My forehead strikes the metal.
Sinking to my knees, the world suddenly turns upside down.
He drops his phone when I crash, a cuss word on his tongue.
Will speaks, his voice jumbled. It might as well be carried away by the waves.
I can’t hear, so I nod.
Water soaks his phone as a wave laps it, carrying it out to the ocean. “Shit,” he yells, trying to reach for it. He’s not sober, his navy flip-flops catch on a stick or some object protruding out of the sand.
“Dammit.” He kicks the damp ground. I can't focus, even when he appears in front of me. My eyes drift up as I rest my palms in the sand, unblinking.
“You wanna suck my dick out here, don’t you?” he jokes, starting to unzip his pants. “Now that my phone’s gone ‘cause of you?”
I swallow, tears burning my eyes, my surroundings spinning like a violent tornado. I try to stare fixedly at my hands in front of me, concentrating on the pink nail polish, but it’s vague.
Reaching a hand out, I halfheartedly swat him away.
He steps back.
“Must. Get. Home,” I croak.
“Fine.” His tone drips acid. “I should’ve known you just wanted to tease me. You’re a fucking tease.”
“I’m seventeen.” I spit out.
“You said eighteen.”
“I lied.”
“Who cares?” He shrugs. “Your ID says twenty-two.”
“Let’s just get back to the room and we can use the pull-out couch.” Unsettled, I want to stand and sprint back to the hotel without him, but I’m afraid I won’t find my way back.
Especially to the seventeenth floor.
“What about them?” He pats his pocket in disgust.
I glare at him in the dark.
“Come on.” He jerks me to my feet and I heave. Nothing but bile comes out.
The quick motion of standing to regain my balance has consequences – a mallet might as well be smacking me repeatedly. The headache makes me pinch my arm to detract from the throbbing.
We scramble back to the hotel, the beach parallel to The Waterfront. A sidewalk leads straight to the lobby. I mistakenly see my sister, but when I blink, she's disappeared.
I’ve never felt so exhausted in my life.
Maybe it’s not the flu, maybe it’s mono.
Wait, isn’t mono the kissing disease?
How will I explain contracting that to my parents?
I’m not allowed to date.
P.J... is he making out with another cheerleader?
The thought slips away as suddenly as it appears.
“Seventeenth floor, right?” Will pulls me into the elevator, pressing the button to go up. He hugs me to his broad chest, a potent mix of sweat and cologne. His shirt’s sticky, and my cheek is damp from resting my face there.
I nod into his chest, closing my eyes as we drift upwards.
I’m relieved we're the only two in here until he reaches a hand up my mini-skirt to cup my ass. “Don’t you dare sleep yet.” He tugs on my hair. “Wake up. We have a long night ahead of us.”
My eyes flutter, the motion of the elevator yanking me into another dizzy spell. The movement of the floors slipping away makes my stomach bounce up and down, a rubber ball being slapped against my belly.
When the metal doors clank open, I shuffle out. The arrows acting as directional signs confuse me, the numbers reading backwards.
“What room?” Will’s voice is obnoxious.
I don’t answer, covering my ears.
“Bristol, which way?”
My hands check my waist for the plastic card I stuck in the hidden pocket inside of my skirt. What did I do with the room key?
“Uh…” I squint. “Left. Seventeen ninety-eight.” I’m lucky it’s the same as the current year or I wouldn’t remember.
Will grabs my hand and half pulls, half jerks me in the right direction.
There’s a problem.
My pocket’s empty.
“Are you playing hard to get?" He puts his hands on the band of my mini-skirt, caressing my stomach. “You need me to feel around and frisk you?”
“Stop,” I murmur.
He ignores me, or maybe he doesn’t hear me.
I start pounding on the door.
Will chirps, “Stop it, Bristol. You’re gonna wake the whole damn floor up. Chill. I’ve got the room key.” He pulls it out of his pocket, smug.
My knuckle keeps rapping the door, and his face twists in anger. He grabs my hair and twists it in his hand, my clip-on hot pink extension falling out in his palm. A look of horror crosses his face – probably the thought he pulled real hair out.
Something about this, his reaction, causes me to giggle.
I want to cuss at him, but it's too much work. How did he get a key? I shrug to myself – sleep is more important.
Slipping away...I’m slipping away.
He pushes the door open, slamming it shut behind me.
The only light comes from the blinds, which he yanks closed, shutting out the moonlight and water. He heads to the bed, and I don’t follow.
Sliding my hands up and down the closed door, unable to feel the lock, I lean into the wood, my body giving in to slumber, as I fall slowly, like a slow-motion domino.
I curl up on the floor. His hands are rough as he shakes me.
“Leave me alone.”
“Bristol.” A hard tug as he tries to drag me towards the bed.
“Ughhhhh…” I moan. “Sleep…”
“Bristol.” He grunts.
My hands move to my ears, partially to drown out his voice, partly because my head’s spiraling out of control, like a train wreck that’s about to crash, forcing me headfirst into a wall.
I shut my eyes, feeling his hands on me, all over my skin, running up my thigh and down my back. A hand cups my breast.
Must sleep.
I feel a kick.
A door slams.
I’m drifting off, slumped on the beige carpet.
Another crash.
I can feel myself being carried, no longer stationary on the floor.
“Put me down," I mumble.
Silence.
“It’ll all be okay, little girl,” a voice echoes.
10
Blair
As I keep an eye trained over my shoulder for Peter Riggs, I ignore the curious glances of hotel guests and staff, frantically making my way to the front desk in the lobby.
My feet are cold against the diamond-pattern tile floor, and my wet clothes feel stifling. I want to rip them off and scream.
“Are you okay, miss?” The Asian woman behind the counter peers at me, examining my damp hair and clothing, and I assume my unkempt face.
Nodding, I take a deep breath. “I need my room key.”
“You’re a guest?”
“Yes.”
“Sure thing, can I see your ID, please?”
I reach a hand in my pocket, checking both the back and front ones.
All I have is one that doesn’t belong to me.
I sigh. “I lost it.”
“Do you know where it is?”
“No.”
“What’s the last name on the reservation?”
“Bellamy.” I sigh. “It’s under my father’s name. Bruce. Bruce B-e-l-l-a-m-y.”
“Room?”
“Seventeen ninety-something.”
She’s suspicious. “You don’t know the room number?”
I stand frozen, staring at her.
“Ma’am, as much as I want to get you a copy of your key, I need to verify it’s yours.”
“Can you just call the room then?” I lean my elbows on the marble counter. “My sister’s up there.”
She grabs the telephone off the hook and punches in a few numbers.
Her eyes scan the lobby, looking at anything but me.
After a couple seconds, she shrugs. “No one’s answering.”
“Try again.”
Her eyes dart to the person standing behind me in line.
I soften my voice. “Can you please try again? My sister’s probably still in bed. She’s a heavy sleeper.”
She hits a re-dial button and drums her fingers on the counter, impatient.
“No one’s there.” She sets the phone back in the cradle.
“I need to get my stuff.” I explain. “Check on her.”
“I can’t just give you a key without any type of confirmation.”
“My purse got stolen.”
“When?”
“Last night or this morning.”
“Do you have another credit card on you?” She gives me a plastic smile. “If the name matches the room reservation, that’ll work?”
I shake my head, negative.
“Look,” I exhale. “Can you or a bellman walk me up to the room?”
She looks annoyed, and the man behind me in line complains about my dilemma. “I can’t just leave the desk.”
“Never mind,” I murmur. Turning on my heel, I head to the elevators, punching the ‘up’ arrow. A couple of Chinese tourists, cameras hanging from their necks, stare at me and talk animatedly amongst themselves, one going far enough to point at me, another snapping a picture.
Catching my reflection in the mirrored wall, I see why.
My lips are tinged blue from the drinks last night, my tongue’s the same Smurf shade. A mixture of sand and mud are stuck to my cheek, as if someone swiped it across the left one in a circular motion. My eyeliner, expertly applied last night, is now shadowed underneath my eyes and smeared down the other side.
I’m a hot mess.
My face crimson, I hold my head high as the doors clank open, my bare feet stepping into the elevator.
No one follows.
Irritated, I wait for them to enter after me, but they pause.
My hand motions to the closing doors, but they shake their heads.
Fine, I think to myself, jabbing the button in frustration.
Snapping my fingers, I remember the room number – seventeen ninety-eight.
Crossing my arms, I tap my foot, antsy, as the elevator lands on my level.
Hanging a left, I head to our room.
My hand lifts to knock on the door, but something’s off.
A piece of hair, my fake hair, is resting on the neutral carpeting, sticking out from underneath the crevice of our door.
It’s the hot pink extension she borrowed from me last night.
Her own fit of rebellion.
Even if it’s not permanent.
Slamming my fists on the wood, I yell, “Bristol, let me in.”
There’s silence, no matter how hard I pound, the only noise is my fist connecting with the smooth white of the door.
My shrieks draws the ire of a neighbor, a fifty-something woman who steps out of her room across the hall. “What in the world is going on?” She’s wearing a white robe, everything in this hotel monotone, her hair tousled from sleep.
“I need in my room.” I’m annoyed by this interruption.
“Well, okay, but can you keep it down?” She shoots me a death glare. “Do you know what time it is?”
I shake my head.
“Seven A.M.”
“Oh,” I say dumbly. “I just need in my room.”
She throws her hands up. “Then knock softly on the door.”
“She’s not answering.”
The woman tightens her robe, muttering “kids these days” under her breath. I turn back around, and a door slams behind me.
Instead of quietly retreating, it makes me more hysterical, the clip-on in my hand.
“Bristol, wake up, answer the damn door.” I thrash on the wood.
Nothing.
No footsteps, no answer.
Until I hear heavy footfalls behind me, and a controlled male voice snaps, “You’re going to stop causing a scene and come with me.”
Panic-stricken, I scream.
The man grabs my arm, yanking me away from the door and down the hall, my legs kicking out beneath me, but they don’t reach the carpet as he hauls me out of plain sight.
11
Blair
“Let go of me,” I shriek, stumbling back against his chest.
His iron grip holds my elbow firm as he drags me behind a potted plant.
“You need to stop yelling, young lady,” he commands. “We’ve had multiple noise complaints. This isn’t a frat house.”
He drops his arm from mine and I rub the sore spot. “But…”
“If you don’t stop causing a scene, I’ll be forced to escort you off the property. Would you like the police to get involved?”
I swing around. His tucked-in white polo says ‘Security’ in the right-hand corner. A brass-plated name tag says Mark Matsen. His ironed black pants are belted, black Doc Martens are shined up, and a...
Gun. Just riding on his hip in a leather holster.
I choke back any more sarcasm.
A solid name for a muscular dude. He’s youthful-looking, blue eyes, shaved head to remove any grays, the five o’clock shadow salt-and-pepper, giving his age away. He’s probably pushing forty-ish.
Swallowing, I bite my lip. “Uhh…no…but I don’t know where my sister is.”
“Is that your room, the one you’re banging on?” He scowls.
“Are you an actual policeman? I ask. “I don’t want the police involved.”
He puts his hands on his hips. “Why, because you’re an underage drunk?”
“No. Why does everyone keep asking me that?” I’m stymied.
He tilts his head at me. I ignore his speculative gesture.
“I handle security for the resort.”
“I’ve lost my sister and my room key.”
“Go speak to the front desk.”
“I did,” I lean against the wall, ticking off my missing items. “My purse was stolen and everything I have is in there – ID, credit card, room key, cell phone.”
“Why didn’t your sister answer the door?”
“I don’t know.”
“Are you sure she’s in there?”
“No, but where else would she be?”
“How old are you?”
“Twenty-one.” I lie.
“Where’re you from?” He pulls a radio from his back pocket. “You here with your parents?”
“No, my seventeen-year-old sister. We live in Nebraska.”
“Hi, this is Mark, floor seventeen, I’m taking an unidentified woman into her room…” He pauses as I mouth, “Seventeen ninety-eight.”
A muffled female voice comes on the radio. “Yes, I spoke to the young lady downstairs. She had no way of verifying her identity.”
“I’m going to accompany her in.” He looks at me. “What’s your name?”
“Blair.” I sigh. “Blair Bellamy.”
“Who’s the room registered to?”
“My father, Bruce Bellamy.” He repeats this information into the radio, then says, “I’m going to check on the room and assist the young lady.”
He pulls a universal key card out of his front pocket and motions for me to follow him, shushing me as I open my mouth.
His mouth narrows. “Stop talking for a minute.”
Chastened, I stand behind him as he slips the card in the reader and it clicks open. Just like that, he’s stepping across the threshold.
He puts his hand back, acting as a barrier between me and the room.
It looks just as we left it, except for a plastic key card on the floor near the door.
And the hair extension.
I feel a sense of relief the place isn’t ransacked.
See, nothing bad happened here, everything’s fine, I tell myself.
He narrows his eyes at the displaced clothing and makeup scattered around the sink and dresser, the carpet covered with mismatched shoes and plastic hangers.
My laptop’s plugged into the wall outlet, my cell phone charger beside it.
Except I have no cell phone to plug in.
Our suitcases sit in the closet, zipped and tagged.
The security I felt a moment ago vanishes when I notice the bed and what didn’t happen on it.
No one slept in it.
The covers should be rumpled, mascara and concealer on the pillow.
Instead, it’s freshly made, the pillows untouched, only one crumpled when I smacked the brat with it as a joke the night before.
“Oh no,” I put a hand to my forehead. “Oh no.” The room starts spinning.
“What?”
“She didn’t come home.”
“How do you know?” He glances at the pulled shades on the patio doors.
I hold up her hair extension. “I found this outside the door.” I point to the plastic card resting on the floor. “That’s probably hers. Mine was in my purse.”
He leans down and picks it up, testing it. It unlocks the door.
Taking the hair extension, he examines it first before setting it on the nightstand.
“Are you going to check for your purse?” he asks.
“It’s not here.” I’m certain of this.
He walks around the room, peeking out the curtains, checking the bathroom shower, the closet, and ending back at the center where I’m rooted to the spot.
“Do you have anything in the room that I can use to vouch this is your stuff?”
I point at the laptop. “That’s mine.”
“Is there a password on it?”
“Yeah.”
“I’m going to power it on and I want you to enter your password so I can make sure it’s yours.”
I shoot him a dirty look.
“It’s not that I don’t believe you – I have to make sure I’m not letting a lunatic enter some poor girl’s room.”
“You mean a crazy girl?”
He ignores my comment, instead striding to the wall outlet, unplugging my laptop and placing it on the wooden dresser, turning the power button ‘ON’.
As it boots up, he asks, “Where did you go last night?”
“A bar.”
“How did your sister get in?”
“Huh?”
“You said she’s seventeen.”
I purse my lips, ignoring the question.
“Ms. Bellamy?” His tone is steel, like a younger version of my daddy when he’s at his wit’s end.
Into the Night Page 7
