by S. M. Shade
Maybe I’ve been naïve, believing what I see and hear of celebrities. “Seriously?”
“Seriously. Fans aren’t happy with just hearing the music or the occasional interview. Some seem to think they should know every inch of our lives, so you give them what they want. A love story with a beautiful woman.”
Shaking my head, I get to my feet. “That’s…sad.”
“That’s life,” he sighs, joining me.
We walk back to the boathouse, and I sneak a couple glances at him along the way. I keep waiting for the Marcus Singleton I’ve always heard about to show up, the one who fucks everything in sight and gets kicked out of hotels for trashing them. So far, I’ve seen no sign of that behavior, other than the day he moved in and acted like a dick.
This version of him is much better, fun and easy to talk to. “So, if the Alicia thing is fake, do you have a girlfriend?” I ask as we enter the dimly lit boathouse.
“That’s two questions in a row,” he chides, before answering. “No, no girlfriend, are you offering?”
“Very funny. I just want to make sure there isn’t another woman out there reading too much into those pictures.” The red locker where I had Lance store my bag is slightly ajar, probably because the damn thing sticks so bad. I grab my bag and turn to find myself face to face with Holt.
His eyes look like two oil drops in the shadows of the boathouse, and they’re locked onto mine. He pushes a lock of my sandy, windblown hair behind my ear and murmurs, “Thank you for today.”
Swallowing, I can’t seem to pull my gaze away from his. “You’re welcome. I had a lot of fun.”
Two callused fingers run down my arm. “So did I.”
There must be a tornado nearby because all the air has somehow been sucked out of the room. All I can see are his lips, the way they curve up into a cupid’s bow, framed by light stubble that would feel amazing against my skin. His gaze drops to my mouth, and I close my eyes, knowing in that almost supernatural way that he’s going to kiss me.
Time seems to slow, my hard heartbeats counting the seconds. Thump, thump. Warm breath flows across my chilled skin. Our first contact is just the lightest feather of a touch across my mouth, but I still feel it all the way to my toes.
His palm cups my jaw and my hand finds its way to the nape of his neck that so enticed me earlier. There’s not a rational thought in my head when he presses another, firmer kiss against my bottom lip. A switch flipped somewhere, and all I am now is a pile of need and desire.
A guttural sound escapes him when I dip my tongue into his mouth, and he instantly meets it with his own. Everything falls away. The world is gone, and we’re floating here, connected in a way that feels more powerful than a typical kiss. I never want it to end.
A sudden bright light makes me see pink, and my eyes pop open just as we break apart to see Lance standing in the doorway. “Uh-sorry. Just putting the jet ski away. I can come back,” he rambles, and darts out the door.
The moment is broken, but I’m no less affected by it.
“Are you okay?”
I look up into his amused face. Get it together, Kinley. “Yeah, I’m good.” Sure, perfectly fine. It just feels like I’m walking in slow motion after getting off a treadmill. I throw the bag over my shoulder and rush out of the boathouse.
Holt catches up with me, and we walk in silence until we enter the back doors. “Unless you plan to walk me up to my room—" he begins, but I cut him off.
“No! I mean, I can’t. I…need to get some work done.” If I go to his room, we’ll end up naked.
His lips twitch as if he’s trying not to laugh. “You didn’t let me finish. Unless you want to walk me to my room, I need my keycard from your bag.”
I’m an idiot. “Oh yeah, sorry.” I rummage through the bag. He stands beside me, and I can feel my cheeks getting hotter as I dig through the bag. Where is the damned key so I can go? I need time to overanalyze that kiss and blow it out of proportion in my head.
“I know it’s in here,” I grumble.
His hand wraps around my elbow, and he guides me back a few steps to two wingback chairs as I continue to search. “Relax, bug.”
Finally, I just dump the contents on the side table. Sunblock, towels, a few hair ties and other random objects lay scattered across the table, but there’s no key card.
He frowns. “I saw you put it in there.”
“I know. Maybe it fell out when Lance took my bag, or in the bottom of the locker. I’ll go back and look for it.” After that kiss, it could’ve dropped out of the bag and ran around the room and I wouldn’t have noticed.
Zya Day walks through the lobby, and I don’t like the look on her face when she sees Holt standing there. It reminds me of the hyena I saw stalking a zebra on the nature show I watched last night.
He swears under his breath when he notices her.
“If you want to head on up to your room, I’ll grab you a replacement card.”
“Good idea,” he mumbles, and pushes through the door to the stairs.
Zya’s face crumples into a scowl, and she stalks off. Good riddance.
It only takes me a couple of minutes to program a new keycard, but before I get away from the front desk, the clerk, Tessa, hands me the phone, her eyes wide. “It’s Mr. Singleton. He said he’s been robbed.”
Fear washes over me.
I guess the key wasn’t lost.
“Send Clark to Hol—Mr. Singleton’s room,” I order, taking the phone.
“Holt.”
It’s the only word I get out when he snaps, “Was this some kind of plan? Get me out of my room, then steal my guitar?”
His words shock me to the point I can’t even answer for a moment. I barely recognize the voice growling in my ear. “I swear to fuck, Kinley. If I don’t get it back.”
Rage ignites in my blood. “Are you fucking kidding me right now?” After the day we just spent together, he’s accusing me? He can take his guitar and stick it up his ass. Sideways.
The stunned look on Tessa’s face makes me pause for a second, and I take a deep breath. Professional, Kinley. The opposite of your behavior today. Professional. “Mr. Singleton, I am contacting the police, and security is on their way to your room. We’ll do our best to recover your property.”
He breathes heavily into the phone. “Clark’s here,” he snaps, before hanging up.
There are so many emotions churning in me now I don’t know what to feel first. Disappointment and hurt seem to have a primary spot, since the man’s tongue was down my throat just minutes ago, but they’re quickly being overrun by fear at the thought of how this may affect my business. We can’t be known as the resort where the most popular musician was robbed.
I turn back to Tessa. “Call the police. Let them know we have a serious theft from an affluent guest, but don’t say his name.” I’m sure he wouldn’t want it going out over the police radios.
I call security while she’s doing that and inform them we’ll need to access the surveillance videos. I’m so glad I upgraded to one of the top systems last year. If anyone went into his room, we’ll have it on tape.
Tessa hangs up the phone. “Cops are on their way.”
“Good. Please send them up to Mr. Singleton’s suite when they arrive.”
My stomach tilts as I ride the elevator up, but it’s got nothing to do with the ride. How did today go downhill so quickly?
His door stands open, and I can hear Clark’s even voice trying to reason with him before I get inside. When I step in the door, I’m nearly knocked over with the force of his glare. Trying not to let him affect me, I put on my customer service persona, and address my questions to Clark.
“Have you made a list of what’s missing?”
“My fucking guitar!” Holt shouts. “Do you need me to write it down?”
“The police are on their way,” I reply, my voice calm while my emotions are raging. “Herb is accessing the surveillance videos. Clark, please go and help him isol
ate and copy the footage. I’m sure the authorities will want to review it.”
Clark glances toward a seething Holt and gives a quick shake of his head. “This is not a safe situation to leave you in.”
Clark may be bigger than Holt, but if looks could kill, he’d be in bloody pieces. “I’m not going to hurt her,” he says through gritted teeth. “I’m the victim here. I want to see the footage.”
“Fine,” I reply as Clark opens his mouth to object. “We’ll all go.”
I’m dying to see it as well. Because the key was in the damn bag. Even if it fell out and was found by a guest or employee, they’d have no idea what room it goes to.
I lead the way, and Clark walks right behind me, keeping Holt a good distance away. I understand his caution, but I don’t think it’s necessary. Maybe I’m naïve, but I’m not afraid of Holt. He’s a pissed off asshole, but even the stuff I’ve seen in the past in the tabloids never marked him as violent.
Herb and another guard, Nigel, are working in the security room when we join them. The large screen on the wall shows the hallway outside Holt’s suite, all the way to the elevator. “Do you have a time for the suspected theft?” Nigel asks.
I turn to Holt. “Did you see the guitar in your room after work?”
“Yes, it was after three this afternoon when I left it.” He throws me a look that makes it clear he still suspects me of luring him away.
Nigel forwards the video to three o’clock, then advances it slowly. We watch as three turns to four, five, then six. Nothing. Nobody even steps out onto his floor. Finally, there’s movement, and a very unprofessional curse drops out of my mouth. My resort is going to be top news on the entertainment rags tomorrow.
Zya Day and her sister throw anxious looks down the hall before breaking into giggles and swiping the stolen keycard to enter Holt’s suite. They’re inside for less than two minutes, but when they exit, Zya carries the missing guitar in question, and her sister has something in her hands I can’t quite make out.
A snort from Clark makes me jump. “I hope you brought extra underwear.”
Oh god. It is. She stole some of his underwear.
“That little bitch,” he says and turns to me. “What room is she in?”
Yeah, right. I’m just going to have him storm off after a sixteen year old girl.
“I’m following her,” Nigel points out.
“Let’s see if she took it to her room,” I tell him. My biggest hope is that she didn’t leave the building with it. We can return it, the cops can deal with the Days, and this won’t turn into a PR nightmare.
Nigel works his magic, jumping between monitors and reviewing each piece of footage until we can watch Zya and her sister take the elevator back to their floor and rush the guitar into their family’s suite.
The number on the door doesn’t escape Holt’s attention, and he heads for the door. Thankfully, two officers stand on the other side of it.
Just in time.
Holt fumes while we explain the situation and show the officers the footage. Finally, we all head to Zya’s suite.
Two additional officers join us, and we’re told to stay back and let them do the work. The door pops open a few seconds after they knock, and Mrs. Day snaps, “What the hell is this about?”
Zya and her sister loiter on the other side of the room, and I see Zya slap her sister’s arm when she asks her something.
“No, you can’t search our suite! You need a warrant! Don’t you know who we are?”
“Yes, ma’am,” the officer replies, his voice monotone. “I’m still going to need to see everyone’s identification. We have probable cause to search this room, and the owner’s permission. You and your family need to stand aside and let us do our job, then we’ll be out of your way.”
“This is ridiculous,” she shouts, and grabs her phone. She faces it, hits a button and says, “My family is being persecuted, and I want the world to see what they’re doing at the Foxhaven Retreat!”
Great. She’s live streaming this shit show.
“Just look what they’re doing to us!” she cries, in full drama llama mode, turning the phone to record the officers who are now searching the place.
“Your daughter stole my guitar!” Holt snaps, disregarding the camera. “I want it back now!”
Mrs. Day sneers at him. “My daughter doesn’t steal! You think just because you’re the hot shit Marcus Singleton, you can sic police on us? What’s the matter? Zya didn’t pay attention to you?”
Holt opens his mouth to argue, and Clark grabs his arm. He murmurs to him, low enough that the camera won’t catch it. “Don’t play her game. You’re giving her what she wants.”
“Mr. Singleton,” an officer calls out from across the room. “Is this the missing guitar?”
Instead of vindication, relief is all I see when Holt spots the guitar. His body practically sags with it. It’s like they handed him back a missing child, not a replaceable instrument. “Yes, it’s mine.”
Another officer exits the younger daughter’s bedroom. “And are these…the other items in question?”
I can’t help the laughter that escapes as the officer brandishes a handful of boxer briefs. “Did you get that on your video?” I snort, and Mrs. Day flashes me a hateful look before launching into another tirade.
“My daughters didn’t do nothing! This is a setup! I know my rights, and you can’t do this to me! I’ll own this fucking place!”
She rants on as the officer hands the guitar and underwear to Holt. “Sir, would you like to press charges?”
“Yes, on both of them.”
“Yes, sir. If you’ll return to your room, we’ll be up to get your statement.”
The officer turns to me. “If you could have your security provide copies of the surveillance video, that will speed things along.”
Holt glances around at the three ring circus now taking place. Mrs. Day is screaming, the younger sister is crying, and Zya is hurling curses at an officer trying to cuff her. It’s clear the officer is attempting to clear the room and calm things down.
“Absolutely. I’m evicting the entire family. If you could inform her they need to be out within the hour, I’ll get my guys out of here.”
“Will do,” the officer agrees.
Clark and Herb are more than happy to escape the trash fest and return to the security room when I tell them, and Holt steps out into the hall.
I walk down the hall a bit until I can hear better and call down to the front desk. “The Day family is being removed. Please return the money they’ve paid for the rest of their stay and place them on the blacklist. We’ll also need to get housekeeping up here tomorrow.”
After that’s done, I turn to head to the security room to make sure we also retain copies of the evidence, but I’m blocked by a wall of muscle.
“Kinley,” Holt begins. “I—”
“If there’s something else you require at the moment, Mr. Singleton, please call down to the front desk. I have a situation to deal with.” My customer service persona is back in place, and it feels like armor I need to get me through this.
“I’m sorry. I just thought…because we spent the day together…” Because I was with him all day, I must’ve been distracting him, so he could be burglarized?
He still smells like the lake, and I can see tiny grains of sand clinging to his arm hairs when he reaches to touch my shoulder. I step back, then around him. “Please accept my apologies for the trouble you’ve experienced. I hope we’ve resolved things to your satisfaction. Enjoy the rest of your stay.”
A knot lodges in my throat as I stalk away from him and down the stairs. I’m not going to give him the opportunity to trap me in the elevator.
I don’t want his apologies. There’s a quote I’ve long admired by Maya Angleou. “When people show you who they are, believe them. The first time.” Maybe he can be nice and funny, but the second something happened, he turned on me, and threw a tantrum like a spoiled brat. An
d I suppose that makes sense. The world loves him, everyone caters to him, and in the end, he always gets his way.
Well, not this time.
I may not have inherited my father’s patience, but I do have his pride.
All I want to do is lie on my couch and let my anger war with regret, but my night won’t be over until the Day family is off the premises. I return to the front desk and flop into a chair.
Tessa glances at me, then hands me a bottle of water. “Thanks. Good job getting the cops here and to the right room.”
“Clark texted me. So, he got his stuff back?”
“Yeah, and both the girls are getting charged. I expect another fight when they find out they have to leave.”
Tessa nudges me, drawing my attention to the two officers who are walking Zya and her sister through the lobby. They must’ve talked them out of handcuffs, because neither girl wears them. Reality show fame is good for some things.
Their mother bursts out of the elevator a few moments later, alongside a cop who helps her with suitcases. She’s ranting the entire time. Her fist slams onto the front desk, and she shouts, “I want my money back! You think you can throw me out and keep my money, bitch?”
For once, plastering the customer service smile on my face feels good because I know how much it’ll piss her off. “Your refund has already been processed and credited to the credit card you provided.” I slide the receipt across the desk.
“No! I want cash!”
I glance up and shrug at the cop. “She has her money back.”
“Arlene! What the hell is going on?” Wherever her husband has been through all of this, he’s back now. “Where are the girls?”
“Arrested!” she screeches. “And—”
“And you thought it’d be a good idea to broadcast it over Facebook? That video is everywhere! What the hell is the matter with you?” He glances at me, then notices she’s dragging out suitcases. “How many hotels do we have to get kicked out of?”
“Grant! We’re being persecuted! I—”