Total pages in book: 130
Estimated words: 126425 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 632(@200wpm)___ 506(@250wpm)___ 421(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 126425 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 632(@200wpm)___ 506(@250wpm)___ 421(@300wpm)
I do not give the hyenas a chance to circle her like a death cult and focus her Cinderella blurry, slot-machine bokeh world back into the pumpkin of reality. I am crossing the lounge with my arms out and my smile wide while simultaneously, and internally, wincing at that terrible metaphor.
“There you are!” I proclaim, my greeting loud enough for all to hear. “Welcome, Cordelia and Britney! We’ve been waiting for you.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
Eyes. There are eyes on me. An entire roomful of eyes.
I turn to go, run out of here, but Britney takes me by the arm and plants me. “Where are you going?”
“To change.”
“Why?”
“Because this is clearly not flapper night.” I start off again.
“It’s fine.” She stops me again.
“It’s not fine.”
“It’s really fine.”
“It’s really not.”
“If you go, you won’t come back.”
“That’s not true.”
“Yes, it is.”
“So?”
“So, you need to just stay here, be here, and try to have a good time. Don’t worry that it’s the wrong night. Just own it.”
Own it? Sure. She can own it. She looks amazing in everything. I feel like I’m wearing a potato sack with fringe. And the Skinny Laminx I’m wearing (the slimming undergarments Britney’s mom invented) are starting to choke off my breathing.
I start scratching at my arm. I’m not sure if it’s still the bedbugs or something else. Maybe a combination of things. I reach into my little clutch for the cortisone I bought in the pharmacy downstairs right as Steve reaches us.
“Ladies,” he says, bowing, raising his palm to hold his loosened tie in place against his chest. He looks… good. There are a hundred better words I could think to describe it, but it’s really not more complicated than that. He looks good. And hot. And suddenly my arm feels even itchier. Where is the cortisone? I thought I put it—
“Got the nights mixed up, eh?” he asks, presumably rhetorically.
“Yeah,” Brit says. “I couldn’t find the email, and I think I just misremembered.”
Britney’s an amazing friend. An incredible ally. A terrific beta reader. And one of the smartest cookies in the jar.
But she’s a terrible assistant.
“All good. Get settled in the new room okay?”
“Yes,” I say, nodding. “We got into a bit of a…”
“A fight,” Britney offers. “We got into a fight trying to get out of the Siegel Suites. They wanted to charge Cord’s card for the whole weekend instead of just the one night, and it got a little heated.”
I say, “The guy at the front desk said he’d waive the charges if Britney would…”
Steve’s eyes go wide. “He offered to waive the charges in exchange for sex?”
“No,” Britney explains. “It was appreciably weirder than that.”
“Say more?” Steve queries.
“Not sure. His English was spotty. But based on what I could glean, I think he might be German? It sounded like he wanted me to do things that involve all kinds of bodily functions I don’t really like to engage in with other people present.”
“Ah, yes. Sweet, sweet Vegas. But you did get out? And you’re settled upstairs?”
“Yes,” I tell him again. “It’s… it’s very nice. You didn’t have to arrange an executive suite.”
“I did, actually. It’s the only thing they had left.”
“Oh. Well… thank you. Do I need to give you my credit card or anything?”
He waves his hand. “No, no. It’s all taken care of.”
“Oh. No. I can’t let you do that.”
“It’s fine.”
“No, please, here.” I dig in the clutch to find my business credit card, the one that I reserve for stuff like convention hotels and printing costs and placing ads and… well, someone told me that I could probably write off sex toys too. As ‘research.’ Look, if it’s not breaking any rules, I figured I should probably try to make sure that what I write is as authentic as possible, so—
“No, no. I insist. It’s fine. You’re a first-time signer. Consider it a first-timer welcome gift. You can gift a room to a first-timer next year or something if you wanna pay it forward. But, please, it’s our pleasure. I’m just glad we got you out of the bedbuggery that is the Siegel Suites.” He nods at my arm.
I laugh.
He’s unexpected, this Steve. He comes across initially like some kind of bro, but… I dunno. There’s something else there. He’s funny, but he’s not just funny the way guys are when they’re trying to be funny or charming. He’s, like, actually funny. And charming.
And he’s clever. Maybe that’s the thing that I find most disarming. He doesn’t come over as disingenuous or dopey or trying too hard to be cool. And that’s… honestly, it’s rare. Or at least it’s rare in my experience.
I’m not sure I believe it.
I’ve known a few guys over the years who have presented that way only to have the façade collapse when scratched at a little bit.
Not all of them betrayed my trust by stealing from me, of course. (At least not literally. I feel like there’s a lazy metaphor to be made about ‘stealing my heart,’ but it feels cheesy, so I back away.) But a lot of them have been your stereotypical Hollywood douchebag types. Not in a slimy ‘influencer house’/‘gonna make it big on the Gram’ kind of way. More in the ‘classic career climber’ kind of way.