I just saw my ex at a glorified sex club. Pretty sure nothing is going to ease my nerves at this point.
Of course, I don’t actually say that. Instead, I’m silent. Long enough that two seconds later he comes barging into the bathroom.
“What are you doing?” I shriek. I am a little jumpy right now.
“I was going to ask you the same thing,” he says. “Why are you hiding in here?”
I dodge the question and turn it around on him. “You can’t come in here.”
“Oh, really?” he chortles without actually smiling. “Name one person who is going to stop me.”
I answer him with a glare. As hard as I try, being angry at him isn’t actually working right now. What I want to do is run into his arms. What I want to do is tell him all about Dylan, and how seeing him just now has completely derailed me in a way I absolutely hate to admit. But of course I can’t do that. If Damienknew that Dylan was my ex, so much hell would break loose. I can’t deal with that right now, so I say nothing.
Unfortunately, while I sit here telling my brain to shut up, my face is doing a lot of talking. Apparently, I am crying. What’s even wilder is Damien doesn’t look angry. He looks concerned.
“Did something happen?” he asks. His voice is softer than I have ever heard it before.
“I…” I try to think of what I can say, but I come up short. I can’t tell him the truth, and I can’t think up a good enough lie. So I accept my fate that I’m just going to have to cry instead of talking about it.
Damien walks over to me and puts his arms around me, which only makes things a thousand times worse. “Something must have happened to upset you this much,” he says, his voice low. He tilts his head down towards mine in an attempt to see my face, but I don’t like him seeing me like this. We are dangerously close to crossing a boundary here, a line that is more than just off limits; it’s forbidden. All the same, I can’t stop holding on to him. I can’t pull away, and the tears just keep falling.
“I want to go home,” I finally say
Damien studies me for a moment, his dark brow furrowed together as he tries in vain to see around my mask. Unfortunately for him, I am very good at keeping truths hidden. I expect him to say no. and remind me that coming here and performing is part of my job. It’s in the contract; it’s nonnegotiable. He doesn’t. Instead, he uses his thumbs to wipe away my tears before saying, “Okay.”
I tilt my blotchy face up to him and look him in the eyes. His eyes are the color of the earth after it rains, rich and complex, brimmed with a softer tone that reminds me of aged whiskey.
“Okay?” I ask just to be sure.
Damien nods softly, only one time. “Yes,” he repeats. “I’m not really in the mood to be here anymore either.”
As we make our way out of the club, people watch but only until they see the look on Damien’s face, which is silently telling everyone to mind their own damn business or else. It must be nice having that kind of RBF, not to mention the stature. Even on the ride back to my car at the Redwood Hotel, things are quiet. The driver never speaks or asks anything he doesn’t absolutely need to know. He parks the car, and he waits. Meanwhile, I wait for Damien to open my door for me.
“I’m sorry,” I tell him as we stand facing each other on the sidewalk in front of the VIP parking. “I guess I’m just not feeling myself tonight.”
“Maybe you shouldn’t drive,” Damien says. His kindness nearly knocks the wind out of me. It’s so foreign that I almost don’t understand it.
“Oh, I’m okay. Really. I just–”
“Come with me,” he says, and before I can say anything else, he is ushering me into the lobby. We go inside the elevator, and he closes the door. Then he types in a code on the emergency pad.
“Where are we going?” I ask.
“The thirteenth floor,” he says. My eyes flutter in confusion down to the plate of numbers on the wall. There is no thirteen. I’ve heard a lot of hotels skip it out of superstition, even though if you think about it, there is technically always a thirteenth floor; it’s just not labeled that. Usually it’s for maintenance or hotel staff, but I doubt he is taking me there.
“What’s on the thirteenth floor?” I ask after another beat of silence.
“Executive suites,” he answers easily.
“You’re taking me to a room?” I ask just as the door opens, and my mouth drops.
“Suites,” he corrects me, guiding me out of the elevator. I don’t know that my feet would have worked on their own otherwise.
Don’t get me wrong. The Redwood is a very fancy hotel. The floors are marble and perfectly polished tile, and the walls are lined with gorgeous art. There is even a fountain and real trees in the lobby. But this is different. The floors are oak. The walls are covered in a beautiful vintage wallpaper and topped with crown molding. There’s a fountain, but it’s subtle, giving the room a calming feeling. There are stairs leading up to other rooms, which leads me to believe that the fourteenth floor is also off limits to regular guests. I make a mental note to check when we get back in the elevator.
It looks like we are inside the Titanic, and I’m half expecting Jack and Rose to meet us at the clock.
“Wow,” I say as Damien guides me towards the stairs. “How is this–”
