The Futures(40)

Our limo driver was, miraculously, still outside when I got up to leave. I pulled the hotel-room key card out of my pocket, where the room number had been written on the card’s paper envelope: 3605. Back in the hotel, I stumbled toward the elevator bank and leaned my forehead against the cool marble wall while I waited. It felt so good. I could have fallen asleep there. I found myself wandering down a long hallway, red carpets and golden wallpaper. Such a long hallway. How had I gotten there? I studied the paper envelope again: 3605. I looked up, and there I was—our room at last.

I swiped my card, and the light turned green, but the door banged abruptly and wouldn’t open more than an inch. I pulled the door closed and tried again. The light turned green, and I pushed the door open, but again it banged up against something. I squinted, trying to right my vision, and saw that the security flip bar had been latched into place.

I propped the door open with my foot and shouted through the opening, “Roger. Roger! Come on, it’s me.”

Silence at first, and then came the sounds of female giggling. “Ocupado, amigo,” Roger said from within the room.

The door closed with a bang, and I slumped against the wall, my legs splayed out across the floor. Sexiled. I needed some kind of plan. Focus. I closed my eyes. My head jerked up—had I fallen asleep?—and I slapped my forehead several times. I hated being this drunk. I couldn’t stay out in the hallway. Everyone from Spire was staying on this floor. I couldn’t let them see me like this. No way.

Back at the elevator bank, I pushed the Down button. I’d explain myself at the front desk. Maybe they’d had a cancellation. Or I’d take a cab to one of the motels I’d seen between the airport and the Strip. They had to have something, a bed where I could sleep for a few hours before morning came.

A small ding sounded as the car arrived. I kept my eyes down and didn’t see the dark-suited figure striding out until we nearly collided.

“Evan? Whoa, what are you doing?”

It was Chuck, looking rumpled and sweaty but in better shape than I was, and thoroughly pleased with how the night had gone.

“Yeah. Hi—hey, Chuck. How are you?”

“How are you? What, you didn’t get enough? Going back out for more?”

“No.” I shook my head with effort. “I’m locked out. Roger is—he has…company.”

Chuck laughed. “Shit. Well, come on, you can crash in our room for now. Roger’s gonna be done soon. Trust me, he’s paying her by the hour.”

I followed Chuck to his suite at the other end of the hallway. Even through my blurring vision, I could see that it was enormous. Bigger than any New York apartment I’d ever seen. Steps led down to a sunken living room with floor-to-ceiling windows. The skyline sparkled against the desert night. I could make out a bar on one side of the living room and a huge soaking tub on the other. A spiral staircase, half hidden in the darkness, twisted up to a second floor.

“Nice, huh?” Chuck said, his voice echoing in the room. “Would’ve had the place to myself, too. The beds are spoken for, but I think there’s a foldout in that corner near the kitchen. Brad’s still out. He’ll be back soon.”

Chuck’s footsteps retreated up the spiral stairs. I found the bathroom, flipped on the light, and hurled the contents of my stomach into the toilet. I paused, gulping for air, then puked again. After the nausea receded, I splashed water on my face and rinsed my mouth. I felt better. More in control. I’d sleep a little, get back to my room, be fine in the morning. Hungover, but fine.

Something woke me. The sound of the air-conditioning turning on or off. I’d passed out on the couch without bothering to unfold it. I was shivering, and I had a kink in my neck.

It was tempting to stay there, to close my eyes and let the drunken fog tug me back under. I knew I ought to get up, go back to my room, get some real sleep. In just a few minutes. My mind swam with the soothing hum of the AC.

Then, how much later I didn’t know, there was the sound of laughter and high heels on the marble floor. The high-pitched, breathy voice of a woman.

The lights went on. Suddenly I was wide awake, my heart hammering and blood rushing to my head. Brad was back, with company. I felt a preemptive embarrassment at being discovered here.

There were more than two voices. One woman and another. Brad muttering something. Then:

“I’m going to have a drink. Ladies?” Michael.

The two women chorused a yes.

The sound of liquid splashing into glasses, bodies sinking into leather sofas. I turned onto my stomach and peered over the arm of the couch. My view was mostly obscured by the dining table and the oak-paneled bar. They hadn’t seen me, and the window for making myself known without humiliation was closing rapidly. No, I realized. It had closed already.

Brad was on one couch, Michael and the two women on another. One woman, the blonde from the club, was hunched over the glass-topped coffee table. When she sat up, she handed a rolled-up dollar bill to Michael.

“This is good shit, Brad,” Michael said, wiping the coke from his nose.

Brad was silent. It looked like he was reading something on his phone.

“So,” Michael said. “What do you ladies think of my friend here?”

The second woman—a redhead—giggled. “I think he’s handsome.”

“I think you’re handsome,” the blonde purred, nestling up to Michael.