Love in Lingerie
Page 5
He’s an idiot if he thinks that stealing my car is a wise move. The thing is outfitted with enough tracking software and cameras to find Jimmy Hoffa’s body. I open my mouth to enlighten them, then shut it. Let them get caught. They’ll have to stop and charge the damn thing soon enough, its battery already low. He has my wallet and watch in hand, and I wince at the sight of the Glashutte Original in his hands. The watch was my father’s—the inscription imprinted on me, his rough drawl clear as day in my mind every time I read it. You are the captain of your soul. The loss of it will hurt more than the car.
“Nice watch.” He grins at me and he is lucky I value my life. Take the gun out of this equation, and I’d have him down on the ground, my fist in that smirk, then my elbows. He thinks I am a rich prick who grew up above the law. He doesn’t know the neighborhoods I roamed as an only child, the type of streets where you fought for your respect and stole everything else.
Maybe I’ve gotten soft. I should have left the watch at home. I could have stuck a twenty in my pocket and left the keys in the car, locking it with my phone instead of the fob. Instead, I trusted the address, the Ritz Carlton logo, and a squeaky clean online profile. Now I’m literally left with my dick out, watching the man stuff my clothing into a duffel bag, my thousand-dollar jacket shoved, with little regard, in last. I watch my phone disappear into his jean pocket.
“You mind leaving my clothes?” I flash the woman a smile. “It’d be nice to walk out of here.”
The grin, one that hasn’t failed me yet, earns me a downward glance, her eyes drifting over my cock. “Go right ahead, beautiful. Nothing to be ashamed of there.” She smacks her gum and smiles. “Now, let’s get your sexy ass on that balcony.”
I am half-relieved, half-concerned, at the instructions. Maybe she isn’t going to kill me. Maybe she’ll just lock me out, thirteen floors up. If so, how long will it take for someone to see me? How long before they track down my room and let me out? I glance toward the balcony door. “Give me a robe, at least.”
She considers the idea, then nods, barking out an order to the man, who scoffs at my request while wearing a puffy jacket that I could climb Everest with. I watch as he yanks a fluffy white robe off a hanger and walks past me, giving me a wide berth, the sliding door opened, the robe left outside. Sixty seconds later, I am beside it, the woman’s bright orange fingernails waving at me as she closes the curtain and locks the door. I pull on the bathrobe and wonder how the fuck I got here.
“Mr. Marks, you can’t throw furniture off the balconies.” The hotel’s night manager sneers at me with a snobbish scowl that I haven’t seen in a decade, not since I moved solidly into the upper class.
“I understand that. I was trying to signal to the people out on the deck.” In the lunacy of this situation, I seem to be in trouble, the man glaring at me as if I am about to be put on a Ritz Carlton blacklist of sorts.
“You will have to pay for the damage. You destroyed the chaise lounge. And the side table.” He pushes a piece of paper forward, one where he has neatly written down both items, as if I might argue this point at some future moment. Underneath the two, he has added “Bathrobe: $40,” the words underlined.
“That’s fine. I’ll pay for it.” I rub my eyes and wonder at what point everyone lost their damn minds. The police had been the first to show up, called by this idiot, who still seems convinced that I was drunk and slinging furniture off my balcony just for the joyous hell of it. It took fifteen minutes to explain the situation and get them in pursuit of the Tesla, which could be halfway to the border by now. Then, I had to practically beg the hotel for use of their phone, making calls to my credit cards and bank. By the time I hung up with American Express, this vulture was waiting, pouncing on me with the ferocity of a disapproving parole officer.
“We aren’t a party hotel, Mr. Marks. We would appreciate it if you conducted such … events at another establishment.” Events. I’m not sure if he is referring to my sex life or the robbery. I ignore the statement and stand, rubbing my fingers across the lines of my forehead. “I’d like to make a final call, if you don’t mind. Then I’ll be on my way and out of your hair.”
The man purses his lips. “There is the issue of the payment for these items. I’m afraid that you won’t be able to leave until they are taken care of.”
My patience snaps. “I told you that I will pay for them. Just charge them to my room.” I reach forward, putting a hand on the phone and dragging it toward me. I need to call someone to pick me up, but all of my numbers are in my phone. I flip the phone book open to the residential section, thinking through my friends, my mind blanking on half of their last names.
“Your card has been declined, sir.” I stop somewhere in the Ds, and turn my head to him. “What? It’s an American Express. Run it again—“ Oh. In my haste to stop the bitch from a Trey Marks sponsored shopping spree, I had reported all of my cards stolen. The American Express representative had gone through the pending transactions with me, and I had authorized the hotel’s hold on the room. Their initial authorization had probably not been enough to cover the damn furniture, this new authorization rejected.
Fuck. “I’m sorry. I just had all of my cards canceled.” I run a hand through my hair and try to think. I hate the look on this asshole’s face right now, that mix of pity and contempt, his thoughts as clear as the smell of shit that I have stepped in. You can’t afford to be here. You don’t belong here. Words I’ve run from for a decade, fought through, moved past with my fucking Tesla and penthouse, my company that I can barely keep afloat. I look down at the phone book and fight the urge to smack it across the man’s knowing face. “I’m calling someone to pick me up. They’ll pay for the items.”
I turn another page, my options reducing.
If this night were lingerie, it’d be a leopard print satin set. Trashy and destined for ridicule.
Chapter 4
Her
It’s my car’s first visit to a Ritz Carlton, and I pull up carefully, worried that I might bump into a Rolls Royce or a priceless planter, the deserted drive giving me a little peace. I come to a stop before the valet, who eyes my Kia in the cautious way that someone might avoid a bum. There is a knock on the passenger window and I startle, glancing over to see Trey. I roll down the window, watching his hand steal in and take the leather portfolio off of the passenger seat. “Is this it?”
I nod. “Yes.”
He doesn’t explain why he needs the company’s checks at one in the morning, or why he’s wearing a bathrobe. “I’ll be right back.” He walks off with the portfolio, and I notice his bare feet. In the last two months, I’ve seen several sides of Trey Marks. This is, by far, the oddest.
Ten minutes and five bucks to the valet later, I pull away from the hotel, the check folder in Trey’s lap, the top of one muscular thigh visible under the edge of his robe.
“Where are we going?” The streets are empty, amber streetlights illuminating half moons of asphalt, the bright glare of road construction up ahead.
“Good question.” He lifts up a hand and rubs at the back of his neck, a scent of soap drifting over. I’ve never been so close to him, his elbow bumping against me, his knee close to the gearshift, my movements careful not to touch him. He shifts in the seat and his robe opens further. I get a glimpse of more thigh and flick my eyes back to the road. I don’t think he’s wearing underwear. The questions mount.
He turns his head, and I feel his eyes on me. “Does your fiancé live with you?”
“No.” I think back to our disastrous Mensa meeting, the stilted goodbye. Good thing Craig hadn’t spent the night. I could explain a lot of things, but a call at one in the morning would be difficult. “Why?”
“I don’t have my keys. Maybe we can find a hotel, one that will accept checks.” He falls silent, and I attempt to put together the pieces of what he is saying.
“You need a place to stay? Tonight?” I look over. “Is that the roundabout point you are trying to make?”
“Nice watch.” He grins at me and he is lucky I value my life. Take the gun out of this equation, and I’d have him down on the ground, my fist in that smirk, then my elbows. He thinks I am a rich prick who grew up above the law. He doesn’t know the neighborhoods I roamed as an only child, the type of streets where you fought for your respect and stole everything else.
Maybe I’ve gotten soft. I should have left the watch at home. I could have stuck a twenty in my pocket and left the keys in the car, locking it with my phone instead of the fob. Instead, I trusted the address, the Ritz Carlton logo, and a squeaky clean online profile. Now I’m literally left with my dick out, watching the man stuff my clothing into a duffel bag, my thousand-dollar jacket shoved, with little regard, in last. I watch my phone disappear into his jean pocket.
“You mind leaving my clothes?” I flash the woman a smile. “It’d be nice to walk out of here.”
The grin, one that hasn’t failed me yet, earns me a downward glance, her eyes drifting over my cock. “Go right ahead, beautiful. Nothing to be ashamed of there.” She smacks her gum and smiles. “Now, let’s get your sexy ass on that balcony.”
I am half-relieved, half-concerned, at the instructions. Maybe she isn’t going to kill me. Maybe she’ll just lock me out, thirteen floors up. If so, how long will it take for someone to see me? How long before they track down my room and let me out? I glance toward the balcony door. “Give me a robe, at least.”
She considers the idea, then nods, barking out an order to the man, who scoffs at my request while wearing a puffy jacket that I could climb Everest with. I watch as he yanks a fluffy white robe off a hanger and walks past me, giving me a wide berth, the sliding door opened, the robe left outside. Sixty seconds later, I am beside it, the woman’s bright orange fingernails waving at me as she closes the curtain and locks the door. I pull on the bathrobe and wonder how the fuck I got here.
“Mr. Marks, you can’t throw furniture off the balconies.” The hotel’s night manager sneers at me with a snobbish scowl that I haven’t seen in a decade, not since I moved solidly into the upper class.
“I understand that. I was trying to signal to the people out on the deck.” In the lunacy of this situation, I seem to be in trouble, the man glaring at me as if I am about to be put on a Ritz Carlton blacklist of sorts.
“You will have to pay for the damage. You destroyed the chaise lounge. And the side table.” He pushes a piece of paper forward, one where he has neatly written down both items, as if I might argue this point at some future moment. Underneath the two, he has added “Bathrobe: $40,” the words underlined.
“That’s fine. I’ll pay for it.” I rub my eyes and wonder at what point everyone lost their damn minds. The police had been the first to show up, called by this idiot, who still seems convinced that I was drunk and slinging furniture off my balcony just for the joyous hell of it. It took fifteen minutes to explain the situation and get them in pursuit of the Tesla, which could be halfway to the border by now. Then, I had to practically beg the hotel for use of their phone, making calls to my credit cards and bank. By the time I hung up with American Express, this vulture was waiting, pouncing on me with the ferocity of a disapproving parole officer.
“We aren’t a party hotel, Mr. Marks. We would appreciate it if you conducted such … events at another establishment.” Events. I’m not sure if he is referring to my sex life or the robbery. I ignore the statement and stand, rubbing my fingers across the lines of my forehead. “I’d like to make a final call, if you don’t mind. Then I’ll be on my way and out of your hair.”
The man purses his lips. “There is the issue of the payment for these items. I’m afraid that you won’t be able to leave until they are taken care of.”
My patience snaps. “I told you that I will pay for them. Just charge them to my room.” I reach forward, putting a hand on the phone and dragging it toward me. I need to call someone to pick me up, but all of my numbers are in my phone. I flip the phone book open to the residential section, thinking through my friends, my mind blanking on half of their last names.
“Your card has been declined, sir.” I stop somewhere in the Ds, and turn my head to him. “What? It’s an American Express. Run it again—“ Oh. In my haste to stop the bitch from a Trey Marks sponsored shopping spree, I had reported all of my cards stolen. The American Express representative had gone through the pending transactions with me, and I had authorized the hotel’s hold on the room. Their initial authorization had probably not been enough to cover the damn furniture, this new authorization rejected.
Fuck. “I’m sorry. I just had all of my cards canceled.” I run a hand through my hair and try to think. I hate the look on this asshole’s face right now, that mix of pity and contempt, his thoughts as clear as the smell of shit that I have stepped in. You can’t afford to be here. You don’t belong here. Words I’ve run from for a decade, fought through, moved past with my fucking Tesla and penthouse, my company that I can barely keep afloat. I look down at the phone book and fight the urge to smack it across the man’s knowing face. “I’m calling someone to pick me up. They’ll pay for the items.”
I turn another page, my options reducing.
If this night were lingerie, it’d be a leopard print satin set. Trashy and destined for ridicule.
Chapter 4
Her
It’s my car’s first visit to a Ritz Carlton, and I pull up carefully, worried that I might bump into a Rolls Royce or a priceless planter, the deserted drive giving me a little peace. I come to a stop before the valet, who eyes my Kia in the cautious way that someone might avoid a bum. There is a knock on the passenger window and I startle, glancing over to see Trey. I roll down the window, watching his hand steal in and take the leather portfolio off of the passenger seat. “Is this it?”
I nod. “Yes.”
He doesn’t explain why he needs the company’s checks at one in the morning, or why he’s wearing a bathrobe. “I’ll be right back.” He walks off with the portfolio, and I notice his bare feet. In the last two months, I’ve seen several sides of Trey Marks. This is, by far, the oddest.
Ten minutes and five bucks to the valet later, I pull away from the hotel, the check folder in Trey’s lap, the top of one muscular thigh visible under the edge of his robe.
“Where are we going?” The streets are empty, amber streetlights illuminating half moons of asphalt, the bright glare of road construction up ahead.
“Good question.” He lifts up a hand and rubs at the back of his neck, a scent of soap drifting over. I’ve never been so close to him, his elbow bumping against me, his knee close to the gearshift, my movements careful not to touch him. He shifts in the seat and his robe opens further. I get a glimpse of more thigh and flick my eyes back to the road. I don’t think he’s wearing underwear. The questions mount.
He turns his head, and I feel his eyes on me. “Does your fiancé live with you?”
“No.” I think back to our disastrous Mensa meeting, the stilted goodbye. Good thing Craig hadn’t spent the night. I could explain a lot of things, but a call at one in the morning would be difficult. “Why?”
“I don’t have my keys. Maybe we can find a hotel, one that will accept checks.” He falls silent, and I attempt to put together the pieces of what he is saying.
“You need a place to stay? Tonight?” I look over. “Is that the roundabout point you are trying to make?”
