“The suite,” Houston confirms. He clamps a big hand on Lou’s bag like he’s worried gravity might steal it and gestures her toward the doors. The lobby swallows us in cold air and golden lights. The elevator opens on our floor. I tap the key and swing the door wide.
The suite fits us without effort. Living room, bar, a wall of glass that sells a view people would pay rent for. Six bedrooms split off to either side, each with a bath big enough to qualify as its own room. There’s an extra den we use for gear or naps.
Lou steps in and stops. She keeps her bag on her shoulder like this is temporary and she plans to move through clean. That’s fine. It’s her call.
“You can put your things in here,” Houston says, opening the door to a spare bedroom. “It locks from the inside.” He sets her bag on the dresser and steps back so she doesn’t have to walk around him.
“Thanks.” The word is small and flat. It’s the voice of somebody who learned a long time ago not to owe anyone for a favor. Guarded. Careful.
Salem drops his keys in a bowl by the bar. “We’ve got a few hours before we go out. Food, showers, decisions worse than average. Pick your poison.”
“We’re getting cleaned up,” I say before he can talk her into anything on the wrong side of smart. “Then we go.”
Lou brushes a hand over her hair like she’s thinking about what it would take to tame it. “I don’t have anything to wear.” She says it straight, no apology. “I packed for a cheap hotel.”
“Easy fix.” I pull out my phone and call downstairs. The concierge picks up fast. I keep it simple. “We need options for a night on the Strip,” I tell them. “One guest. Dresses, jumpsuits, shoes. She’s five foot four, curvy. She’ll make the choices. Bring a variety. Ten minutes.”
“Of course, Mr. Turner,” the voice says. “We’ll bring a range.”
I hang up. Lou stares at me like she’s waiting for the catch. “You didn’t ask my size.”
“We’ll send back what doesn’t work.”
“I don’t want you spending money on me.”
“It’s the hotel’s money,” Salem says without missing a beat. “And if it wasn’t, it would be mine. Let us be useful.”
She looks at him, then at me. The smallest edge of her relaxes, not enough to celebrate. “If it’s not a problem.”
“It’s not a problem,” I explain. “You can pick and wear whatever makes you feel like you.”
She nods once and disappears into the spare bedroom, shuts the door, and locks it.
Houston opens the bar fridge and sets waters on the counter. “You good?” he asks me.
This is the part of the day I understand. Logistics. People. Steps in order. “I am. You?”
He shrugs a shoulder. “Troy’s going to call.”
“He won’t.”
“Let him,” Salem says. “I’m going to answer.”
I look at our brother. Salem is flipping through the room service menu like it’s a zine. “He won’t say anything that makes tomorrow worse.”
“We’ll see,” Salem says without looking up. “Do we want fries now or fries later?”
“Later. We’ll eat out.”
There’s a knock at the door. Two attendants wheel in a rack with covers and boxes that look like gifts. “Perfect. Thank you.” They give quick nods and zip out.
I knock on the den door. “Packages.”
Lou opens it, face set to neutral. I can tell she’s not used to this, and I don’t push. “You can say no to everything. Try it all, send it all back. We’ll figure it out.”
“Okay.” She looks at the rack like it might bite. Then she reaches for a garment bag, unzips it, and something in her face shifts. She pulls the dress partway out, and the color picks up the warm tones in her skin even from across the room. She doesn’t smile. Her mouth softens like she remembered an old word and how it fits in her mouth.
I take a step back. “Take your time.”
