Room 702

by Benjamin, Ann

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  April 5, 11:10 P.M.

  Cole Simmons opens the door and allows his date to follow him in. This is their third meeting, and Cole, who likes to think of himself as a big spender, has splashed out for the hotel room. Things have been going well for the nascent couple and after a leisurely meal at Colt’s, followed by a nightcap at Fringe, Evelyn has drank more than she’s used to. How can she not? Cole is attentive and has been showering her with attention and treating her to expensive meals. He makes the past three guys she’s dated look like children.

  While privately, Evelyn was still trying to convince herself of her attraction for Cole, after as many drinks as she’s had, the line is becoming hazy. Usually, she doesn’t move things forward this quickly, but she’s coming off a bit of a dry spell and perhaps things were going to move to this place at one point – what’s the harm of moving the timeline forward a few weeks?

  Cole removes his jacket and asks, “Can I get you something to drink?”

  “I’ve had quite enough already – maybe just some water.”

  “Coming right up.”

  She takes a seat on the couch while he pulls a bottle of sparkling water for her and scotch for him from the mini bar. She hears him humming to himself and smiles as he turns on the radio in the other room. Gentle music drifts in, adding to what she supposes is romantic ambiance. While he completes this task, she settles on the couch and glances at her phone – it is much later than she originally thought and Evelyn begins wondering what she’ll do for work tomorrow. She hadn’t intended sleeping over and has a number of things pending at work. She looks across at Cole, humming to himself. Will he be terrible upset if she calls an early evening?

  “Cole…”

  “Yes?”

  “I may need to have this water and then take a taxi home.”

  There is a beat before he responds, “Why don’t you drink this water first?”

  There is something very authoritative in his voice, and Evelyn thinks of how much dinner cost and that she can stay for some water. “Okay.”

  He comes back over with the drinks and sits down close to her, invading her personal space. This close, she can smell his cologne – which she will later recognize as Monsieur de Givenchy, a scent that will send her to a dark place.

  He brings his index finger to her face and says, “An eyelash.”

  She supposes it is a romantic gesture, but pulls back and forces the glass of water between them.

  “What’s wrong? Why have you gone all shy?”

  “No reason.” She gulps down the water and puts the glass down loudly. “All done.”

  Cole affects a pouting face and says, “What about my kiss goodnight?”

  Evelyn sighs and leans in and is quite surprised when Cole grips her face, forcing her to deepen the kiss. Thus far, they’ve only had a mini-makeout session and kept things mostly above the waist. Still, it’s the most physical contact Evelyn’s had in months and she relaxes, allowing herself to be pulled into the embrace. Sensing her change, Cole moves his hand to her breast, gripping it forcefully. It’s rougher than Evelyn would prefer and she takes the moment to push back and catch her breath.

  “It’s been a nice evening, but…”

  “You’re leaving?” Cole motions to his crotch and says, “You’re not going to leave me this way, are you?”

  “Actually…”

  Cole grips her wrist and Evelyn knows there will be a bruise the next morning. Her heart rate accelerates and she looks into Cole’s darkened eyes.

  Did he want this to happen?

  In the calmest voice she can summon, Evelyn says, “Take your hands off of me.”

  “No.”

  “What do you mean, no?”

  “I mean, the only way I’m going to remove my hands is if you are going to take off your clothes so we can fuck.”

  Evelyn cringes at the expletive. Thoughts dart through her head, who else knows she’s here? How quickly can they get here? She glances across to her purse which seems miles away. The phone to anyone at the hotel is on the desk, which Cole is sitting between. Why did she wear a skirt? The flirty fabric seemed a perfect choice earlier in the day, and now it seems like something with far too easy access. The sexy stilettos a hindrance to running, but have potential as a weapon. In this moment, her thoughts race – that she never thought she would be a statistic. Date rape. The words to the Sublime tune. A Tori Amos song sung a cappella.

  Realizing she can leave everything behind, she takes a second and then makes a move to bolt for the door, only to be caught by Cole’s foot tripping her. She falls face first to the floor. And suddenly he’s on top of her. Roughly pushing her skirt up, while at the same time unbuttoning his own trousers, her entire body tenses. While she originally loved his six feet to her five foot four inches, now his extra height and weight threaten to crush her.

  Her voice is somewhere far away and all of her energy is spent in fighting the man she thought she knew on top of her. The only sounds in the room are the scuffling and whatever is playing in the other room. He releases her head, only to grip her right arm painfully behind her, keeping her forced into the floor. Tears begin to leak out of her eyes and as he roughly penetrates her unwilling body, pushed face first into the cold and unforgiving tile. And slowly, excruciating details begin to imprint in her mind. The smell of his cologne. The animalistic grunting sounds he makes as he shoves himself inside her. And suddenly, she can’t catch her breath. Hyperventilating, she begins to see spots in front of her eyes. A broad spectrum of stars dance across her vision.

  He doesn’t notice her struggle.

  She manages to get her breathing under control. Desperately trying to latch onto anything positive, to take herself away from what is actually happening, she reminds herself that she’s on birth control – that she won’t be forced into a horrible decision. Seconds seem like minutes, and minutes feel like hours. The pain is nearly unbearable. And then finally the insufferable ordeal over.

  Cole rolls off of her and, as her body automatically constricts to the fetal position. She risks a look up and he gives her a horrible, knowing smile from above. Zipping up his pants, he grips her chin and forces her to make eye contact and says, “I’ll kill you if you mention this to anyone.”

  He steps away, and begins humming to the music in the other room. Whimpering, shaking and trying to not be physically ill, Evelyn’s hands and fingers feel large and at a distance as she tries to pull herself together, covering herself, sore and exhausted, bruised and weary. Not wanting any further conversation or interaction with her rapist, she stumbles towards her purse, wiping her face, and, slightly disoriented, walks out the door.

  Cole, seemingly unconcerned with what’s just happened, straightens the room from the brief altercation. He takes a shower and falls asleep peacefully.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  April 11, 1:15A.M.

  Dylan Kingston walks into the room with a sigh of relief. He drops his overnight bag and takes a moment to luxuriate in the amount of private space he has to himself. It may only be for a few hours, but he’ll enjoy every moment of the time. He and the rest of the band have been touring for the past month straight and after their show at the Troubadour tonight, they have a brief break before heading out to play the main stage at Coachella late the next day. While the rest of the band was out at after parties, Dylan, front man and lead guitar for Juco, is glad he’ll get almost a half a day to catch his breath. Although they’ve worked hard to get to this point in their careers – sleeping in vans, playing small venues that pay nothing, scraping together money for studio time – with their signature to a major label earlier in the spring and the inclusion of one of their lesser known hits on the season finale of a much watched network television show, the band had been getting a lot of coverage. It’s not to the point where people recognize him on the street, but the other day when he stepped into Starbucks it was surreal experience to h
ear someone humming one of the band’s songs tunes while listening to their iPod.

  With brief pause in Los Angeles, there is time to sleep in a non-moving bed and even after catching a hard time from his band mates for not living up to the rock and roll lifestyle, nothing sounds better than some well earned peace and quiet. Although Dylan has never explained his philosophy to his band mates, he actually believes in their fans. He knows the crowds tomorrow will spend hours in the car and have spent good money on tickets. He wants to give them the performance they deserve and the only way he can do that is by charging his proverbial batteries.

  Still wearing his sweaty clothes from the show, Dylan gladly sheds his t-shirt and jeans and pulls on the fluffy robe from the bathroom. Now comfortable, he looks through the room service menu and orders a hamburger, a double order of French fries, with lots of extra mayonnaise and ketchup. He knows he should probably eat healthier, but like every show, he puts everything he has into the performance and often afterwards he finds himself ravenous. Aware he also might have pushed his voice too far, he makes himself some tea and flips on the television. Whether or not his fans would believe it, Dylan Kingston is somewhat of a news junkie and he is pleased to find all the usual channels, plus BBC. He settles on MSNBC and relaxes on the couch. Scrolling through his phone, he looks through his text messages.

  For someone in the public eye, the singer is rather private about who he gives his details to. Although Dylan is (usually) monogamous when he is in a relationship, he’s currently between partners. The last woman he dated nearly four months ago and since then he’s had an occasional hook up with fans, but nothing of substance (and he’s always careful to use protection). Wearily rubbing his eyes, he thinks of the rather aggressive blonde who wanted to come home with him tonight. Although she was attractive, he could think of nothing more than enjoying the perfect privacy of a hotel room. Dylan idly wonders if his decision means his life is more mature, or sadly pathetic if he’s passed up a night of uninhibited sex with a stranger. Finishing the tea, he walks to the mini bar and cracks open a Heineken.

  Maybe he’s not as pathetic as he thinks. There are ways of interacting with people from a distance. Flipping again through the contacts on his phone, he pauses. The last time the band was in town, the band had been doing publicity for their gig by way of morning radio show. The PR was nothing new for the group – more often than not, they would roll into a town a few hours before the morning drive, show up to an interview and then sleep, exercise or chill out until the sound check for their show that evening. Being up so early was a bitch, but the media coverage did get more people out to their shows.

  On the last occasion they had been in Los Angeles, Dylan had unexpectedly hit it off with the producer of the morning show. Theirs hadn’t been anything more than an innocent flirtation, but finding her number in his phone, Dylan finds himself wondering what the lovely Lily Banks is up to at this early hour. Although his initial attempts hadn’t been his smoothest effort, he had managed to walk away from their early morning meeting with her contact details.

  The food arrives and with it some latest update to conflicts abroad, taking his concentration away from Lily and what she’s doing. After finishing everything on his plate, Dylan luxuriates in the bath and attempts to meditate. With his thoughts going somewhere else entirely, he succumbs to physical stimulation instead. Getting out of the tub, he looks at himself in the mirror. For 31, he’s older than many of those who have ‘made it’ for the first time, but through fortunate genetics, he’s been blessed with a still youthful face. Although he smoked from ages 21-26, with a few short relapses for the past five years, he’s been clean. His vices now stray towards high-end tequila and some promiscuity (he’s not always as careful as he should with his partners in bed). He looks at his reflection again. He’ll never be muscular, but his lean physique isn’t too terrible to look at. All in all, not too bad from a kid from Kentucky.

  It’s nearing 4AM, and he’s finally starting to wind down. Knowing he has a late check out, and having instructed the front desk not to bother him for any reason, he flips his phone onto silent and slides under the duvet. Setting the temperature very low, almost arctic, he sighs contentedly.

  Chuckling to himself, Dylan says to the empty room, “Breaking news, rock star checks in and goes to sleep – news at 11.”

  After tossing and turning for a few minutes, Dylan grabs his iPhone and scrolls again through his contacts. Although most people would be perhaps pissed off at being contacted this early, he distinctly remembers Lily saying her day started at 4:30AM. Figuring he has nothing to lose, not really, he drafts up what he feels is a witty text:

  >> Good morning beautiful.

  Not figuring on getting an answer, he rolls over with the intent of getting actual sleep, but his phone vibrates and a text comes back almost immediately:

  >> Good morning to you too.

  Dylan is confused by the message. Does Lily know it’s him? Is she responding because she thinks his text is from someone else? Did he text her earlier and not remember doing so? Sitting up, Dylan wonders how to continue. He racks his brain for some identifying joke they shared, and remembers he made a recommendation about a particular tequila. Lily had reciprocated by telling him about a hole in the wall cantina that made wonderful margaritas off Pico. As he was into her, Dylan had replied he would love to take her out for drinks the next time he was in town. He’d meant what he’d said, but life on the road sometimes stood in the way of romance.

  >>Are you going to Coachella?

  >>Was planning to.

  Deciding it is time to determine whether or not Lily really knows who’s on the other side of the phone, he types:

  >>Can we meet up sometime in the next few days? I believe I owe you a shot of some nice tequila.

  >>Yes, Kingston, you do.

  He smiles at the small glowing screen.

  >>Will you be there all weekend?

  He waits awhile for a response, and has begun dosing off, when his phone finally buzzes:

  >>Yes.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  April 17, 3:35 P.M.

  “Come on, come on.”

  Hope Darville paces around the room, willing her uterus to expunge itself and the group of dividing cells that has very recently taken up residence there.

  “How did I get here, Chico?” she asks the small Chihuahua she smuggled into the suite, glad for her furry friend’s presence.

  Having only realized she was pregnant a few days previously, the lawyer acted quickly. Knowing she did not have time to carry a child, the reliable Ms. Darville, Esq, made an appointment to confirm her condition and was frustrated to learn she was, in fact, with child. Not interested in being a mother any time in the next five years, and even with her current life plan, she isn’t sure if she ever wants to bring a child into this increasingly difficult world. While it’s nice to know her reproductive system is in working order, Hope curses its efficiency.

  Even after talking to the counsellor at the clinic, she knows this choice isn’t something she will regret. She will not lie awake at night and think about the unborn son or daughter she never had. The only people who need to know about her predicament are herself, the doctor who prescribed the prescription, the pharmacist who filled the order, and Chico, who won’t tell anyone. There is no need to call her parents, her older sister, or any of her friends in town. She is not upset, just angry and frustrated with herself. She didn’t spend three years in law school and spend tens of thousands of dollars not to achieve her goals. Furthermore, the sperm donor is not one she feels particularly inclined towards settling down and building a future with.

  After a discreet visit to Planned Parenthood, she then went to the pharmacy and picked up the prescription of RU-486. She is well aware of what will physically happen to her body and has spent the past few hours reading everything online she could get her hands on. All that’s left now is for her body to pass the group of cells. C
ut off from progesterone, the fetus will not survive for long.

  For reasons unknown and that she does not want to dwell on, Hope feels it necessary to have her miscarriage somewhere other than her newly redecorated condo in Santa Monica. Not wanting to face what she’s done in the same bathroom everyday, she books the Winchester. Packing a small overnight bag, at the last minute, she decides on smuggling her dog, Chico, into the room with her. The dog currently sits on the leather chair and looks inquisitively at her owner.

  “I know, you would tell me that condoms are not the most reliable form of birth control, but how was I to know that someone would actually want to have sex with me? That I would have time to even fuck another human being?”

  Hope knows exactly who the father is. He is another lawyer, and they met at some in town conference. The event (and following assignation that led to her current predicament) had taken place at this very hotel (albeit a different room on another floor), which is partially one of the reasons she had picked the location.

  “Conception to termination in just a few short weeks.”

  Hope thinks his name was Mark, and knows he practices at a better firm than her own. As much as she knows on some sort of deep ethical level she should at least inform him of his paternity, she also firmly believes it is her uterus and therefore, fundamentally her decision.

  Maybe she’ll tell her future husband about what happened on a warm day in April. Maybe he’ll judge her, or maybe he’ll cuddle her close and tell her she did the right thing. Hope has no way to know. Maybe thirty years from now, when she’s menopausal she’ll wonder why she passed up this opportunity.