22I rapped my knuckles on Dawna’s hotel room door. I heard a metallic squeak as she flipped the security latch.
I steeled myself for the ordeal ahead. I would not allow her messiness to trigger a neat-freak attack.
The door swung open and Dawna waved me across the threshold. She wore gray fleece shorts with a matching tank top and white athletic socks.
Her outfit was as clean as the white T-shirt she clutched in one hand and she smelled like bleachy laundry detergent.
The room was clean, too. The only items out of place were stacks of folded socks, panties, shirts, and pants arrayed atop the white coverlet on her pristine bed. She’d straightened the orangey abstract picture facing the couch.
I held up a sack from a chain sub shop I’d found on the drive back from the Ten-Jay Nail Salon
