Sundown Motel Book Novels & Stories

She dropped the phone in her lap and started the car. The Riverside Motel was a closed down two-story motel, vacant for the past three years. It sat on the east side of Highway One along the Indian River. No one went there. Faith pulled in and saw Edwin's truck facing the river. She parked beside him, got out of her truck and into his, her chest a cage of fluttering butterflies. He leaned against the driver's door, his cock already a bulge in his pants aimed at her. That cocky grin that warmed between her thighs just stared at her. "You know why you're here?" His voice made it more a statement than a question.

Catherine's POV The motel on the outskirtb was the kind of place that rented rooms by the hour and didn’t ask questions. Faded pink stucco, buzzing neon sign missing half its letters, the smell of chlorine and cheap disinfectant clinging to everything. I arrived first, used the key Richard had left under the loose brick by the ice machine, and let myself into room 212. The bed was made with a threadbare floral spread. One lamp worked. I left it off. Moonlight through the thin curtains was enough.

i answer "hey" "ive booked you a motel room at the oxley, go on over, order from roomservice, ill be back in the morning and ill take you to the train station and send you home via train. No arguments little one, im tired and i dont have the patience for them." click the phone goes dead and i stare at it again. what the fuck. i sit there contemplating, i g****e the oxley and see that its a motor inn. hes kinda going above and beyond being a kind person but i am tired of being here and the staff are beginning to side eye me. i grab the handle on my suitcase and start walking.

I let go of the bars and sat on the dirt again, listening to him attentively, “What do you mean?” “The motel belongs to the owner of the restaurant. So, whoever goes there and checks in is reported straight to the restaurant. Well, the motel doesn't have food services, so you have no choice but to go out and search,” he replied, “they lure you in, jump you for trespassing and throw you in here while they ransack your stuff for anything valuable. It's horrible! A town loaded with criminals.” I regarded him dejectedly, “Sure you wouldn't want to take your own advice? You told me not to speak bad about them.”

"Let's stop at the motel." Calvin was silent. Hazel didn't reply at all, but she could clearly see a motel plaque—Greenwell Motel, the only motel standing in that secluded spot with its lights half dimmed with age. Obviously he couldn't expect a luxury hotel like the Ritz Carlton and the like in this place. But even though the motel looked unconvincing, he hoped to find hot coffee and a hot shower to relax his tense body from driving. “The motel is dingy, but lots of cars are coming.”

“I’ll kill you when I’m ready, and not before I’m done with you. Now, shut up.” He pushed the gun forward, tipping me until I fell back onto the bed. Laid out, I stared up at the ceiling, contemplating if I wished he’d pulled the trigger or not. A few hours later, I’d finally tallied up the number of water spots and determined that the shit motel was in desperate need of a new roof before the current one collapsed. Not that it would be any great loss. Who would come to such a small dead town and rent a room besides a psycho anyway?

I just hate having another person apart of this. “Help me gather some things, and then we can head to your motel to grab your things.” I nod, and Nick and I start grabbing whatever she tells us to. I pull out a couple books she tells me to, while she runs upstairs to grab some clothes. I bend down to the bottom shelve, and when I do I see a book shelved behind the rest. It’s small, black and covered in dust. I pull it out and blow the dust off, but before I can look through it, Hazel’s already back downstairs, yelling at us to move. I throw it on top of the batch and and we go to Hazel’s suv. Nick’s sad about leaving his car, but it makes more sense to change up the car and this one has more

--- The motel looked like it belonged in a crime documentary. Chipped paint, flickering neon, a front desk behind bulletproof glass. The kind of place where people didn’t ask questions, and you didn’t leave a real name. He parked the car at the far end of the lot, angled so the front faced the exit. Always ready to run. I stayed in the passenger seat for a beat too long, staring at the cracked sign that read Sunset Inn. The irony stung. There was nothing golden about this place. Just the promise of silence.

The baby had been restless all night, perhaps sensing the erratic spike of my adrenaline and the crushing weight of my sorrow. I gripped the straps of my canvas backpack, looking down the quiet main street lined with weathered, salt-pitted storefronts. There were no glass skyscrapers, no private elevators, and no paparazzi. It was the perfect place to disappear to or so I thought. By noon, I had managed to find a rundown motel on the edge of town, managed by an elderly woman named Mrs. Dawson who didn't ask for ID when I handed over a week's rent in cash. The room was tiny, smelling heavily of bleach and old cigarettes, with floral wallpaper that was already peeling at the corners. It was a

When the sun starts to set, Nash pulls into a single story motel outside of Joshua Tree National Park. “We’re about halfway to the border,” Nash says, hopping off his motorcycle before helping me down. “Best to stay here for the night.” “I don’t have money for a motel,” I say, crossing my arms. If I had my way, we’d just keep going through the night. “Don’t worry about that,” Nash insists. Before I can protest, he saunters into the front office and books us a room with two beds. The clerk gives us each a dented up silver key attached to a giant plastic keychain in the shape of a cactus and tells us that we’re in room 3.