“This was yesterday,” I say. Prescott only gets excited like this on Fridays because on weekends, he goes to my uncle’s farm and gets to pet all the animals.” I wipe my tears. “You’d hurt him?” I snap. “You’d hurt that little boy?”
“I would, and I wouldn’t lose sleep over it.”
Oh God, I’m dealing with sadists and sociopaths and God knows what other fucked-up people here. “What do you want me to do?”
FOUR
ALESSIO VISITS LUIGI'S
Alessio
Apparently, I slept deeply, since Sunshine left my bed unnoticed.
Not that I mind since I had no intention of spending the day with her, but if she stayed, I would have at least ordered breakfast for her and offered a ride back to Luigi’s, which, judging by the description of a place she gave me last night, is where she’s staying.
I blame my deep sleep on that third glass of whiskey, then remember that she and I shared two more shots after that. I wonder if she’s sporting a pounding headache like me. She probably is if she’s not a drinker. I’m unaccustomed to drinking more than two glasses of whiskey in a single sitting.
But I have no regrets.
It’s been a rough few months, and I needed what she provided.
I fix my cuff link while standing at the foot of the bed, the crumpled bedsheets drawing out memories of last night. There should be a pillow somewhere down here. I step back and spot a pillow I placed on the carpet so she wouldn’t scrape her knees. I toss it on the bed.
Near the nightstand, I grab my phone, wallet, and a piece of the headboard I ripped off last night. What can I say? The throes of passion made me do it.
I pick up the landline phone and dial the front desk. When Talia answers, I say, “Good morning to you. There’s a problem with the bed in my room. Number 801.”
“What’s the problem, sir?”
“The headboard broke.”
A pause. “I’m sorry, sir, can you repeat that?”
I smile. “The headboard broke and fell on the mattress.”
“Are you injured?”
“Thankfully, no.”
I hear her typing on the keyboard, probably pulling up the hotel room map. “Sir, 801 shows as vacant. Eight-oh-five is occupied. Is that where you’re staying?”
“I’m staying at 801.” Will she argue with me?
“Yes, of course, sir. I’ll send maintenance right away.”
“Thank you so much.”
“Welcome. Is there anything else I can help you with?”
“That is all.”
Satisfied with how Talia handled me as a customer, I leave the room, which smells like gardenia lotion. In the hallway, I sniff the palm of my hand, disappointed that the scent of the lotion she accidentally dropped is gone.
I scent lavender and rose, the hotel soap my late sister picked for use in the hotels we own in France, which I adopted for use here as well. We should probably upgrade to stay up with modern scents, but I’m not done mourning her, so the soap that reminds me of her stays.
In the fully glass elevator, I slide on my sunglasses and pull out my phone, appearing busy without looking as if I’m avoiding people, even though I am. It’s Saturday. I spent a great night with a stranger I’ll never see again, and I’m as cheerful as I can be given the nuclear disaster two world leaders and I are dealing with.
The elevator reaches the ground floor, the doors start to open, and as I step forward, suddenly, the doors close, leaving only a tiny gap between them. I rear back just before I slam my forehead against the glass. I try the panel buttons, and when nothing works, I press the button for maintenance.
