by Lindsey Hart
I don’t want to lose Sutton down the hallway, so I jog to catch up with her. She’s standing beside the elevator, which is down the hall past the ballroom and other meeting rooms. Her foot is tapping anxiously, and her arms are crossed, the wine bottle cradled protectively in her arms.
“Are you going to call your grandma?”
“Shut up,” she spits. “Of course, I’m going to call her. As soon as we get up to the room that I don’t want to stay in.”
“Maybe there’s a Jacuzzi tub. Would that change your mind?”
“Not if it’s out in the open, which they usually are. A bath wouldn’t fix any of my problems. You know what would? If you jumped out the window and disappeared forever.”
My lips wobble a little at her forced tone. She doesn’t really mean any of it, I can tell. She’s just sparring with me because she doesn’t know what else to do. I shouldn’t be happy about it either. I realize I’m treading on some extremely thin ice, about to plunge into some frigid water. Hypothermia and near-death are imminent.
What am I going to do after tonight? Even if I do sleep on the floor or the couch or whatever. Just go back to the endless tossing and turning? My regular insomnia? My regular life? Am I supposed to go back to being curt and bad-tempered at work? To the usual stress and strain and killing myself trying to live up to something that I’m never going to be?
The elevator dings thankfully, and I get to cut off my shitty introspection. We get in together. The door shuts, and the elevator is silent. For a fancy hotel, the elevator looks like shit. It’s got the token laminate flooring, back mirror, and a panel of buttons, but that’s it.
Sutton must have already looked at the floor and room number because she punches eighteen on the button pad, and the elevator starts moving. The silence gets more and more oppressive with each passing floor, which is fine with me. I’m good with the oppressive silence.
When the door opens, Sutton charges out like the elevator is crawling with venomous spiders—I know, I’m all about the dangerous, creepy comparisons tonight—and rushes down the hall. Her hips sway suggestively with her power walk, and I have to bite down hard on my bottom lip not to laugh. If only she knew how attractive she was, she wouldn’t be walking in front of me. Or like that. But I know if I laugh or say anything, she’ll turn and flip me off and tell me to close my eyes and navigate down the hall that way. Now I am smiling since it’s funny to think of her issuing orders like that.
She stops abruptly in front of a door on the right and inserts the key card. I have to run to keep the door from slamming on my face, but I manage to get my hand in the crack just in time. I push the door open to reveal, of course, a suite. My sister wouldn’t have booked anything less for her guests. She got a large chunk of money when our dad died, and she also has shares in the company. While she invested most of it into other ventures, she’s not tight with the funds she kept out for herself. She’s actually generous to a fault. And yes. She booked the best of the best for her wedding party.
“Holy shit.” Sutton stalks through the room ahead of me. “This is crazy.”
She’s right. It’s overkill. The thing is probably easily three times the size of her grandma’s house. The room drips with gold accents, marble floors, a huge king-sized bed with upholstered wood pillars. There’s a kitchen area with a full-sized fridge, which is probably stocked with all sorts of expensive treats and twenty-dollar mini bottles of alcohol.
“There is a Jacuzzi,” she groans. “Of course, there’s a freaking Jacuzzi.” She stops right in front of it. It’s round, and even though it’s above ground, it looks more like a swimming pool than an actual Jacuzzi. It’s already full. Of course, it would be.
There are floor to ceiling windows overlooking the city, which is all lit up and twinkling. It actually looks kind of pretty right now.
“The way I see it, there’s only one option now. You call your grandma, we drink all the wine and whatever’s in the fridge over there, make good use of the Jacuzzi, and break in the bed.”
“What?” Sutton walks over to the huge bed and drops the wine and her clutch unceremoniously on it. “Are you crazy? That was not part of the deal.”
“It worked for us before.”
“What worked? I thought we weren’t talking about that! Ever!”
“Right.” I roll my shoulders and walk over to the windows. “I just wanted to see what you’d say. I think the real game plan is we pile half those pillows into the middle of the bed like a giant, plush wall and go to sleep on separate sides.”
“I thought you said you were taking the floor?”
There’s a flashing red light in the distance at the top of some building. I wonder what it is. The rest of the city rises up below and around us. The hotel is right downtown, so we’re at the heart of all the urban glory.
“You’d make me sleep on marble flooring when there’s a bed that big? There is no way we could ever touch each other, especially with a pillow wall in place.”
“Oh yeah? What about your problem from earlier? Hmm? And the thing that didn’t happen before at your house. I think I should go and lock myself in the bathroom and make myself a bed in the tub.”
Now I am actually surprised. I turn to find Sutton standing at the same spot by the bed with her arms crossed stubbornly over her chest. “You think I’d do anything to make you feel unsafe? I swear to you, I might be a dickhead, or at least you probably think so, but I would never, ever, do something that someone else didn’t want to do. Especially not that.”
She sighs forcefully and drops her arms before walking over to start plumping up one of the giant pillows. The pillows are probably two feet thick or more—each one of them—and there are about sixteen hundred on the bed.
“No.” She punches her fist into the pillow. Hard. Like she wishes that it was my face instead. “It’s not that.”
“Not what?”
“It’s not…It’s not you I don’t trust.”
“Hmm.”
“What’s hmm?” Her eyes narrow like she expected me to be surprised. I am shocked, but I’m obviously doing a good job of hiding it by feigning boredom.
“You trust me, even after my problem from earlier today.”
“I—yes. Obviously. It’s not like you could help it. It’s just basic biology. And—uh—you went and hid. You didn’t attack me with it.”
“Very true.”
Sutton shakes her head. She quickly whirls to hide the scarlet on her cheeks, but of course, I still see it. She grabs her clutch, rips out her phone, and punches at the screen. Probably dialing her grandma’s number.
Sure enough, she leaves a halting message. “Hey, Granny, it’s me. I’m actually staying here at the hotel tonight. There was a—uh—room booked for me I didn’t know about. I thought it would be too rude to turn it down because it was already paid for. I’ll be back around noon tomorrow. Please don’t worry about me. I’m fine, and yes, I do know you think this is how babies are made, but I can guarantee there aren’t going to be any made tonight. I’ll see you tomorrow. I love you. Bye.”
“That was interesting.” Of course, I can’t resist the urge to bug her as soon as she hangs up.
Sutton’s nostrils flare. She tosses the phone onto the bed, stalks over to the pillows, and starts beating them furiously again. “Well? Are you going to help me make this pillow wall or not? I think we should turn out the lights and go to sleep. The sooner morning comes, the better. And this better not be spoken of again either.”
“Speak of what?”
“This. Sharing the same bed. Sort of. Even with the damn wall.”
“What wall? What night?”
“Oh. I get it. Very funny.” A pillow goes flying to land somewhere mid-bed, and a second soon follows. A third and a forth quickly follow that, and the wall starts to take shape.
I walk calmly over to the other side of the bed and pitch in, heaping pillows on top of each other and making a neat and tidy line of pillows from the head of t
he bed straight down to the foot. Since the pillows are so thick, the wall is at least three feet tall.
“Do you think it will hold?”
“Yes.” But just for good measure, Sutton adds another, right where our faces could potentially turn and see each other.
“Even throughout a ferocious attack in the middle of the night by a fearsome admin assistant who doesn’t trust herself? Do you ever sleepwalk? Sleep molest?”
“Shut. Up.”
Sutton marches over to the wall where the massive light switch, which is more like a light panel, is and kills all the lights in the room. It’s dark, but not overly dark because the Jacuzzi actually glows, and the heavy dark burgundy drapes are still open at the wall of windows.
“For freaks sakes,” Sutton mutters under her breath. When she reaches the bed again, she roughly rips back the covers and climbs in. Dress and all. For all I know, she kept her shoes on too.
There’s no way I’m getting in there with my boots or this stupid jacket on. It’s bad enough I’ll have to keep my jeans on, which are uncomfortable to sleep in. I shed the footwear and jacket but leave the jeans and t-shirt on. When I get into bed, the mattress is hard but also plush—one of those mysteries money will buy. The pillows don’t even shift when I get in. The mattress is probably one of those things designed not to flex a millimeter, even if an entire herd of cows jumped up and down on the other side. Not that a herd of cows would actually come and jump up and down on the bed.
Anyway, the pillows don’t move.
So I close my eyes.
And I feel myself relax.
Maybe this will be one of those rare nights where I actually get a few hours of sleep.
I can hear Sutton breathing beside me, and it’s oddly calming. Maybe tonight there won’t be any nightmares. I fucking hope there isn’t. Or at least, that I’ll wake silently, soaked in a cold sweat, and alone in my misery. I really hope I won’t wake Sutton up. Well, one can always hope.
This was a bad idea on every level. #InsaneNotInAGoodWay.
It’s too late now. I’ll just have to hope for the best and prepare for the worst.
CHAPTER 12
Sutton
I guess I have a good sleep, once I finally drift off. I listened to Philippe’s even breathing after he was down for the count, and it was oddly comforting. I fell asleep a few minutes after he did. All is well in dreamland with the pillow wall between us and the Jacuzzi glowing like an alien spaceship in the background, burbling away soothingly, when all of a sudden, the bed turns into a murder scene.
At least, that’s my first thought when a scream pierces the room, tearing me out of a deep sleep. I jerk upright in bed and flail my limbs in my sleepy stupor at the sudden terror I’ve been drenched in. Pillows fly all over the place. In my panic, I flail some more and get myself tangled in the sheets. I try to get the hell out of bed to find out what animal is in pain because there’s another scream. I can barely tear my sleep glued eyes open. When I move, my foot catches in the sheet, and I let out a garbled scream of my own as I slide off the edge of the bed and end up face-first on the marble floor.
Ouch. I sit up abruptly, more awake now, and rub at the elbow I just put out to try and break my fall. I rub at my cheek, too, since it took the rest of the brunt of the fall. There’s a muffled sound. A snort. A whimper. A low whine and a moan.
What the actual hell? I stand shakily and search the darkened room wildly with my blurry eyes. The TV, a huge flat screen on the opposite wall, wasn’t left on. It’s not a horror movie playing on full volume, and the Jacuzzi is still gently bubbling away.
My next instinct is to survey the windows, but no, no one came crashing through there. The night is still, the lights from the neighboring buildings below and around us blinking like stars. I turn my eyes to the bed. Of course, the bed. God, I’m an idiot. An almost asleep because it’s the middle of the night, but I’ve just been roused from deep slumber kind of an idiot.
It’s Philippe making those horrible noises. Even as I watch, the sheets shift a little. There are pillows now piled all over his face and shoulders, but they stir like a moving cloud. It’s very creepy. I rush over before he accidentally smothers from the thick, dense materials all over his face. I grasp the first pillow and tug it over before throwing it to the floor. I follow that up with another three as I hurriedly fling them aside.
His face is scrunched up, but he’s still asleep. He looks like he’s in pain. He writhes, the twisted, damp sheets tangling with him. Twists. Turns. He continues to tangle himself hopelessly, and I can see his hair is drenched on the pillow.
Is this another panic attack? In his sleep? Is that even possible?
No, dummy, it’s a nightmare. Wake him the heck up.
The trembling in my hands vibrates all the way up to my shoulders and into my teeth. That must be why they’re chattering.
I very gently and tentatively set my hand on Philippe’s shoulder. His t-shirt is soaked. Even though his skin is clammy on his arm where the cotton sleeve ends, he’s warm. So warm. Duh, of course, he’s warm. He’s sweated right through his clothes.
My hand flies to his forehead without thinking. I’m worried he has a fever. Maybe he’s sick. No, as soon as my fingers graze the soft, velvet skin of his face, I realize that’s not it. There’s no fever. He’s warm, but not feverishly so.
“Philippe?” I shake his shoulder gently. “Hey. Wake up.” Of course, that gets me nowhere. I have to shake a little harder. I bend over, speaking directly into his ear. “Philippe?”
His eyes fly open, and he stares at me without seeing. He blinks. And it’s creepy. Even in the dark, I can see how his pupils are dilated. I shudder and back up a step.
“Whoa, uh…you were just…”
“Having a dream,” he finishes for me.
“Uh, I guess. Probably not a good one. Or do you usually have night sweats and cry out when you’re sleeping? Maybe you were dancing with fairies or something.”
“Yeah. That was definitely it.” Philippe picks at the mess of tangled sheets, trying to free himself.
I’m ridiculously relieved he hasn’t lost his sense of dry, asshole humor. If he’s still capable of being a dick, then he must be alright.
“Are the panic attacks and the nightmares related?” I should just mind my own business, but obviously, I’ve never been very good at that. Part of me knows I’m already in too deep to worry about my P’s and Q’s now. It’s kind of hard to focus on not saying something stupid when I’m entirely focused on keeping my heart from aching right out of my chest.
Philippe looks so lost right now. I mean, he’s a mess, but he’s a beautiful mess. He’s haunted. And in pain. I want to sit down beside him, wrap my arms around him (even though they wouldn’t even come close to fully wrapping around), and help him feel better. He’s not the tyrant boss right now. He’s not my crazy attractive fake date, either. He’s just Philippe. Wounded. Alone. Confused. Sad.
The longer I stare at him, the more I feel like my eyes are going to start leaking all over the place. The bridge of my nose is burning suspiciously.
“I guess so.” He reaches up and brushes his hair out of his face. Since it’s so wet, it pretty much slicks right back. I almost forgot I asked a question at all. “I don’t know. The nightmares started right after my dad died. The panic attacks…those are new. I don’t know if they’re related or not, but I’d assume so.”
“Are you okay?” Stupid. I know. I should say something else. Something better. Something that might actually fix things.
I get a long sigh as an answer, but then Philippe eventually gives me words. “I don’t know. I guess so. I’m mostly humiliated since you’re here, and you’re awake now, and you know all about it.”
“Don’t worry about me. I know all about the panic attacks already so…”
“That doesn’t make me feel better.”
“Sorry.”
He grunts. He’s basically untangled from the sheets by now. Wit
h another grunt, he swings his legs over the edge of the bed, but he doesn’t move. I’m not sure he knows what moves to make next. Not that I do either. I shuffle awkwardly from foot to foot. He sets his elbows on his knees and shoves his hands over his face. Not because he’s trying to hide. I don’t think. I think it’s because he feels truly fucked up. He’d have to because he was actually honest with me.
Suddenly, I remember what he said to me when we were dancing earlier. I thought he was just joking, but now I’m not so sure. There’s nothing like watching two people who are in love to make you realize you’re terribly, utterly, and entirely alone.
My head tells me to stay where I am, or better yet, get the heck out of here, but my heart says something different. My heart wins out. I walk over and plop myself down next to Philippe. I know touching should be off-limits, but now that I’m next to him, he’s warm. Kind of damp, but warm too. He still smells like his usual expensive cologne. Maybe I should be freaked out about so much sweat because the bed and the sheets and Philippe’s clothes are all damp, but I don’t think it’s gross. I don’t think he’s gross. He could never be gross. Not even… Not even if he rolled in cow dung or something.
I lean my head against Philippe’s shoulder. I’m a little astounded to feel him tremble beneath me. Was he shaking before?
I reach up and stroke his hair. It’s so wet, it’s like he just got out of the shower, but it’s still soft beneath my fingertips. I let my hand fall away to his back, where I massage in slow circles. My heart leaps into my throat and seems to cascade down to my toes at the same time.