Morning came, and for a second, I couldn't remember why I had been sleeping on the floor of some foreign motel room as opposed to at home in my bed.
And then I remembered.
Him. Her. Together.
My stomach lurched and I surged upwards, stumbling on my way towards the bathroom. I heaved the contents of my Subway dinner from last night into the toilet, and settled for spitting out the bad taste instead of risking the water.
I exchanged my sweats for some distressed jean shorts, a comfortable bra, and a loose fitting white blouse that just skimmed the waistline of my shorts. My hair looked like I'd stuck my finger in an electric socket for the thrill of it, so I braided it in twin French braids to minimize the deranged look. I slipped on my sandals, removed the ruined make-up from last night, and swiped on some lip balm and a fresh coat of mascara.
I was as good as new.
On the outside, at the very least.
I still felt like a train wreck emotionally, but I was working on that.
Reluctant to stay any longer, I packed up everything into the one suitcase I'd brought inside from my car and checked out of the hotel. My car was, thankfully, in tact, and obviously not hot-wired by some sketchy creeper who had the same taste in vintage as I did. I tossed my luggage into the trunk with the rest of it, slid my sunglasses over my eyes and stuck the key into the ignition. Sorry, Motel California. You're not nearly far away enough from San Francisco for me.
The day was bright and sunny, and there was a good breeze on the air as I scoured the area for a place to get breakfast before I hit the highway again. It would've been easier to get going now, but my stomach was not having it.
I settled for a fifty's style breakfast diner on the corner of two intersecting streets in the small town. It was cute, and it made me think of all those times the three of us had gone out on Saturday mornings before we hit the beach or the movies. My heart cringed, but I shoved the feelings down and snagged a seat at the breakfast bar. The chairs were red leather and silver, and swiveled, and I twisted from side to side as I examined the menu.
Eggs Benedict sounded nice. And I needed some coffee too.
I gave my order to a waiter behind the counter and he took my menu and hurried to attend to some other customers further down. I sighed and took my phone out of my pocket.
Twenty-nine new messages, and seven missed calls.
My heart thudded in my chest as I scrolled through my unread texts.
WHERE R U? WE'RE STILL AT THE PARTY, BUT CAN'T FIND U!
PPL R SAYING U LEFT. R U OKAY?
REY, CALL ME IF U GET THIS! WE R RLY WORRIED!
To name a few. I didn't even want to listen to the voicemails they'd left me. They would only make me feel guilty, and I hadn't done anything wrong. I just wanted time to think, somewhere far away from them. And Manhattan was conveniently located all the way across America.
"Eggs Benedict and coffee?" a waitress asked before setting down a plate in from of me.
"Thanks," I said, barely waiting to see if she'd left before grabbing my fork and digging in. The home fries were amazing, and the hollandaise sauce hit the spot. It was all I could do not to lick the plate clean. I drained my coffee, gave the waiter the check, and I was out of there. I had places to be and people to see.
I unlocked my car and sat down, twisting the keys in the ignition.
The only problem?
The engine didn't respond.
I tried again, panic beginning to rise. This couldn't be happening. This could not be happening. I had to have the worst freaking luck in the universe.
"Shit," I swore, banging my fist on the steering wheel and yanking the keys out. I fell back against the driver's seat, feeling defeated.
Why did this have to happen to me, of all people?
Well, the forces of the universe could try all they wanted to get be back to San Francisco, but it wasn't happening. I would pretty much die before having to return and explain my pathetic twelve hour disappearance. I would feel like a toddler, running off to throw a fit, before realizing there was no point, and returning with my tail between my legs.
No. I was not going to give up this easily.
I got out of the car and slammed the door, heading back inside the diner. I walked up to the front desk and waited for a hostess to appear. The waiter from earlier spotted me, and a puzzled look crossed his face before he walked over.
"Hey. Uh, no offense, weren't you just here?" he asked.
"Yeah," I said, grimacing. "Look, my car is having trouble starting. Do you know where the nearest place I can get it fixed is?"
He nodded. "Yeah. It's Vulcan's. It's just down the street, a brown car garage with a big sign. You can't miss it."
"Thanks," I told him honestly, before turning on my heel and leaving the diner. I squinted into the sunlight before putting my sunglasses back on. Sure enough, I could see a brown building down the street, and with one last glance at my beloved Cadillac, I set off down the street.
Vulcan's was big, and clearly popular, judging by the number of cars in the lot. Which was, I hoped, a good thing. I needed my car to be fixed as soon as possible. I didn't plan on staying another night in Motel California.
I stepped inside, a blast of cool, air-conditioned air rushing at me. I pushed my shades up to the top of my head and waited by the front desk. There was a little silver bell to ring if you needed help, but I was kind afraid it would be rude to ring it. For all I knew, they were really busy. It looked so tempting…
Oh, what the hell? I was kind of in a hurry.
I rang the damn bell and crossed my arms over my chest.
"Coming!" a male voice called. A boy who looked about my age emerged from a door that led out into the garage. He was wearing a white muscle shirt and oil stained jeans, his black hair curling around his temples. His skin was deeply tanned, and he looked Latino. He grinned at me, clapping his hands together as he approached.
"Sorry about that," he apologized. "Dad's kind of busy lately. So, how can I help you?"
"My car won't start," I told him flatly. "I tried a few times, but the engine won't run."
"And your car is where, exactly?" he asked, cocking an eyebrow.
"It's parked up the street in front of that diner," I replied.
"You mean Celeste's?" he supplied. Instead of waiting for an answer, he barreled on. "Don't answer that. Celeste's is the only diner open for breakfast here. One of the perks of a small town."
"So, how long will it take to be fixed?" I asked, starting to get impatient. I leaned up against the counter, drumming my fingers.
He looked up from the computer. "Well, it depends on the problem, Miss…" he trailed off questioningly.
"Vivaldi," I sighed. "Well, can you check it out? I'm kind of on a tight schedule."
"Just so you know, that's what everyone says. It's always go, go, go with people these days. Everyone has people to see and places to be. So I wouldn't really expect it to make a difference. I can get around to it in about fifteen minutes. I just need to change some tires. It won't take long. And since you're incredibly unfamiliar and definitely pretty, I'll try my best to shorten the wait," he added, smirking.
I ignored the fact that his every word flirted expertly. "Fine. I'll just wait here, I guess." I stepped back and eyed the row of chairs that clearly served to seat people that were waiting to be attended.
"You do that, Miss Vivaldi. And if you need anything, I'll in the garage. Ask for Leo. And if they don't know who that is, try Hot Stuff," he answered before heading through the door.
I slumped into one of the chairs. Great. I was stuck in some small, highway-side town for probably the next three hours or so, in a mechanic's shop, attended by a most likely playboy Latino guy who had an ego the size of California.
Did I mention that I have the worst luck in the world?
Good? So now you have met Leo. And her trio will continue onwards, no worries. With or without our favorite Repair Boy, you'll have to wait and see. And I'm sure you're guessing who her two best friends in San Francisco are, too, and that will be revealed soon. All in good time. After all, it's not a good story if it doesn't keep you guessing am I right? Thanks so much for reading, and please do review, constructive criticism is ALWAYS appreciated! Love you all!
Xoxo-NotsoSugarQueen