Page 12 of Harley
The receptionist offered a knowing look and wrote our names down. She blinked when I handed over a black AmEx card in my name. She glanced at Oakley and me one more time before booking a room.
I carried Oakley up, placed her in a chair, and positioned the rucksack on the floor.
“That’s a problem,” Oakley muttered.
“What is?”
“I only have two changes of clothes.”
“If you’re hiding from your family, then buying online might be an issue, and I don’t have time to go shopping today. Here’s my card to buy some items.”
“Harley, I’m not a charity case!” Oakley exclaimed. “I have cash and a bank card.”
“Oakley, you cannot use the card. If it’s in your name, they’ll track you.”
“Nobody knows about this account,” Oakley retorted.
“If they hire a PI or have anyone tech savvy, they’ll run a search, and that card will come up. You can’t use it.”
Oakley paled. “I can’t?”
With a sigh, I sat down on the arm of an armchair.
“You won’t tell me anything. And I’ll ask again, how big is the trouble you’re in? I have the feeling this is more than a runaway bride being coerced into a wedding,” I pushed.
“Harley, I really can’t use that bank account?” Oakley asked, sidestepping the question.
I wanted to shake her but knew that would frighten her. Plus, I’d never harm a woman.
“No, honey. That would lead those chasing you straight here,” I stated.
“But I’ve only got five thousand in cash.”
“Jeez, you’ve been carrying that much around?” I asked, horrified.
“Yes, in one-hundred-dollar bills. I’ll pay you back for the motel last night and for this hotel,” Oakley said. “Oh, and the clothes and food.”
“I’m not worried about that. Keep the money. When we figure something out, you can pay me back,” I explained with no intention of taking any money from Oakley.
“I’ll pay what I owe now,” Oakley offered.
“Keep it. Let’s see what Doc Paul says and proceed from there.”
“Harley! I said I couldn’t see a doctor!” Oakley exclaimed. She began to struggle upright, and I stood and pressed her back in the chair.
“Stop. Doc Paul is off the books. He’s coming because your feet are badly infected and need looking at. If we don’t get antibiotics, the infection will worsen,” I soothed.
Oakley looked panicked. “Are they that bad?”
“How much pain are you in? Is the Tylenol helping or merely taking the edge off?” I replied.
“It’s bad,” Oakley admitted.
“Let’s hear Doc Paul’s opinion. He’s genuine, not a backstreet hack. He works at the hospital and can prescribe painkillers etcetera.”
“Okay, Harley,” Oakley said finally. “I’ll trust you on this.”
Well, that was a move in the right direction!
