15
For ten minutes, Shea nagged Wendy to get her out of the motel room and into the passenger seat of the Mustang. The egg yolk of a sun had crested the horizon, painting everything in a golden glow. Aside from Wendy’s Mustang and Shea’s bike, only a black Nissan SUV and a red Toyota pickup with an NRA sticker remained in the hotel parking lot. Not a lot of the Getaway’s guests spent the whole night there, Shea noted.
Shea didn’t like leaving her bike in the empty lot, but Wendy didn’t seem fit to drive. Her skin was clammy, and her pupils dilated. Her voice rattled with congestion. Shea hoped whatever Wendy was coming down with wasn’t contagious.
Shea turned the key in the ignition. “Buckle up, Bug.”
“Bug? You ain’t called me that since we were kids.”
The nickname had slipped out wit
