“Tip City, huh?” Vera said.
“I did great.” Donna seemed calmly elated. “Didn’t I tell you things would start to get better?”
Yeah. But Vera’s mood flattened, as Donna counted out her tips. She looks fine, Vera observed. The same old Donna. Vera thought again of what she’d seen last night: Donna sleepwalking past her door, reeking of alcohol. But if Donna had relapsed, wouldn’t it be obvious, wouldn’t the telltale signs have reemerged? The dull listlessness, the facial pallor and anguish lines, the overall crushed features of the alcoholic? Vera noticed none of that, so again she had to conclude that she must have dreamed the whole thing. It made sense, given the stress of the new job combined with fitful, dream-laden sleep…
“You okay?”
Vera looked up from her ponderings. “Yeah, why do you ask?”
“Well…” Donna hesitated. “You’re acting a little weird lately, a little depressed.”
Dan B. had said the same thing. “I don’t know, I guess I—”
“You’re still letting Paul get to you,” Donna said. It wasn’t even a suggestion—it was a statement. “If you want my opinion, you need to confront him. It won’t be easy, but it’s something you need to do. You need to go and tell him off, give him a piece of your mind, tell him to his face that he’s a piece of shit for what he did to you.”
Vera supposed she knew this all along but was deliberately avoiding the issue. And she had avoided it, hadn’t she? For weeks she’d been telling herself that eventually she would return to the apartment to pick up some of her things, but she always found some excuse not to. That’s all I’m doing with my life right now—making excuses.
“Don’t make excuses,” Donna said, ever the psychic. “You’re pretty easy to read, Vera. Why not just get it over with?”
“I know you’re right.” Vera fingered a paperweight. “I’ll go soon.”
“No, you’ll go tomorrow. There’s no reason to put it off anymore. You’ll feel a lot better once you get it over with, believe me. Tomorrow. No more excuses. If you run late, we can handle things in the restaurant till you get back.”
Vera nodded. She’s right. It’s time. “All right, I’ll go tomorrow—”
“You’ll see. If you don’t let it out, it’ll simmer inside you forever. Go tell that scumbag off.”
“I will,” Vera agreed. “Tomorrow. I promise.”
“And, besides, once you’ve got Paul out of your system, you can start thinking about getting laid again!” Donna was kind enough to add, laughing at Vera’s quick smirk. “Anyway, I’m off to bed; I’m absolutely exhausted.”
“Goodnight.”
“Oh, and remember, my offer’s always good. Anytime you want to borrow my doctor, just let me know.”
“Your doctor?” Vera queried.
“Yeah…Doc Johnson!” Donna finished, and left the office before a trial of more laughter.
Laugh it up, Vera thought. She was weary of everyone implying she was a cranky, sex-starved bitch—
Even though it’s true…
It annoyed her, that her thoughts so often roved to sex. It made her feel inadequate. Whenever she saw Kyle, or even heard his name, she thought of her dream, the fantasy of The Hands, a dream she now admitted she looked forward to. And lately, she’d caught herself appraising male restaurant customers in secret—checking them out, envisioning their bodies minus clothes, wondering what they’d be like in bed.
And then there was always Feldspar…
I wonder what he’d be like—
She grit her teeth, shook her head. What is WRONG with you! You’re fantasizing about sleeping with your boss!
But the image behind the question lingered, as much as she tried to banish it.
She poured herself a little wine, to relax. She hated to think of Feldspar’s reaction were he to know that such things crossed her mind. She could not deny it, though: Feldspar attracted her, in some odd, incalculable way. It was the man’s mystery, she supposed.
Kyle, on the other hand, she was attracted to only in the roughest sense. Purely physical, she told herself. It couldn’t be anything more than physical, she knew, because she couldn’t stand him as a person. Snide, egotistical, smartass. But…
So good-looking.
She began to feel sluggishly excited. She was tired-it had been a long day—yet she knew the root of her excitement. Soon, she’d go to sleep and dream. She only wished she could exchange the sponsor of the fantasy—Kyle—with someone she liked, or just anyone, anyone other than the rude room-service manager. Chief Mulligan? she thought and laughed to herself. An obese redneck twenty years her senior? No thanks. But that reminded her of the bizarre call she’d gotten today, the police sergeant reporting that Mulligan hadn’t been seen since yesterday. Probably passed out at Elks Lodge. And then she remembered that other man, the accounting hawk, Taylor. To think she’d actually believed he was really a mob lieutenant! But he was definitely good-looking, her sex-muse continued. Handsome, fit.
Evidently, Feldspar had sent him packing. Taylor had said he’d be dining at the restaurant, but Vera hadn’t seen him all night. What are you thinking now? she questioned herself. What, you were going to make a play for him? Have sex with him in his suite? For all intents, a perfect stranger? Preposterous.
Nevertheless, she felt curious as to whether or not Taylor had had dinner at The Carriage House, as he’d said he would. Certainly, as a scout for an accounting firm, Taylor would have a company credit card for business expenses. She flipped through night’s credit receipts but—
No Terrence Taylor, she discovered.
Kyle had checked Taylor into one of Vera’s suites. Next, she checked her room register to see when Taylor had checked out.
That’s weird…
According to the register, Mr. Terrence Taylor, Room 201, never checked out at all.
««—»»
He’d checked in instead—
Good Christ…
—into a nightmare.
When Mr. Terrence Taylor’s eyes finally opened, all he could see at first was an ill-lit wash of murk. His legs felt numb, and a headache gnawed his brain. What the fuck happened?
Taylor’s memory struggled back…
That guy! What was his name? Kyle? He’d taken him to meet this Feldspar fellow, the general manager, but he hadn’t been in his office. “Oh, that’s right, he’s in the stockroom checking in a morning shipment. Follow me.”
Sure, Taylor thought. But hurry it up, will ya? Wrestling comes on in a half hour. Kyle led him down a cramped hallway behind the front offices, which seemed an odd access to a supply room. And—wait a minute. Why would Feldspar be tending to a supply delivery? Taylor had been a manager himself once, at a T.G.I.F. in Charlotte. Inventory and supply receipt was the service manager’s job, not the general manager’s…
Along the way, they passed several housemaids who were not exactly…provocative in the looks department. Sullen. Pasty-faced. Fat. One, with breasts like flaccid goldfish bowls, seemed to shrink at the sight of Kyle. If you were the last girl in town, Taylor thought, I’d be cutting holes in watermelons. You better forget about trying out for that Cosmo cover, baby.