The Blue Towel Incident
2333 Words
Chapter 3: The Blue Towel Incident
The room upstairs is smaller than she expected, which is saying something because she didn't have expectations to begin with.
It's maybe ten feet by ten feet. A single bed pushed against the wall with a faded quilt that might have been blue once but has since faded to a color she can only describe as maybe. A wooden dresser with three drawers, one of which is stuck. A window that looks out over the bar's gravel parking lot, cracked at the corner and sealed with duct tape. And a closet. She opens it. Empty hangers. A spare light bulb. A dusty copy of a romance novel from 1997.
And a blue towel.
Maya stares at the towel. Then she remembers Knox's words: Don't use the blue one. That's Ghost's, and he's weird about it.
She closes the closet door very carefully.
The bathroom is down the hall. Shared, she realizes. Four bikers and her, all fighting for shower time. This is going to be a disaster. She can already imagine Jesse using all the hot water while singing off-key. But when she peeks inside, it's surprisingly clean. White tiles. A mirror with one corner chipped. A shower curtain with rubber ducks on it that she refuses to find charming.
She splashes water on her face. Looks at her reflection. The girl staring back has dark circles under her eyes and hair that's given up on life. She looks like someone who ran away from a wedding that wasn't happening. But she's also smiling. Just a little. Just at the corner of her mouth.
You're staying, she tells herself. You're actually staying.
There's a knock at her door. Not the bedroom door — the door at the bottom of the stairs. Knox's voice floats up. "You hungry?"
She should say no. She should unpack her nonexistent bags and curl up on the maybe-blue quilt and cry for a while. But her stomach chooses that moment to growl like an angry bear.
"Coming," she calls back.
Downstairs, the bar is empty. The jukebox is playing something soft — a country song about leaving. The front door is locked, the neon sign is off, and the bikers have rearranged themselves around a table near the back. Takeout containers cover the surface. Chinese food, by the smell. Soy sauce and fried rice and something spicy that makes her eyes water from across the room.
Jesse spots her first. "Look who survived the upstairs. We were taking bets."
"Don't listen to him," Tank says, not looking up from his container. "I said you'd last the night."
"That's not a bet, that's an insult," Jesse protests.
"It's both."
Ghost says nothing. Just slides a chair toward Maya with his foot. The gesture is so subtle she almost misses it. But the chair is there, waiting.
Knox is at the head of the table, already piling food onto a paper plate. He doesn't ask what she likes. He just adds a little of everything — noodles, dumplings, broccoli beef — and pushes it toward her. "Eat. You look like a strong wind would knock you over."
"I look fine."
"You look like you haven't had a real meal in three days."
He's not wrong. She takes the plate. Sits down. The chair is warm. Ghost must have been sitting there earlier.
"You okay?" Jesse asks. His voice is softer now. Less joke, more actual question.
Maya chews a dumpling. It's good. Really good. She didn't realize how hungry she was until the first bite hit her tongue. "I don't know," she admits. "Ask me tomorrow."
"Fair enough."
They eat in silence for a while. It's not awkward, which surprises her. It's just… comfortable. Four bikers and a runaway, sharing takeout in a dive bar at midnight. Her life has officially become a country song.
Knox breaks the silence. "We need to talk about your car."
"It got towed. Jesse told me."
"It got towed, and it's not worth fixing." He says it flatly, like he's delivering a weather report. "Tank looked at it. The engine's shot. Transmission's going. You'd spend more on repairs than the car's worth."
Maya puts down her fork. "So I'm stuck here."
"You're choosing to be here," Knox corrects. "But yes. Your car is dead."
Jesse raises his hand. "I can drive you to the bus station if you want. No hard feelings."
She looks around the table. Ghost, chewing slowly. Tank, already reaching for more noodles. Jesse, trying to look casual but failing. And Knox, watching her with those dark eyes that see too much.
"No," she says. "No bus station."
Jesse grins. "Good. Because I already told Carl the tow truck guy to scrap it. You're welcome."
"You what?"
"Welcome to Nowhere, baby. Decisions get made for you."
Knox kicks Jesse under the table. Jesse yelps. Maya almost laughs.
She finishes her food. Helps clear the containers. Wipes down the table because old habits die hard. And when the others drift off — Tank to the shop, Ghost to somewhere unknown, Jesse to the jukebox to pick a worse song — Knox stays.
He's leaning against the bar, arms crossed, watching her. Not in a creepy way. In a I'm trying to figure you out way.
"You don't have to do that," he says, nodding at the rag in her hand.
"I know."
"You're not an employee yet. We haven't even talked about pay."
"I know that too."
"So why?"
She stops wiping. Looks at him. The neon sign outside casts red light through the window, painting his face in streaks of color. He looks softer like this. Less like a president. More like a man.
"Because," she says, "doing something keeps me from thinking. And thinking makes me remember. And remembering makes me want to cry. And I'm done crying."
Knox pushes off the bar. Walks toward her. Slow. Always slow. He stops a foot away. Reaches out. For a second she thinks he's going to touch her face, but instead he takes the rag from her hand.
"Then don't cry," he says. "Not tonight. Tonight, you sleep. Tomorrow, you work. And the day after that, you start figuring out who you are when nobody's telling you what to be."
She swallows. "That's very philosophical for a biker."
"I'm full of surprises."
He's close enough that she can see the tiny scar above his eyebrow. Close enough that she can count the rings on his fingers. Close enough that if she leaned forward just a little, her forehead would touch his chest.
She doesn't.
But she wants to.
"Goodnight, Knox."
"Goodnight, Maya."
She walks to the stairs. Pauses. Looks back. He's still standing there, rag in hand, red light on his face.
"The blue towel," she says. "Ghost's. Is that a real thing or were you messing with me?"
His mouth twitches. "It's a real thing. He once made a man cry over that towel."
"Why?"
Knox shrugs. "Some mysteries aren't meant to be solved."
She climbs the stairs. Finds her room. Locks the door. Lies down on the maybe-blue quilt and stares at the ceiling. The bar is quiet now. No jukebox. No voices. Just the creak of old wood and the distant sound of wind.
She should be terrified. She's in a strange town, in a strange room, surrounded by strange men who ride motorcycles and have nicknames like Ghost. Her ex is out there somewhere. Her car is gone. Her old life is ash.
But for the first time in twenty-four hours, Maya feels something she didn't expect.
Safe.
She closes her eyes. Smiles into the dark.
And sleeps.
End of Chapter 3
- Writer
