I yawned again, so big it hurt my jaw. “That’s fine. We’ll sleep in your lobby, on the sofa. My friend likes sleeping naked. I talk in my sleep, and since I work for a phone sex hotline I tend to use the word cock a lot. If you hear me yelling about how much I love big cock, or how I love to watch you play with your big cock, just give me a nudge.”
Her smile drooped below the gum line.
“Let me double-check and see if there were any recent cancellations.”
She stuck her nose into her computer, tapped a few keys. I dug around in my purse for my wad of Latham’s cash.
“A single is recently available. King-sized bed.” Smile. “Will that be okay?”
“That will be fine,” I slurred, my eyes shutting briefly.
“Our rate is one hundred and thirty dollars a night.”
“Cash okay?”
“Cash is fine, but I need a credit card for incidentals.”
I always wondered why they called room ser vice and pay-per-view porno incidentals. Weren’t those the main reasons people stayed in hotels?
“Wallet was stolen,” I told her. “No credit cards.”
“That’s terrible.”
Perhaps, but she kept smiling.
“Cash deposit okay?”
She nodded; money, receipts, and key cards changed hands, and Phin came in. We managed to find our room, the key worked on the third try, and I stumbled to the bed and kicked off my shoes. Phin stood and stared.
“I can call down to the lobby, have them bring in a cot for me.”
“Don’t worry about it,” I said, yawning. “Just try to control yourself.”
He smiled, sheepish.
“What if I try really hard and fail?”
“I’ll be sleeping. Try not to wake me up.”
I tugged off my sweatpants, too tired to feel awkward or embarrassed. Then I noticed I was still wearing those lacy red pan ties, and I felt both awkward and embarrassed and not nearly as tired anymore. In fact, I was all of a sudden pretty awake.
Phin watched me, waiting to see what I did next. I looked down at my sweatshirt. Take it off, or keep it on? I had a sports bra on under it. Not sexy at all, flattening my boobs. But why should I care how I looked? We were just going to sleep. And seeing me in my underwear was the same thing as seeing me in a swimsuit.
Of course, it took me three hours to put on a swimsuit.
The hell with it. We were adults. I was tired and wanted to be comfortable.
The sweatshirt came off.
I met Phin’s eyes and didn’t feel comfortable at all. I felt awkward and vulnerable and ner vous and also a little excited, like a teenager right before her first time. Phin’s eyes had that purple hue again, and his expression was intense.
I levered myself between the sheets.
Go to sleep, I told myself.
But instead of closing my eyes, I watched Phin take his shirt off. His body was different than Latham’s. Latham’s body was decent. Lithe, strong, distinguished. But comfortable and familiar. Sort of like a Lincoln Town Car.
Phin had a Ferarri. Fast and sharp and sculpted. And dangerous.
Quit it. You just buried Latham. He hasn’t even been dead for three weeks.
When Phin began taking off his sweatpants I used all of my self-control to kill the bedside lamp so I couldn’t see anything else.
The bed bounced lightly when he climbed in, and then he turned off his light and we were both lying there in the dark and I was getting warm. Really warm.
Hot, actually.
If he tries something, I’ll roll with it, I decided.
I closed my eyes, waiting for him to touch me. Wanting him to touch me. I knew it was wrong, for a hundred different reasons. But I wanted sex. I wanted to feel something other than pain. With all the death and horror of the past weeks, I needed something life-affirming.
I no longer had love. Love died with my fiancé.
But I didn’t expect love from Phin.
However, an orgasm or two would be a good temporary placeholder.
The bed springs creaked, and I sensed him shifting. Moving closer to me.
Maybe my breath quickened a little bit. Maybe I shifted a little bit toward him as well.
I waited. Pictured his hands on my body. My breasts. Between my thighs. I remembered his kiss, how good it was, and imagined how his mouth would feel on other parts of me.
But nothing happened. He didn’t make a move.
I’d been rebuffing him all night, and he hadn’t been put off. Now, when I finally want him to try something, he decides to listen to me?
Didn’t guys understand women at all?
I sighed, loudly, hoping he’d take the hint.
Nothing.
I sighed again, this time putting a bit of slut into the tone. More of a moan than a sigh.
Nada. Zip. Zilch.
I realized I couldn’t back down at this point. I was turned on. All I had to do was reach for him, and I would make sure he was turned on as well.
My hand crept under the covers, toward Phin. I aimed low, for a part I was sure would get his attention. The king-sized bed seemed huge, the distance between us enormous, and I really did feel like a virginal school-girl, so much so that I almost giggled, and giggling is not something I’m known for.
And then I heard it. A sound. A horrible, libido-killing sound.
Phin was snoring.
My hand stopped, flattening out like someone had stomped on it. I shrunk back, turned and faced the other way, the luxurious heat of arousal transforming into the sting of rejection. Giggly and turned on to red-faced humiliation in less than three seconds. It had to be some kind of record.
I closed my eyes and swore that if he ever tried to touch me again I’d break off his fingers. Then I tried to sleep.
Exhausted as I was, sleep didn’t come.
CHAPTER 30
LUCKY BITCH.
It had a December 31 vibe, like counting down the seconds until the new year, and Alex had been looking forward to seeing the monochromatic fireworks of poor Lance’s head blowing up. But lucky Jack stormed in at the last possible second and saved his miserable life.
How anticlimactic.
Things became interesting again when the two cops arrived, but Jack killed the live feed in the middle of that little drama. Cue commercial. Switch channels.
Alex considers her next move. It’s still too early to pay Jack’s ex a visit, so she spends some time on the Internet, reading up on defibrillators, replying to an e-mail in her anonymous account, learning about bulletproofing a vehicle. Boring stuff, but necessary. Then she logs on to the homepage of her pay-as-you-go cell phone ser vice provider. The phones are impossible to trace, but they do keep track of minutes and numbers called. Because Alex is spoofing caller ID, most of the numbers listed are 555-5555.
But there are a few real numbers. The numbers Jack has called from the phone Alex gave her.
One of them is interesting. An 800 number. Alex makes a mental note to call it later.
At a little after seven a.m. she dresses in the police uniform and goes for a ride, finding a twenty-four-hour con ve nience store and picking up two rolls of duct tape and some quick energy foods: chips, beef jerky, candy bars. She also gets a six-pack of bottled water.
It’s going to be a thirsty day.
Back at the hotel she checks her appearance and then knocks on Alan’s door.
“Yeah?” he answers.
Alex steps away from the peephole, letting him see her good profile and her cop clothes.
“Mr. Daniels? It’s about your ex-wife.”
She resists a smile when she hears the lock turn, the Cheetah stun gun palmed in her right hand.
Two seconds after the door opens, Alan is on his knees. Two seconds after that, he’s facedown on the carpeting.
Alex checks the hallway for witnesses, and seeing none, drags Jack’s husband to bed.