“You okay?” Dean inquires suddenly.
I glance up. “Yeah. Why?”
“You’re quiet.”
I arch a brow. “You say that like it’s a medical emergency.”
“With you, I’m not ruling it out,” he jokes lightly.
I snort. “Don’t get used to it. Just trying to make sure I survive the next week without getting fired for murder.”
His gaze lingers on my face for a beat. “You’re not getting fired.”
“How do you know?” I challenge.
“Because Cherry would kill us before she let you go.” His tone is matter-of-fact. “You’re good. We like you. Even when you hiss.”
“I don’t hiss,” I protest.
Mikey raises a hand without opening his eyes. “You definitely hiss.”
“Bunch of babies,” I grumble.
The bus slows gradually, the hum of the engine shifting as we pull off the highway. We drift through a series of turns, city lights getting closer, brighter, sharper.
I stand, stuffing my laptop and camera into my bag. My legs have pins and needles from sitting too long. I stomp my feet a little to wake them up.
“Five minutes,” the driver calls. “We’ll pull up at the Sapphire.” Because of Lily’s connection and long-time employment, we’ve been staying at the Sapphire Resorts whenever we can. The rooms are always nice here, but to be honest, any bed beats the bunks.
Through the windshield, I can see the Sapphire Resort sign glowing in deep blue against the night, and the sleek glass, steel, and stone building rising up out of the flat Nebraska darkness like someone dropped a skyscraper in a cornfield.
It’s beautiful in that expensive, cold way. High ceilings, polished floors, too many reflective surfaces. A place built to make people feel smaller and richer at the same time.
As soon as we stop, everyone stirs. I sling my bag over my shoulder and move toward the front of the bus as we all step off, one by one. I follow the others down the steps, the air outside hitting my face like a cool slap. After hours of recycled bus air, it feels almost holy.
Inside, the lobby is bright and cavernous, with a giant crystal light fixture dripping from the ceiling and a bank of elevators along one wall, their doors polite and silent. We queue up at the long marble front desk. Cherry’s already there, tablet in hand, running through room assignments with the kind of efficiency that makes generals weep.
“Brooks,” she says when I get to the front. “You’re on eighteen. Room 1804. Key.” She slides the little envelope across.
“Thank you,” I say, meaning it more than she knows.
“Don’t trash the place,” she deadpans. “We don’t want to give Lily a bad name.”
“All I want to do is sleep,” I reply, truer words not having left my mouth in days.
By the time I turn around, the others are scattering. Hayden and Mikey head toward the elevators, dragging roller bags. Luc is off to the side with Lily and Larkin, hands filled with a ridiculous amount of baby gear.
Dean stands near one of the marble pillars, bag slung over one shoulder, guitar case in hand. He looks around the lobby like he’s casing it. Or like he’s already bored of it.
Our eyes snag. Just for a second. He heads to the elevators without waiting. I tell myself that’s for the best. I’m wrong. The leftmost elevator is out of order, a polite little sign informing us it’s under maintenance. That leaves two others.
A crowd of our people plus other guests press toward them, everyone riding that exhausted, late-night, “get me horizontal” energy. The first elevator arrives and swallows half the group. Luc, Cherry, a few techs. The doors close with a soft, smug ding.
I end up in the next batch, wedged inside the other car with Hayden, Mikey, two crew guys, a couple in business casual, and Dean, who steps in last and turns sideways to fit his guitar case.
“Eighteen, please,” I tell the closest body to the panel.
“Fifteen,” Hayden adds.
