Fool's Ride (The Jenkins Cycle Book 2) Read Free Page A

thing I did when I entered the lobby was visit the front desk. I got out my ID and put it on the counter.
    “I forgot what room I’m in,” I said when a lady came over.
    “I’ll check for you,” she said in a sweet, pleasant voice.
    It was such a pleasure to be spoken to like a human being I almost asked her if she’d seen any good movies lately, or was there somewhere good to eat in the nation’s capital, or did she think people on other planets looked at our tiny light in the sky and wonder if someone was looking back.
    “You’re in 512,” she said.
    “Thank you very much.”
    I took the elevator to my floor and followed the arrows to my room. There was a room key in Ernest’s wallet and it worked when I tried it. On entering, I found the bed tightly sealed in sheets and blankets. A laptop case and a suitcase were stacked on a sofa chair in the corner.
    Someone had delivered a huge bouquet of flowers and four bottles of champagne on ice. I didn’t care about the champagne, but the flowers helped banish the hotel smell of air conditioning and chemical freshness. A card was tucked into the bouquet, thanking me for choosing Marriott.
    I searched Ernest’s bags but didn’t find an airline ticket. I felt a brief moment of panic and then forced myself to relax. I wasn’t Ernest Prescott—I was Dan Jenkins. Dan Jenkins liked hotels and was afraid of airplanes. Not the whole dying part—the about to die part. All that screaming, having my fate taken so completely away from me for a short ride down to Earth in a giant hunk of metal. No thank you. If I needed to go somewhere, I’d rent a car.
    I grabbed the hotel phone and called the front desk. A man picked up on the first ring.
    “Guest services, how may I help you?”
    “This is Ernest Prescott,” I said. “Would you please confirm my checkout date?”
    “Certainly, sir,” he said, and the sound of a keyboard carried over the phone. “Tomorrow morning, sir, but you don’t need to check out. Just drop the pass in the box at the front desk and we’ll take care of everything.”
    “Actually, I wanted to extend my stay a few days. Is that possible?”
    “I’ll check,” he said, and I heard more clicking. “How long did you want to stay?”
    “Two more days?”
    “Thank you,” he said, and subjected me to more clicking. “If you don’t mind moving your room tomorrow, we can put you up for the remainder of your stay just down the hall. King-sized bed, non-smoking. How’s that?”
    “Sounds great,” I said. “Thank you very much.”
    “Certainly, sir. Just call Guest Services before moving and we’ll set you up with new room keys and help you with your luggage.”
    I thanked him again and hung up.
    Rather than fly and risk dying in a fiery crash, I’d rent a car and drive to Ernest’s address in New York in style. In two days. For now, I was in charge of my destiny and it felt great. But something told me Mrs. Sandway wasn’t going to be happy with me.

Chapter Three
    I stayed in my room for the remainder of the late afternoon and evening, hoping to catch up on television. There were a lot of great movies to rent. But as I was scrolling through all the stuff I’d missed since my last ride, I felt a small, halfhearted tug from my conscience. I’d made a gentleman’s agreement with the Great Whomever that I’d work a little harder when I was back in the world—me being the gentleman. Now I was extending my stay in DC, when whatever Ernest had done was likely buried in his garden at his New York address.
    I remembered my disastrous ride as Nate Cantrell, who lived not twenty miles away. I’d been so busy spending Nate’s fortune and fornicating with his fiancée I’d gotten the poor guy shot. I partially blamed the Great Whomever for that one—none of my other rides had been good people, only Nate. Well, Peter after that—barely (drug habit, stole my girlfriend)—but Nate had been a major departure from the rinse-and-repeat cycle of