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Rhett knocks like he’s expected, or like he’s going to enter regardless. It’s the knock of a rich guy. Someone who’s never had a single door shut in his face.
That’s not about to change tonight. There’s a slight pause after the knock and then a man’s gruff voice asks, “Who the fuck is it?”
“Customers,” Rhett says. “We want to stay at your hotel.”
Silence again. Then the door opens three inches and an angry dark brown eye glares out of the crack. I make an attempt at smiling. Rhett gives a short, sarcastic bow. “How much for the night?” he asks, ignoring the blatant distrust on the man’s face.
The guy pauses. Then, “Five hundred.”
“No.” Rhett says it before the demand has even fully left the man’s mouth. “Absolutely not. I’ll give you a hundred and that’s pushing it.”
“Five hundred,” the man repeats. “Seller’s market.”
“That’s not even what that means!” Rhett thunders.
I rub my eyes. “That’s exactly what that means, Rhett,” I mutter.
“Whatever. I’m not getting ripped off.”
“You’re not going to miss the five hundred. Just give it to him.”
Rhett looks between me and the man still shrouded by the door. “That’s not the point. It’s the principle of the matter.”
“Take it or leave it,” the old man says. He starts to shut the door.
“We’ll take it,” I say.
“Liz.”
I whirl on Rhett and point my finger in his face. “We’re not driving to Chicago tonight. I’ll pay for the room and you can sleep in the car if you really want to.”
“I can’t because you broke the window!”
“Maybe your principles will keep you warm.”
We glower at each other for a beat. Then the old man asks, “Y’all want the honeymoon suite?”
Rhett turns his glare to him. “What do you think?”
“Don’t have one anyway,” the man says. “Cash or card?”
I dig for my card buried in my coat, but Rhett has already produced a brown leather wallet that’s stuffed with so much cash the five hundred barely takes away from its bulge.
The man doesn’t introduce himself or invite us inside. He slams the door in our faces. Before Rhett can comment about getting robbed, he’s back with a keyring.
“Here,” he says, shoving it into Rhett’s hands. “One of ‘em should fit it. Room’s out back and down the hill.”
“Down the hill?” Rhett repeats.
“Can’t miss it,” the man says. Then he shuts the door solidly.
Rhett turns to me.
“Well we didn’t get shot,” I say optimistically.
He starts to speak, thinks better of it, and trudges off the porch. “Just. Come on,” he says.
We wade around the side of the farmhouse through a month’s worth of snow. Rhett goes ahead of me, and I hop in his huge footsteps to avoid falling. Sure enough, the hill is there and at the bottom is a wooden shack. On a beautiful, sunny day, it would be perfect for sledding. At one in the morning on a moonless night, the shack looks like a place where bodies may be hanging from meathooks.
