by J. Saman
She’s driven me to a whole new level of obsessed.
Some of the staff stick around for a few drinks after hours. Diamond once again tried to get me to join her, but I never do that. Not with any of them. Truth be told, I have no interest in what she’s trying to offer me.
Mia is in the back, grabbing her shit, I assume. I need to go home. I need to shower and get some sleep. I try to talk myself out of this move a million different ways. But when she exits out of that back room, skirting quietly along the far wall with a huge backpack on the shoulder facing away from the residual staff, I know I’m not going home. At least not yet.
She walks out the door and no one so much as throws her a cursory glance. She’s invisible to them, which appears to be exactly the way she designed it. I throw a wave, say a quick goodnight and I’m out the door. The hotel is still decently crowded. As I said, this is Vegas and two-forty in the morning is not late here. Especially not on a Saturday night.
She moves briskly down the long corridor that leads further into the hotel instead of out of it. The employee lot is not this way either, so this raises my curiosity another degree. I follow her, knowing it makes me a fucking stalker, but unable to muster the decency to care or stop what I’m doing. She moves through the casino floor, past the sports book, ignoring the catcalls of drunk men as she passes them, down another hall and towards the spa and pool area.
She approaches an employee door, pauses before glancing over her shoulder to check if anyone is watching her. I am, but I’m far enough back and off to the side that she doesn’t spot me. And then she punches in a code she should not have and swipes what appears to be a universal card into the slot. The door unlocks for her, and she slips through it to the pool area, shutting the door quietly behind her.
What. The. Fuck?
How on earth did that just happen? How did security not catch that? I glance up at the ceiling, at the small black globes we have strategically placed and realize we do not have one over that door. I have no idea where this girl got that badge or the code from. They are not given out to regular staff, let alone bar staff in one of our restaurants. A million questions racket through my brain as I take out my own badge and follow her out into the hot night.
The pool is still lit, even though it’s night and the area is closed. It shuts down at eight this time of year, so the idea of this girl walking alone in a deserted part of the hotel sets me on edge. I hold the door, ensuring it closes without a sound, and those extra few seconds cost me everything, because I lost sight of her and there are dozens places out here that she could have gone.
Is she meeting someone? That Brent guy?
My thoughts flit back to my conversation with Cal. The notion that she could be involved in something illegal now doesn’t seem so farfetched. I catch a noise off to my right, like one of the loungers moving, scraping against the hardscape. She hisses something I can’t make out and my feet carry me in that direction before conscious thought can take over.
I spot her, over by the employee entrance of the spa, bathed in dark shadows, her movements cautious. Then what she does next causes my breath to lodge in my chest and my legs to grow weak. She’s setting up a pallet on one of the lounge chairs, complete with blanket and pillow. Oh my God. She’s homeless.
This beautiful, sweet, angelic, perfect girl, who is terrified of the world, is homeless.
And sleeping outside in the pool area of my hotel.
What the hell has her running like this, using fake IDs and addresses and sleeping outside? Goddammit, Mia!
I want to storm over there. I want to grab her and haul her up to my apartment. I want to make sure she’s safe, dammit. My mind races, going over a million scenarios. Coming to a million conclusions. None of them are good. None of them are right. Men have forced her hand before. Men have told her what to do before. I won’t be one of those men with her.
But I know one thing for sure, after tonight, this girl will not be homeless again.
Chapter Nine
I wake up to bright sunshine streaming on my face and the sound of people talking not even fifty yards away. I panic, not making any sudden movements or noise until those voices grow fainter as the people walk away from where I’m hiding.
How on earth did I sleep so late? It’s well past dawn and the pool area is coming to life, getting ready for the day.
I sit up slowly, peeking carefully through the bushes surrounding me, so grateful this is where I set up the lounger to sleep. No one is around, but I still hear people not too far off. I quickly roll off the lounger, hastily wrapping up the blanket and pillow and tuck them back in the notch. I decide to ditch the lounger where it is because there are too many people milling around to get away with moving it back.
Reaching down, I grab my backpack and gasp at what I find sitting directly on top of it.
An envelope that says, Open Me, in neat script. I glance around, half expecting someone to be standing there watching me, but no one is here. I don’t open it yet. I don’t have time. I shove it into my rucksack and get my ass into the spa bathroom as fast as I can without drawing attention to myself. There are two women in here, talking with each other as they put on their white robes, getting ready for whatever treatment they’re about to have done.
They throw me a quick glance and a smile, but otherwise ignore me as they go back to their conversation. I move around the lockers, all the way back to the showers, and enter the far one I usually use. It’s the most hidden and there’s a small area set with towels, as well as a bench where you can leave any possessions. I strip down and shower at lightspeed before slipping into a pair of shorts and tank top. I don’t bother blowing out my hair since I don’t have to work, so I just fold it into a quick braid and I’m out the door, practically crying out my relief as I enter the main part of the hotel without anyone questioning me.
Suddenly, I feel claustrophobic in the massive building, like there are a million eyes on me. That envelope could be from Maddox, but somehow, I don’t think it is. I think someone found me sleeping there last night. They didn’t wake me, and they didn’t take any of my things. I know because I checked. I leave the resort briskly, my long legs carrying me forward, all the while unable to shake the sensation I’m being watched.
I make my way up Las Vegas Boulevard, before turning down a side street, and three blocks later, I’m at the laundromat I googled. I’ve never washed my own clothes. Never once in my life. I had a maid for that and she probably had someone to do it for her. But really, how difficult can it be? My work clothes are getting nasty, and so are the rest of my things. I put everything I have into the washer, before I realize I have to purchase soap separately. I get a packet out of the small vending machine, pour it in the way it directs on the label on the outside of the washer and start it. There is a coffee shop attached to this place, so I grab myself a small coffee and a muffin with more calories than I care to think about, and sit down, contemplating that envelope.
I can’t help but look, unable to shake the feeling that I’m being watched. The hairs on the back of my neck have been standing at attention since I left the hotel, but every time I glanced over my shoulder, no one was there.
Did Niklas find me? Is this a warning?
I tell myself that if he did find me, I wouldn’t be sitting here in the laundromat. I tell myself that if I am being followed, I’d know. It wouldn’t just be a feeling. Niklas was nothing if not in your face. Nothing if not brutally direct.
I slide the envelope out of my pack and set it down on my lap, staring at the writing. I can’t determine if it’s male or female handwriting and I figure that was intentional. The envelope is sealed so I slide my finger into the open crevice on the side and tear away at the paper until it’s open. And then I start to shake uncontrollably. My hand flies up to cover my mouth, smoldering the sob desperately trying to climb out of my chest.
Inside is a hotel room key for The Turner Grand, which is my hotel, and a note.
I
unfold the note, my hands tremulous. Sucking in a deep breath, I read the typed words.
Room 48-108 is yours for however many days, weeks or months you need it. Please feel free to charge whatever you want to your room, there will be no charge to you. Whenever you’re done with the room, just let front desk know.
It’s not signed, and for the life of me, I have no idea who would do this. Niklas’s men certainly wouldn’t. Or would they? Is this a way to corner me into a small, confined space where there are no cameras for security to see them? I don’t know. But the idea of a free hotel room is too good to pass up. At the very least, I have to check it out.
Someone gave me a place to live. For free.
Did Maddox do this? Is this his way of side-stepping my refusal of his financial assistance? Drawing my knees up to my chest, I bury my face into them and silently cry. I’m overwhelmed. I’m so grateful to this mystery person, but that gratitude quickly twists to fear. If it’s not Maddox, what will this person expect when they make themselves known? Will they hold this over my head and demand things I have no desire or capability to give? Nothing is ever free in this world. Nothing.
How did this become my life?
Alone, homeless, working as a waitress and bartender, going by a fake name and running from a man I’m terrified of.
The note said months. Aside from being insanely generous, I can’t imagine living in a hotel room for months. It’s far too conspicuous. In reality, I don’t know how long I can stay in this hotel with these jobs. Either I need to switch to another one here or move on in the next few weeks. I can’t get too comfortable. Can’t ever let my guard down.
I finish washing and drying my clothes, pack everything back into my backpack and then step outside in the heat. August in Las Vegas was probably not the best decision I’ve ever made. Most definitely not the worst, though, and I almost want to laugh at the irony of this. Do I ever make the right choice? No. I don’t even have to think about that one.
I take the street that runs perpendicular to the strip and weave a pattern that leads me closer to the hotel. My fingers dig into the pocket of my shorts, fingering the smooth rectangular room key.
My sneakers slap against the sidewalk as I hastily make my way. I’m too apprehensive, too curious to be cautious at this point. I hit the side entrance, bypassing the lobby, and going directly into the casino. And then I pause, searching around, but no one and nothing are out of the ordinary. Just gamblers.
I draw in a deep breath and walk straight through, past a few restaurants, to the elevators. 48-108. Locating the bank of elevators that will take me to my floor, I press my finger into the button until it lights up. My heart starts to pound so ferociously I’m positive everyone around me can hear it. Blood rushes through my ears and my vision sways as the heady cocktail of adrenaline and apprehension takes over.
A group of guys approach, laughing and chatting away in their swim trunks and t-shirts when the elevator doors part. They wave me in first and I immediately hide to the back, tucking myself into the corner.
One of them turns over his shoulder, smiles at me and asks, “What floor, darlin’?” He’s got a sweet southern accent, Georgia if I had to guess, and a nice smile. In another life, if I were a different girl, I’d give him a second look.
“Forty-eight, please.”
He turns back around and presses the button for my floor. They’re getting off on thirty-one and it’s just us in here, so I’ll have a few floors to myself. It’s a relief. But it’s not. Their idle, inconsequential chatter is keeping me grounded. If it were silent in here, I’d be exploding off the walls.
They step out and the cute guy looks back to me. “See you around, I hope.”
I nod, give a forced half smile and then the doors close. There is music playing in here that I just now notice, and my incessant bouncing seems to fall in sync with the beat.
The doors open twenty-eight seconds later, and here I am, on the forty-eighth floor. I step out, take a right, and reach a center area where three separate halls feed off of. I press my hands down on the cool marble top of the table in the center and do my best to steady my breathing. I know there are cameras in these halls and I won’t linger longer than necessary. Just long enough to catch my breath and slow my heart. It’s not working.
Covertly, I unzip the outer pocket of my bag, locate my switchblade and encircle my hand around it. A switchblade. I can’t stop the ironic scoff that bursts forth as I think about my only weapon. My father had guns all over the goddamn house and this is the only thing I have to protect myself with. Like I even have a chance if Niklas is waiting for me on the other side of that door.
Maddox was right about getting a gun.
Rounding the table, I pick up my pace and hike down the long hallway. And it is long. The room is all the way down at the end by the stairs. God, that gives me a real smile as I think about that. My fingers trace the placard that reads 48-108 and then the key in my hand. I open the blade as quietly as I can, peek up and down the hall to ensure that I am alone, take the deepest breath of my life, and then slip the key into the slot above the door handle.
I half expect the light to flash red instead of green, or for the door to jerk open before Niklas drags me in. But it doesn’t do either of those things. It makes an incredibly loud clicking sound as the locking mechanism disengages and then I turn the lever and open the door. That’s all I do. I just stand here, holding the heavy door open and peering into the space, which from here appears like more than just a room. It’s a suite, I think, and if I weren’t so fucking petrified, I’d laugh.
I don’t call out hello or is anyone there. That’s the crap the dumb blonde in horror movies does. I may be naturally blonde and make terrible life choices, but I am not dumb. Instead, I wait, and I listen, and when I’m positive I do not hear anything other than the hum of the air conditioning, I take a step in and allow the door to click shut as gently as it possibly can behind me.
Silence. And it is a suite, goddammit.
Off to my left is a small half bath so I explore there first. No one. I open the closet by the door. Empty, save for hangers, two bathrobes and slippers. The living room is next. It’s extensive and mercifully very open. Dark gold and brick red couches with alternate pattern chairs make up a seating area off to the left. To the right is a small kitchenette with two mini fridges, a microwave and a sink. On the tiny dining table is a huge basket filled with assorted items I can’t look at yet.
A door slams shut outside, and I jump ten feet in the air, poised with my knife held high as I stare back at my closed door. Breathe. Right. That. I think I might vomit instead.
Spinning back around, I’m greeted with a bank of floor-to-ceiling windows facing the strip and the mountains beyond. This room has to be at least five hundred a night, probably more. And the note said I could stay here for months.
What the fuck is going on? I figured I was going to get a bottom of the line room with a tiny bed and a view of the parking garage. Not a suite on practically the top floor with a million-dollar view.
I twirl around in a circle, but no one is here to greet me.
The bedroom. Christ, my heart. I’m desperate to grab hold of my chest, but I need to be alert. And knowing me, I’d end up stabbing myself. Ever so slowly, I creep along until I reach the bedroom. It slopes back, angling away from the main part of the suite, limiting visibility.
Crouching down, I pass the long desk that transitions into a dresser, and before I know it, I’m in a huge, king bedroom with the same gorgeous view. More strip and more mountains. But no one is waiting to jump out and kill me. Or take me, which would be worse.
The bathroom is off to my left and the door is open, showcasing a massive tub followed by an even bigger walk-in shower. Two sinks and more counter space than one woman needs. I start to cry. Big, ugly wracking sobs. This is all just too much. That’s when I notice the note on the bed.
I close my knife now that I’m satisfied no one is here lurk
ing and go over, picking it up. It’s typed as well, which frustrates me to no end.
I hope you like your room—” Room? I snort. “—It’s yours. The basket in the kitchen is filled with assorted items I hope you will enjoy. Feel free to order room service. Go to the spa or salon. Anything you want you can charge to your room, no questions or strings attached. You are never to sleep outdoors again.
I fall to my knees and weep out the massive tears that have been threatening since I stepped off the elevator. I have no idea what to make of this. No idea who my new benefactor is. Whoever they are, they obviously know I’ve been sleeping outside. Whoever they are, they’re obviously rich. Whoever they are, they just became my hero, even if they’ll likely turn into my nightmare.
All this opulence and counterfeit safety will no doubt come crashing down on me, but for the moment, it’s mine to enjoy. I run back out to the front door, and peek through the peephole. When I’m certain no one’s there, I lock the door up tight and then drag a chair over from the living room and prop it against it, because that’s what they do in the movies.
Next, I go for the basket filled with expensive cookies, designer chocolates, nuts, fruit, cheese and tons more. There is a bottle of very nice champagne tucked into an ice bucket with one flute next to it. One. Not two. Whoever did this for me is very deliberate. I also find another note.
I took a flyer on the basket. I hope it’s to your taste. The fridge on the left is stocked with food, but if it’s not to your liking, just call down and housekeeping will fill it with whatever you want. The fridge on the right is the minibar. Take whatever you’d like.
I don’t have to be at work for six more hours. Grabbing a tin of peanuts, a block of cheese, an apple and a bottle of water, I head for my new bathtub. I’m going to soak in the thing until I figure out just what all this means while I try not to think about the person who gave it to me.