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  Knee Deep in Sugar

  A Taste of Sugar Book 3

  Rocklyn Ryder

  Copyright © 2020Rocklyn Ryder

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  This is a work of fiction intended for mature audiences only. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to events, locales, business establishments, or actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is purely coincidental.

  All sexual activities depicted occur between consenting characters 18 years or older who are not blood related.

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  Knee Deep in Sugar

  A Taste of Sugar Book 3

  by

  Rocklyn Ryder

  Grant

  Not too bad for the off season.

  The hotel is almost up to 50% this weekend and that's pretty good considering most of the area is inaccessible during the winter months.

  The front desk seems to have things under control so I don't bother stopping as I make my way through the labyrinth of shops that makes up the main floor of the resort's main building.

  The gift shop is closed. The general store stays open 24 hours on the weekends and, as I take a tour of the little market, I'm somewhat surprised to find nearly half a dozen people milling about-- a bag of chips, a bottle of soda, a coffee mug that says "South Dakota--" looks like a couple of real sales going through the register, not just a bunch of tourists surfing the shop.

  Josey's at the register tonight and she doesn't need help.

  I give her a nod and a smile as I pass by behind the customer she's waiting on and head back into the main lobby of the lodge.

  The big Christmas tree came down a few weeks ago and I still haven't gotten used to the empty space.

  Cutting directly through the center of the room, I weave my way between the leather couches that are arranged around the stone fireplace on my way toward the cafeteria.

  The fire is roaring.

  I double check to make sure the wood box is full.

  About two thirds, I notice. I make a mental note to remind someone to fill it.

  We'll turn the gas off and let the fire die a natural death around 10, but it's always good to have the wood stack ready to go first thing in the morning when we light it back up again.

  When I came downstairs a little while ago, there were still several guests milling about down here. Now that the cafeteria has stopped serving, people are starting to head back to their rooms.

  By the time I check to make sure everything is going well with the cafeteria staff as they shut down for the night and get prepped for breakfast to start at 6 AM tomorrow, the population of the main lobby is down to just the night staff.

  And one woman.

  I almost didn't see her there.

  She's curled up in the corner of the sofa just to one side of the fireplace.

  The one that's up against the wall, not one of the ones that actually faces the fire.

  She's got her knees bent with her feet tucked up beside her and she's busy working on something in her lap.

  Crochet.

  I see the light from the lodge's overhead fixtures glinting off the hook as it moves.

  My grandmother used to crochet. You don't see many people doing it these days. Especially not in the lobby of my hotel on a Saturday night in early February. And especially not young women sitting alone under the giant abstract painting that mimics the famous South Dakota badlands topography that's hanging on the stone wall that stretches across the entire north end of the main hotel lobby, separating the room from the market on the other side.

  I watch her with mild interest as she works the yarn into a growing collection of stitches that form a pool of soft fabric draped over her thigh.

  I wonder what she's making.

  Something bigger than the baby blue beanie cap she has pulled over her dark hair but not as large as an afghan-- which is mostly what Nana worked on through the winter months.

  Watching the process is hypnotic and by the time I turn around and head toward the business center and indoor pool to make sure that wing of the resort has made it through another day, the petite woman has added 5 more rows to her project and moved her legs out from under her so she's sitting normally now with her feet on the floor.

  As I make my way down the long corridor on my way to finish my rounds, I idly wonder who she's waiting on while she crochets by the fireplace.

  Cassidy

  After tying off the final knot, I hold up the bag and inspect it.

  It's one of those hobo style purses and it came out great. This is only the second one I've made and I got creative with it.

  Not bad, I think. With the color changes and alternating patterns, I can probably sell it for around 70 bucks.

  Frowning, I feel a tinge of bitterness. It took me 3 days to make it.

  Granted, those weren't 8 hour days, but it still only comes out to about 5 dollars an hour for my time and materials.

  That's less than minimum wage.

  I was making almost 20 an hour before I had to leave.

  In an attempt to think about anything else, I turn the bag over and check it for any noticeable dropped stitches or obvious flaws.

  Crocheting isn't exactly what I went to school for, but I couldn't decorate cakes out of the back of the car, could I?

  I could probably price the bag higher. I could probably price all my work higher, but I don't have the luxury of building a high end online storefront with solid marketing from the ground up. I need the things I make to sell quickly and I don't have time-- or space-- to sit on inventory and hold out for top dollar.

  Seventy bucks is another tank of gas and a week's worth of food if I'm careful.

  And careful is my only option.

  Speaking of being careful-- suddenly, I realize how quiet it is around me.

  Shit! The cafeteria is already closed. How did I miss that? I wonder as I look at the darkened dining room beyond the timber lined arch that leads into the little restaurant.

  I was hoping to grab a fruit cup and a bottled coffee for breakfast tomorrow before they shut down for the night.

  I was hoping to be out of here before they shut down for the night.

  On the other side of the wall from where I'm sitting, the hotel's "general store" is still open. I'm pretty sure it's open all night but it's not like I've asked.

  Everything in the store is over-priced and not much in the way of real groceries. It's not really a "general store," no matter how hard the resort tries to dress it up with knotty pine wood paneled walls and red, checkered contact paper on tables made from wine barrels in an attempt to make the place look like the rugged old west. Or at least, what tourists think the rugged old west looked like.

  Packing the new bag into my old bag, along with the rest of the yarn and the hooks, I get off the big leather couch I've been parked on most of the day and do a thorough sweep of the immediate area, making sure I haven't left anything behind.

  At this point in my life, even a tube of lip balm is more than I can afford to lose...and it's not like I can just ask the front desk if anyone turns something in to lost and found.

  Not without bringing attention to myself, at le
ast.

  And bringing attention to myself is exactly the sort of thing I'm trying to avoid.

  Which is why I'm kind of pissed off at myself for zoning out on the hobo bag project and missing them closing down the cafeteria. Now it's late and this place is a fucking ghost town and that makes it a lot easier to notice a solo woman sponging off the resort's heat and comfy leather sofas-- and guest bathrooms, ohmygod do I love that this place has public bathrooms-- without actually having a room at the hotel.

  Or a campsite in the fancy RV campground that's also part of the resort. Not that many people want to camp in an RV in South Dakota this time of year.

  The fire in the fireplace dies suddenly.

  The way it goes from roaring fire to nothing but smoldering embers is jarring and it's only then that I realize the fire is fed with natural gas even though they feed it real wood throughout the day.

  A quick glance in the direction of the front desk tells me that it's after 10 PM-- and the front desk clerk is aware that I'm still in the lobby.

  Play it cool, Cass, act like you totally belong here.

  A combination of acting like I belong here and doing my damnedest to stay invisible is how I've managed to make the Black Hills Ranch Resort my home away from home for the last week.

  Speaking of home-- One more double check of the space I've been occupying for the last few hours and I decide to suck it up and see what the general store has to offer.

  It's really just a glorified souvenir shop, but it has a couple of cold cases with beer, soda, and bottled water for thirsty travelers and hotel guests-- all at twice the price it would cost at a real grocery store.

  But the closest "real" grocery store is kind far away, and in the opposite direction of where I'm headed.

  Not that I exactly know where I'm headed.

  The lady behind the counter is on her phone, seemingly oblivious of me as I poke through a rack of potato chips and beef jerky and then round the end cap to the other side where there are cookies and mass-produced pastries.

  I've been living off this kind of crap for weeks though. It's easy to come by and it doesn't need refrigeration, but I'm jonesing for fresh fruits and veggies which are hard enough to come by in nowhere South Dakota already.

  Settling for one of those single serve cups of oatmeal that you're supposed to put in the microwave, and a carton of chocolate milk, I head for the register.

  The lady's name tag says "Josey" and she gives me a curious glance as she rings me up, but she doesn't bother making small talk and that's just fine by me as I grab my breakfast goods and make my escape.

  I can boil water for the oatmeal with the little propane stove and I figure I don't have to worry about the milk going bad if I leave it on the dashboard over night. Although I might have to worry about thawing it out before I can drink it since it's about 17 degrees at night.

  Which is why there's no way I'm likely to get up and make it inside for a proper breakfast at the cafeteria, once I have my little sleeping space warmed up, I don't get out of it until I absolutely have to.

  The night desk clerk doesn't even glance at me as I walk by, but the other guy does.

  The man in the suit on this side of the check-in counter watches me as I head through the big front doors that lead out to the parking lot.

  I'm doing my best to look like a legit hotel guest that has every reason to be going out to the parking lot at 10:30 at night in the stupid cold, with a backpack and a carton of chocolate milk.

  And the guy watching me is looking at me like he knows me better than that.

  Looks like this is my last night at the Black Hills Ranch.

  Grant

  "How long has she been with us?" I ask Jarrod as I nod toward the door that the brunette just walked out of.

  Jarrod looks up from the computer screen and follows my nod toward the front entry doors, then he shrugs.

  "Sorry Boss, didn't catch her," he tells me nonchalantly, "Who're you talking about?"

  Jarrod hits a few keys on the keyboard in front of him and calls up the live feed of the security cameras around the hotel.

  "She just went out the front door, can you show me the parking lot?" I move to the other side of the desk so I can see the screen without crawling over the counter.

  With a few more keystrokes, our parking lot shows up on the screen, cut into multiple small boxes representing each of the cameras.

  "There," I point out the small figure of the woman walking toward a car at the far end of the front parking lot, "recognize her?"

  Jarrod looks up at me like I've lost my mind.

  I can't blame him.

  After all, she's just a dark silhouette against the lighter gray of the parking lot's asphalt in a sea of gray-blue tones in the security camera's infra red night vision.

  If I'm being completely honest, it's hard to tell that the figure is even a woman.

  While Jarrod and I watch the security footage, she pulls her coat tighter around her slim shoulders and her head swings from side to side every few steps as if she's expecting someone to leap out at her from between the deserted vehicles scattered through the lot.

  Picturing her from before, I remember she had a jacket with her but not one that would keep her very comfortable in the night air tonight.

  A quick glance toward the print out of the week's weather forecast that we keep posted at the front desk reminds me that we're expecting a new weather system to move in tonight and storms in the area for the next few days.

  Looking back at the camera footage, I feel my brow furrow in concern.

  It's probably in the single digits out there by now.

  "She sure parked far enough away," Jarrod comments with a touch of sarcasm.

  "Hmm mmm," I mumble in agreement.

  Yeah, she sure did.

  As we watch, she makes her way to a small SUV parked in the far, east corner of the front lot and the lights flash once as she unlocks it with the remote.

  It's the off season at the resort-- Hell! It's the off season for the Dakotas!-- the lodge is only half booked, and the front lot is mostly where day visitors park anyway.

  There aren't many cars out there.

  And it's not like the lot was full enough at any point in the day that it makes sense for her to be parked all the way out there.

  My memory of her sitting by the fireplace replays in my mind. She didn't look like the sort of woman that makes a habit of parking far away for the sake of the exercise.

  Not that she needed more exercise.

  If anything, she struck me as needing a couple good meals in her.

  Jarrod shrugs, "Dunno, boss," he tells me as his finger moves toward the keyboard.

  "Leave it a second," I tell him, reaching out to stop him from exiting the security camera.

  I'm vaguely aware of him shaking his head as he rolls his chair away from the desk.

  "Clockin' out, G," he informs me as he leaves me alone with my attention still on the woman getting into her car.

  "OK, Jarrod, have a great night," I tell him without looking up.

  Our night auditor joins me behind the desk and exchanges pleasantries with me as she gets settled in but I'm still engrossed in watching the screen.

  Something about the woman just got to me earlier and watching her walk to her car has me putting pieces together like a puzzle.

  She gets in the car and sits at the steering wheel and I wait for the lights to go on and the car to drive away.

  Never mind that that's already got me wondering who she is and why she was crocheting in the lobby so late, let alone where she's headed to at this hour on a night like this with bad weather heading in.

  There's not much out here in the way of houses and this sure as hell ain't any time to be traveling.

  But the car doesn't leave our lot.

  I can see the head and tail lights go on and then dim a few times and then they go out altogether.

  The process repeats a couple of times and then there's
nothing but darkness.

  I'm pretty sure her car's not starting.

  When she doesn't head back to the hotel to call for help a feeling moves through me.

  What that feeling is, I don't know. I just know she needs help she's not asking for.

  Grabbing my coat and hat off the hook inside the office, I head out to find out why.

  Cassidy

  It's a lot colder tonight than it has been since I got this far north.

  The weather app on my phone says it's 9 degrees and falling.

  Just thinking about hitting negative numbers makes my bones shake.

  And stormy weather heading in by early morning.

  I'm not used to this weather. South Dakota has introduced me to a whole new kind of cold.

  Maybe catching the Suit's attention is for the best. I've been hanging around here too long anyway, I should keep moving. Key West sounds like a better place to lie low right now but Florida is off limits now.

  Everything I know about weather tells me that a storm in temps this cold isn't something I want to see. At least, not through the rear window of my car while I'm asleep in the back.

  Pulling my jacket around me a little tighter, I run through my gear in my head. The sleeping bag is rated for 0 degrees Fahrenheit and I have 2 more blankets on top of it.

  At least I shouldn't have to worry about freezing to death.

  The driver's door didn't unlock all the way when I hit the remote. This isn't the first time it's done it. I think it's just too cold or something.

  Unlocking the door with the key the old-fashioned way, I toss my bag with my purse and the crochet project into the passenger seat and practically jump behind the steering wheel, grateful to be out of the frigid night breeze.