Fighting for This

By Gwyn McNamee

The desert's secrets are beautiful...and deadly.

AURORA
Max Lawson doesn't belong here.
The California surf boy has no business being up Spruce Mountain or anywhere near The Last Resort Motel.
There can only be one reason he's hanging around—to search one of the old mines in hopes of striking it rich.
And as soon as he's done, he'll be gone fast enough to make my head spin.
But Max brings more than just a danger to my heart.

MAX
Aurora Clayton is the last thing I expect to find at The Last Resort Motel.
What in the world is a girl like this doing in the middle of nowhere, Nevada?
Search the land I inherited and get back to California—that's the plan.
I never expected to find something here even more precious than silver.
But someone else is after what's down that mine shaft.
And I'll do everything in my power to protect what I've found, including Aurora.

***Fighting for This previously appeared in The Last Resort Motel shared world as Room One***

• Language: English
• Publisher: Gwyn McNamee
• Release date: Jan 16, 2020
• ISBN: 9781393875925

Gwyn McNamee

Gwyn McNamee is an attorney, writer, wife, and mother (to one human baby and two fur babies). Originally from the Midwest, Gwyn relocated to her husband’s home town of Las Vegas in 2015 and is enjoying her respite from the cold and snow. Gwyn has been writing down her crazy stories and ideas for years and finally decided to share them with the world. She loves to write stories with a bit of suspense and action mingled with romance and heat. When she isn’t either writing or voraciously devouring any books she can get her hands on, Gwyn is busy adding to her tattoo collection, golfing, and stirring up trouble with her perfect mix of sweetness and sarcasm (usually while wearing heels). Gwyn is the author of The Hawke Family series, The Slip Series, The Deadliest Sin Series, The Inland Seas Series, The Supernatural Love Stories in the Absurd (written as her alter-ego, DP Payne), and several stand-alone novels.

Book preview

Fighting for This

Fighting for This

Gwyn McNamee

© 2020 Gwyn McNamee

© 2018, previously published as The Last Resort Motel: Room One

All Rights Reserved

Except as permitted by U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without prior permission of the author. The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, establishments, or organizations, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously to give a sense of authenticity. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Acknowledgments

To Christy, Caoimhe, Renee, Paula, and Kayla. Thanks for being my sounding boards for this story and for giving me amazing feedback (as always). The Last Resort wouldn't exist without you!

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

SNEAK PEEK AT SAVAGE COLLISION

About the Author

OTHER WORKS BY GWYN MCNAMEE

To everyone who ever busted their ass in a thankless job. This one is for you.

Chapter One

AURORA

E ww…again?

I use my latex-gloved hand to pick up the clearly used condom from behind the nightstand and fight my gag reflex. This has to be number ten for the week. Blech! How can there be so many damn condoms in this motel when there are barely any rooms rented?

Maybe I should have put that couple in room 69. It would have been appropriate.

I guess I misjudged their libidos.

The nasty thing gets tossed into the wastebasket with the other junk left around the room. Cleaning rooms is my least favorite job around here, but it needs to be done, and I feel guilty not helping Maggie out when I would otherwise be sitting on my ass in the office doing nothing or reading.

I make one last check of the room. The orange bedspread and beige walls mean this place will forever be stuck in the late 70s but there isn’t any way I can redo all the rooms right now. The best I can do is keep them clean. With one last look at where the offending condom had been, I grab my bucket of cleaning supplies and back out. That familiar scent of crisp, winter air and pine fills my nose, and I pause for a moment to breathe it in before heading on to the next room.

My eyes scan the motel grounds. From up here on the second floor, I can see just about everything on the property. The empty pool sits cracked and unused, exactly like it has been for the last ten years. I remember a time when it was filled and was my favorite place in the world. But those days are long gone with the death of my parents and the decay of this place.

The old restaurant building occupies a strip of the lot near the room, unused and unchanged for at least twenty years. A sagging roof and stained stucco are all that are left of a place that was once full of Mom’s home cooking.

I shift my attention around to the motel itself. All the doors to the rooms in the U-shaped building are closed, and I know there isn’t anyone left in any of them. The last customers checked out of this room this morning after staying two nights. They were clearly running from something, but then, most people are if they end up at The Last Resort.

There’s very little reason for anyone to be out this way anymore. Before they built the new interstate, tourists would travel this road on their way to Boise, Salt Lake City, or Reno, but that’s so far in the past, it feels like a lifetime ago. The only people I see now are locals looking for somewhere to meet to engage in extra-marital activities, hikers heading up to Spruce Mountain, the occasional lost tourist who never intended to end up on Old Hwy 93, or people like that couple, running away from their lives, or maybe the law. I don’t ask questions. None of it matters anyway. As long as they pay for the room, preferably in cash, and leave the place without causing any disturbances that require me to call the sheriff, I’m a happy motel owner.

Okay, maybe not happy. But content at least.

It’s certainly not where I imagined I’d be at twenty-three. My entire life, I told Mom and Dad I’d be out of here the moment I turned eighteen and never look back. That part was true, until they died. Then, the surprising urge to return to my roots and the family business overtook my sanity.

What the hell was I thinking?

Running this place is a full-time job, even when there aren’t a lot of customers. And Mom and Dad let things go to shit. It probably wasn’t intentional, but the pool and the roof need to be completely redone, and some of the rooms can’t even be rented because of mysterious stains and other issues I haven’t had the time, energy, or money to address in the last six months since I returned.

And I definitely don’t have the energy to clean the next room right now. I grab the walkie-talkie off my waistband and press the button. Maggie, I need you to clean room 10.

A crackling sounds before she replies. I thought you were doing it.

I sigh and set the bucket down on the concrete landing. I was going to, but I could really use your help.

Isn’t that what I pay her for?

Where is room 10 again?

I lean against the railing and press my forehead into my free hand. Maggie has been here almost a month and still can’t figure out the rooms. It shouldn’t be a surprise, I guess, given that Mom and Dad thought it would be hilarious to randomly number the rooms based on numbers that meant something to them instead of just numbering them 1-25.

But still, after a month of walking past the rooms every day, you’d think she would have figured it out.

Top of the stairs, left wing, second door.

There’s a momentary pause before my walkie springs to life again. Okay, got it. Thank you.

After returning the device to my waistband, I do another quick survey, checking for anything that needs my immediate attention. It’s almost dusk, so I doubt there’ll be anyone else checking in tonight. Anything that’s not emergent can wait until tomorrow when Fletcher arrives to go over the list I’ve started for him. He may not be the most reliable employee ever, but he gets the odd jobs done when I don’t have the skills to do them myself, and he does it mostly without complaining.

Sometimes I wonder why they even kept this place open. Maybe it’s time to consider just shutting down and moving on.

Yeah, right, with what money?

Even if I could sell this place, I’d never make enough to actually move anywhere and get settled comfortably. This was the only thing my parents had to give me, and it’s what I’m left with.

Some damn legacy.

The rumble down the empty road reaches my ears before I even see the car. Instead of barreling past the driveway for The Last Resort, the black Camaro turns into the ghostly-empty parking lot and pulls to a stop outside the office at the end of the other wing.

Before I can move toward the stairs to head down to the office, the driver’s side door of the Camaro flies open and long legs swing over the side. When the blond man fully unfolds himself from the gorgeous classic car, I think my heart stops for a second.

He must be lost. No way a guy who looks like that with a car like that stops in Spruce Mountain intentionally.

I make my way down the stairs as quickly as I can and jog across the parking lot. He pushes open the office door and steps inside just when I reach his car. It’s even more beautiful up close. I don’t know shit about cars, but I know this one has to be from the 60s or 70s, and it’s pristine. Not at all the kind of car you see driving around abandoned county highways in the northern Nevada desert.

The California license plate confirms he’s no local. But that was never a real question—I basically know every person who lives in a hundred mile radius of here.

Bells jingle on the door as I push my way in behind him. He whirls around, and the corner of his mouth quirks up slightly when he sees me. At least, I think he sees me. The dark sunglasses perched on the end of his nose make it hard to tell where he’s looking, but his face is pointed in the right direction.

I brush past him, trying not to be intimidated by his wide shoulders and bulky figure, and maneuver my way behind the desk where I plaster on my best welcome to the shithole I’m going to try to pass off as luxury smile.

Those dark glasses get pushed up to the top of his head.

Holy shit.

I thought eyes that blue only existed because of Photoshop.

He’s the quintessential California beach boy, and damn if it isn’t sexy as hell.

Hi. He flashes a set of perfect, bright white teeth at me and leans against the counter. Do you have any vacancy tonight?

I laugh at the absurdity of his question and gesture toward the large window overlooking the parking lot. What do you think?

Okay, probably not the most professional answer.

But this guy is throwing me off my game. It’s not every day I get a gorgeous man in my office.

He follows my hand and laughs when he looks out the window before turning back to me. Point made.

At least he thinks I’m funny. But I really should try to act a little more like a business owner here.

How long will you be staying?

Please say forever!

I