The Settle Inn

By Richard Goodis

Five people will soon have their lives dramatically changed in ways none of them could have ever expected only days before.

An inside racetrack tip, a stolen F-150, a visit to an old friend, and a mother-daughter road trip lead five people on intertwining journeys that begin deep in the heart of Texas and culminate in the once-glamorous resort town of Hot Springs, Arkansas.

At the Settle Inn, their journeys intersect for one fateful night.

For one woman and one man in particular, a chain of events will set in motion what will become the most important trip of their lives. Jenny Lynn Lancing is trapped in an unfulfilling present and haunted by her past. John Sanders is a man who cant run away from his past or his mistakes. Their unexpected road trip sets both on new paths, in search of the long-lost keys to their own lives. Along the way, as they come to terms with broken promises and unfulfilled potential, they face decisions with unpredictable consequences. Each will be set free. Both hope for a rare second chance.

Within a story of everyday people, told with poignancy and wry wit, The Settle Inn, is an entertaining tale of hope, discovery, recovery, and renewal.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Archway Publishing
• Release date: Mar 5, 2015
• ISBN: 9781480815780

Richard Goodis

Richard Goodis is a Dallas-based writer, brand journalist, and digital-content developer. He blogs professionally about sports, fitness, wellness, lifestyles, automotive, real estate, business, technology, and marketing. His sponsored content has been regularly featured in the digital edition of the Dallas Morning News. You can learn more at www.keystrokecontent.com.

Book preview

PROLOGUE.

Win, Lose, or Die

Desperate men don’t always do desperate things. Sometimes they do nothing at all. Or they take measures that don’t appear on the surface to be desperate. Their actions appear to them to be the answers to their immediate problems or solutions for their entire life. Either way, their actions seem like necessary and rational means to an end. Often their actions, or inaction, are based in fear and are absurdly selfish and self-serving—though never seen that way. These actions drag others along on a dark and insane carnival ride. On each twisted pony is a rider. No one on the merry-go-round can reasonably predict when the ride will stop, nor do they know where they will be able to get off. The actions of one deluded ride operator has consequences for everyone holding an admission ticket.

John Sanders was a desperate man. If he had not yet fully grasped the depth of his plight, he had at least begun to see he was sinking. The hole he had dug kept getting deeper, and the dirt he shoveled continued raining down on him. Now, with every mile he drove, he felt the weight of his life pulling him down. The faster he drove, the more intense the feeling. The farther away he got from home, the nearer he came to the bottom.

The highway in front of him looked like it would never end; there was no exit marked, Salvation. Maybe he would just keep driving into oblivion and no one would care. No one would miss me, and it would all just finally be over, he thought. Maybe this was a new road, or maybe it was the same old road with different signs, or the same signs. He had long past any rest stop that could alleviate his confusion.

John blinked at the road ahead, his eyes straining, seeking some kind of relief, comfort, or even rescue. However, there was no one coming to save him. He stomped on the accelerator and gripped the steering wheel tight as he raced through the night, hell bent on changing his luck. He had one last hand to play, one last bet to place, and one last chance to take. Win. Lose. Or die.

CHAPTER 1.

A Room to Let

The Settle Inn was a dated and drab drive-in motel on the faded side of a once sparkling Southern resort and spa town. No longer the playground of the rich and famous or a hideout for an array of infamous mafiosi, the town had mostly become a tourist attraction, an afterthought. The inn, which in its heyday bustled with excited guests and those just trying to blend in and escape the heat, was now mostly empty save the occasional one-night guest. Its splintered wooden vacancy sign clung to rusty hinges as it swung precariously in the blustery north wind of a late January afternoon. The bleak, long, narrow box of a building stood with its back slumped against the low, glowering sky. The parking lot sat mostly empty except for a Ford F-150 and a dented and dirty late-model Cadillac parked in front of the motel’s dingy roadside office, which glowed in the lonely light of a single lamp. Beyond the small office, the long row of rooms appeared dark and unoccupied except for one at the far end of the building.

There, at the small dinette in room 15, sat John Sanders. On the table in front of him was a bottle of Jack Daniel’s, a full shot glass, and a loaded revolver. The cold north wind rattled the room’s window and buffeted the old wooden door as John stared at the items on the table. His left hand absently reached toward the shot glass. His right hand slowly grasped the gun’s handle. The wind shouted louder while John considered his options. A metal garbage can careened and clattered its way across the weedy asphalt parking lot. John Sanders made his choice. His grip tightened on the pistol, and his jaw tensed.

Fuck it, he said.

He downed the shot of whiskey and slammed the glass down. The wind banged the trashcan against the door of his room. He loosened his grip on the pistol and refilled the shot glass. He sat motionless, contemplating his next move. Efficiently, he downed the second shot and refilled the empty glass. He rubbed his tired eyes and ran a hand through his thick, dark hair. Again, he tensed his stout, square jaw. He narrowed his dark eyes and focused his stare beyond the window and the cracked blackness of the parking lot, out across the four-lane road to the neon marquee of Oaklawn Racetrack and Casino, the broken town’s lone thriving attraction.

Assholes.

He downed the third shot and once again slammed the glass down as he stared in disgust at the hulking grandstands of the racetrack and adjacent main entrance to the casino. He reached into his back pocket and pulled out his wallet. He opened the billfold, hoping to find more than what was there. Slowly, he began counting out the bills, laying them out on the table before him.

One, two, three, four, five, six.

The wind renewed its chatter, momentarily interrupting John’s banking. As the gust passed, he went back to counting. When he had finished, thirty hundred-dollar bills lay on the table between the empty shot glass and the loaded gun.

That’s all of it.

John quickly poured another shot and downed it, the warmth of the whiskey simultaneously burning his throat and easing his mind for the moment. Again, he refilled the glass and downed the fifth shot. He refilled the glass before collecting the bills and depositing them in the only bank account he had left, his wallet.

Outside, the wind died down. Cars whizzed by. The motel’s manager strolled outside the office to smoke his fortieth cigarette of the day, quickly zipping his tattered jacket against the night’s cold. Inside room 15, John’s world grew smaller—three thousand dollars, a truck he borrowed from his ex, a duffle bag’s worth of clothes and possessions, the room he now occupied, a head full of regret, and that was it. In his mind, he saw the note he had stuck on Jenny’s back door when he took her truck. Don’t worry. I’ll return it. Don’t call the cops. Please! it read.

Goddamn it, he said.

He downed the sixth shot.

I should shoot every goddamn one of them. His icy stare trained on the racetrack across the way.

He refilled the shot glass. The night, like the Settle Inn, seemed vacant. The glowing racetrack and casino marquee appeared to be mocking him. He clenched his jaw and reached for the gun, which he then pointed at the window. His hand shook. His weary eyes watered. He began to cry. The gun fell to the floor. Through the tears, he downed another shot and threw the glass against the wall. Instinctively, he reached for his wallet. As usual, it was there. He looked around the sparse room. He could stay there, for a little while, anyway. Beyond that, he had no plan.

Alone. Broke. Broken. John Sanders, once proud, once full of life, once happy, slumped to the floor of room 15. The Settle Inn provided no comfort, no warmth, and no answers. He lay there, his mind racing, the anger rising, the resentments crowding his thoughts. He was a man flailing in a sea of remorse, barely afloat in his own misery, unable to drown himself in his own despair on the threadbare carpet. He reached up but could not latch onto the help or the bottle he sought. His arm flopped down. His heart pounded, and time marched on with each resounding beat. Slowly, he gathered himself and stood. He grabbed the bottle of Jack