by Arell Rivers
“You’re my biggest regret, Rose.” He grabs my left hand. “And I don’t see a ring.”
I snatch my hand back from him, shaking my head.
As if he hears my silent begging, Roberto says, “Miss Morgan, would you like to go to your suite now?” He holds up Cole’s extra room key.
“I told you before, her last name is Bloomer.”
This having a bodyguard stuff comes in handy sometimes. Ignoring Marco’s outburst, I nod at Roberto. “Marco, you heard Greta. I have work to do. Thanks again for the flight out here. Have a good night, and good luck at the tables.”
He sighs. “I’m here if you need me, Bella Rosa. Always.”
I want to ask him not to use that stupid old nickname, but instead offer him a good night smile and follow Roberto toward the elevator bank. Once inside the penthouse suite, I say, “Thanks for everything, Roberto. You’re sure Wills will let Cole know I’m waiting for him up here?”
He smiles. “For the fifth time, yes. Your luggage should be up momentarily. I called when you were talking with Marco in the hallway.”
Slipping out of my shoes, I say, “I appreciate it. Greta wants me to check up on Cole’s media coverage and my laptop is in my suitcase.” The plush carpet feels delightful under my bare feet.
Roberto walks around the suite, checking doors and closets, which makes me feel safer. A knock sounds. Roberto collects my bag and wheels it into the living room.
“Thanks. I’ll take it from here. Why don’t you go down and enjoy yourself in the casino? I promise not to leave this room.” I hope my smile looks more confident than I feel. Cole is going to be furious, but he won’t kick me out. I hope.
He smiles again. “Have a good night. I’ll be right outside.” Roberto leaves and the suite plunges into stillness.
I throw myself down on the sofa. It’s been a long day, to say the least, and I hate that Cole’s not up here with me. I drag my computer out from my bag and turn it on. My mind wanders back to Cole’s childhood bedroom a couple of nights ago. He told me he loved me, and I didn’t say anything back. Why did I allow Mom make me question my feelings for him? After losing my fiancé, Chris, during our senior year in college, I gave up on all hope of a happily ever after, but Cole makes me believe. Mom is wrong about him.
I check the clock on my laptop. He can’t be much longer. I need to clear the air between us, explain about Marco and tell Cole I’m in love with him. Have been since college, but back then he was only a fantasy. The reality is so much better.
Full of nervous energy, I walk into the kitchen, pour a glass of water and bring it over to the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the Strip. The lights sparkle with possibilities. Smiling in anticipation, I wrap a throw blanket around my mini dress and settle onto the sofa.
Someone posted a video of Cole singing “No One to Hold” on Cole’s Facebook page. He sounds amazing even on a cellphone video, just like I knew he would. Sadness runs through my limbs. Too bad I missed the concert. The fans’ comments are very positive, though some veer more toward the graphic.
I click over to an entertainment website. One of the reporters I spoke with posted a photo with a caption promising the full story tomorrow. Professionally, Cole is soaring. Personally . . . well, I really need to talk with him.
How much longer can he be?
Although Cole’s cell phone is off while he’s working, I text him:
I’m sorry about Marco. We have to talk.
Even though Greta insisted that I do a full follow-up, I can’t concentrate. Just this once, I’ll shirk my duties. Everything is right on track, anyway. It’s more important for me to clear the air between Cole and me. I want to be wrapped in his arms again, and this time I’m never going to let go.
Shutting down my computer, I pick up my e-reader. I’m in the middle of a vampire series, which hopefully will pass the time until Cole gets here.
Sometime later, I awake to the sound of voices in the hallway. Disoriented, I say, “Cole?” while sitting up and placing my discarded e-reader on the coffee table.
No, that’s not Cole’s voice. It sounds like Wills. And Roberto. As I’m walking toward the door, Wills says, in a low tone, “Cole is so drunk.”
My heart rate accelerates.
Roberto says, “Did you tell him Rose is waiting for him?”
My hand is on the doorknob when Wills responds, “I tried, man, but he cut me off. I lost him when he left the hotel draped all over some blonde chick.”
Later Saturday night
I RECOIL FROM the doorknob as if burned. Ice grips my heart and a buzzing noise takes up residence in my ears.
Roberto’s whispers, “I need to tell Rose.”
“It would only hurt her. Hasn’t she been through enough?”
They continue talking, but I can’t hear them over my own erratic breathing and buzzing in my ears. Cole doesn’t know where I am. He must think I’m with Marco. So he decided to even the score? I suck in a pained breath. I need to get the hell out of here. I can’t face Cole knowing he’s been with another woman. That is, if he returns here tonight at all.
Sprinting to the hotel’s phone, I press the button for the concierge. “How may I assist you, Mr. Manchester?”
My whole body seizes at hearing his name. I choke out, “I need another room, please.”
“Is the suite not to Mr. Manchester’s liking?”
“No, it’s fine. I need to book a separate room for someone else.”
“Let me check for you.” The sound of keys tapping takes a full minute. “I’m sorry, but the hotel is completely booked.”
“Not even a small room?”
“Because of the Ozzy Martinez show, all of our rooms are taken.” A pause. “Oh wait, I do see a room. It’s one of our Laurel Collection Penthouses, located in the Octavius Tower. A beautiful one-bedroom king suite featuring over two thousand square feet.”
I drum my fingers while he gives me the details. All I care about is that it’s away from this room. “How much for the night?”
“For Mr. Manchester, I can offer the suite for only $3,000.” My spirits plummet even more. I can’t afford to spend double my month’s rent for one night.
Deflated, I say, “That’s okay. I’ll figure something else out. Thank you for your time.” I disconnect the call and swipe angry tears from my face.
Determined to get out before Cole comes back, if he comes back, I zip my luggage with my e-reader and laptop inside. Mechanically, I fold the blanket and place my water glass in the sink, all my fizzy excitement from earlier gone flat like old champagne. Where can I go? I know exactly three people in Las Vegas: Wills, Roberto and Marco.
Scratch Roberto and Wills. I don’t need more of their pity.
Marco is a non-starter. Clearly.
A commotion in the hallway draws my attention. A familiar voice bellows, “This way!”
Ozzy. . .
His suite is probably the same size as this one, which means he might have an extra bedroom.
Acting quickly, I return the phone to its cradle and grab my purse, shoes and luggage. Padding out of the room, I look to my left. Ozzy stands in an open doorway, ushering at least twenty women, and a few men, into his suite. I get in line, ignoring Roberto as he walks over to talk with Ozzy’s bodyguard.
When I reach the doorway, Ozzy looks at me in total confusion. His eyes sweep my appearance . . . and my luggage. “Rose. What’s up?”
“I don’t want to interrupt your party, but I need a place to crash. Do you have a spare bedroom?”
“Of course, Flower. Anything for you. Follow me.” He takes my luggage and walks toward a closed door. He shouts to the group, “Let’s get this party started!” It’s the only invitation they require. Blasting music and the snap and pop of opening bottles are my soundtrack as I trail behind him. I’m almost safe.
Ozzy lets me enter the bedroom. I murmur, “Thank you, Ozzy.”
Before I know what’s happening, I’m locked in a huge b
ear hug. Hugging him back, I bite my bottom lip to prevent the tears from escaping. He pulls me in tighter.
Stepping out of our embrace, he says in a low voice, “Whatever you need.”
I nod, but refuse to look up and let him see the hurt I know is written all over my face. And then I’m alone.
All alone.
Again.
I can’t control my tears. The sobs that wrack my body are pitiful, even to my own ears. Thank goodness Ozzy’s party is raging right outside my door. It’s a slender comfort, but I’m grateful no one can hear me.
Intent on removing my contacts before they float away in my tears, I open my luggage and search for my toiletry case through watery eyes.
He left the hotel with a blonde. The thought keeps repeating itself—a mantra that has the opposite of a calming effect. As I sit on the bed and take out my right lens, I can’t help but wonder if I wasn’t adventurous enough with him in bed. Maybe he’s looking for someone who is totally uninhibited . . .
After removing my left lens, I set my glasses within reach on the bedside table, turn off the lamp and collapse onto the bed, arm flung over my face.
How did we get here, anyway?
It was a mistake to accept Marco’s offer to fly me to Vegas, obviously, but I wanted to see Cole right away. And talk with him. It’s easy to understand why Cole was upset, but why would he get drunk and leave with someone else instead of talking with me?
Big, ugly sobs overtake my body while my tears flow unchecked. My vivid imagination conjures up all sorts of things he and a faceless woman with blonde hair are doing right this second. I use the last tissue and toss it onto the floor with the others.
Needing a refill, I put my glasses on and slip into the adjoining bathroom. Sure enough, the bathroom is stocked with everything a person could possibly need, tissues included. I grab another box and walk back into the bedroom. I pass another oversized window, but the lights from the Strip mock me now. Yanking the drapes closed, I throw myself down onto the bed in the dark and curl up into a ball.
The door bursts open and a short, slightly chubby woman walks in. She’s backlit from the hallway, and a pink streak glints in her long, dark hair. Stopping, she says, “I’m sorry, I didn’t know anyone was in here.” I blow my nose. The door closes.
“Are you okay?”
I emit a half laugh. Will I ever be okay again? Motioning toward the pile of used tissues even though it’s too dark in here for her to see, I respond, “Thank you for asking, but I really would like to be alone.”
She sits on the bed beside me and turns on the lamp. A minute later she says, “Oh my. Rose? Rose Bloomer, is that you?”
Frowning, I give her a closer look. “McKenna?”
We sit in stunned silence for a long moment, and then my college freshman roommate wraps her arms around me. “What’s wrong? What are you doing here?”
“I really don’t want to talk about it,” I whimper.
“You’ll feel better if you talk it out with your old roomie. Whatever he did, it is totally on him and not your fault.”
Sniffling, I manage to say, “I’m to blame, too.” McKenna hands me another tissue.
“Shh, it’ll be better tomorrow.” She rubs my back.
“I don’t think so.”
After a couple of minutes of letting me cry my eyes out, she says, “I moved out here a few years ago. Do you live here now, too?”
Blinking at her change in topic, I reply, “No. I live in LA.”
McKenna grins. “I love LA. Great beaches and the clubs are amazing. Not to mention the human scenery.” She wiggles her brows.
I give her a half-hearted smile. My boyfriend was the best scenery in LA. Still is, though I’m less than sure he’s still my boyfriend. I begin to sob hard again.
Lowering her voice, she asks, “What happened?”
“My boyfriend.” I pause to blow my nose again. “We were having a—a rough patch and he misunderstood something he saw tonight. Instead of talking it over with me, he got drunk and left with another woman.” More tears.
“I figured it was something like that. Men can be such asshats.” I nod, and she quirks her head to one side. “So, how did you end up in Ozzy Martinez’s suite?”
I don’t want to admit the truth—that my boyfriend just sang onstage with him—so I say instead, “I met him through my . . . asshat.”
She nods. “Do you want me to get you something to drink?”
“Do you have something that will turn back time so I can fix my mistakes before all this happens?”
“I wish I did.”
Something in her tone gives me pause. “Did something similar happen to you?”
“Sort of. I fell for a guy who isn’t the settling-down type. We get together when he’s in town, which isn’t often. Even then, we’re not exclusive.”
“Oh. I’m sorry. Does he know how you feel?”
“Of course not, Rookie.” She uses my old college nickname. “If I told him, he’d run faster than the wind and I’d never see him in person again.”
“My boyfriend told me he loved me a few days ago. I didn’t tell him that I felt the same way, even though I do. Now look what’s happened.”
Throwing her hands akimbo, she proclaims, “We’re both a mess.”
Despite the years of separation, our old connection is surprisingly strong. She giggles, causing me to snort through my tears, and suddenly we’re transported back to NYU, dealing with the earth-shattering—or so we thought—problems of freshman year. Our giggles turn into chortles and soon both of us are rolling on the bed, laughing like it’s going out of style.
A knock sounds and Ozzy pokes his head through the opened door. Beside me, McKenna stiffens. “I’m just checking in on you, Rose.”
Leaning on my elbows, I say, “Thanks. McKenna has been cheering me up.”
His gaze flicks to McKenna before landing back on me. “Well, I won’t intrude.” He backs out of the doorway and I hear it snick shut.
“Thank you. I can’t believe you were able to make me laugh.”
“What are friends for?”
“What do you do now, McKenna?” Although we were close through college, after Chris died, I pulled away from all reminders of that time in my life. When I moved to LA after graduation, I didn’t give anyone my address and never opened any social media accounts under my real name.
“I’m a graphic artist. The big casinos hire me to do some of their stuff, like promotional posters and online graphics. Even neon signage.”
“Oh, that’s cool.”
She nods. “What do you do?”
Alarm bells go off in my head, but I can tell her the basics. “I work in publicity.”
“Now that’s cool. Do you work with any big-time celebrities like you always talked about?”
Before I can answer her, there’s a loud crash out in the main room, followed by laughter. An unknown male voice says, “Way to go, Ozzy! You’re my hero!”
McKenna clears her throat. “You know, I think my work here is done. You haven’t used a tissue in”—she pulls out her cellphone and checks the time—“minutes. But before I go, what’s your number?” I rattle off my digits and within seconds my phone rings twice, then stops. “Now we can stay in touch. I hope things work out for you and your boyfriend, Rose.”
“Thanks. And for you with your guy, too.”
She gives me a small salute from the doorway. “My money’s on you.”
Early Sunday morning
LADY GAGA’S “TELEPHONE” enters my consciousness, and I sit up in a strange bed, already flailing around to find my cell phone. As soon as I locate it, I swipe to answer the call, shaking my head to clear the cobwebs. It feels like cotton balls have taken up residence under my eyelids.
“Good morning, Greta,” I croak.
“This most certainly is not a good morning. What are you doing sleeping? I pay you to work.”
I check the time. It’s six-thirty. “It was a late eveni
ng.”
“You obviously didn’t spend it working.”
Technically, I wasn’t in Las Vegas to work. I glance at the mound of discarded tissues on the floor. “What happened? Everything was running smoothly online last night.” I brazen it out.
“What have I taught you about location work?”
In a fog, I respond to her question by rote: “To always ensure the talent follows the predetermined strategy, despite themselves.”
“And what, exactly, were you supposed to be doing for the Cole Manchester account last night after I left you?”
Pain lances through my heart at the sound of his name. “To make sure all media outlets reported about his surprise performance during Ozzy Martinez’s concert.”
“And?”
“To monitor his social media accounts.”
“At least you know what your assignment was supposed to have been. However, you failed in execution.”
Greta’s all about significant silences, and I’ve used her protracted lecture to dig out my laptop. Hopefully, I can figure out what’s going on before she tells me. “But the websites were praising his return to the stage.”
“Perhaps at first. But if you cared to do your job properly, you’d already know the internet exploded about Cole marrying some nobody named Starr Nelson last night. His song barely made a blip. Your inattention allowed this mess to get out of control when it should have been nipped in the bud. I expect you to clean it up.”
He got married? My whole body goes cold with the news.
Greta continues, “Now, I’ve already spoken with Cole and he denies this happened, of course. He says he hooked up with this Starr woman, but they didn’t get married. However, there’s a marriage certificate all over the entertainment news sites, together with photos. So, I’m giving you one hour to get up to speed on what you already should have stopped, create a strategy to handle this situation—don’t forget he’s publicly dating that model—and report back to me.”
I still can’t catch a breath.
“For this breach, I’m putting you on probation.” The line goes dead.