Total pages in book: 57
Estimated words: 54589 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 273(@200wpm)___ 218(@250wpm)___ 182(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 54589 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 273(@200wpm)___ 218(@250wpm)___ 182(@300wpm)
When I reach the edge of the seat and slide my legs around, Oliver offers me his hand like the perfect gentleman he is not. Just the idea of touching him turns my stomach, and I snub his offer of aid and push to my feet. It’s then that I realize just how much time has passed since Oliver stopped me on the street, that story told by the dimness of the evening.
With a glance upward, I discover the sun has slipped beneath the horizon and as if driving home the late hour, a party bus rolls past the hotel, blasting loud music while a mix of laughter, shouts, and screams fills the air. If only I could get lost in a celebration and escape the hell that is this night. The doorman says something to Oliver I don’t hear for the whooshing of blood in my ears, and the car we’ve just exited pulls away with the smushed face driver behind the wheel. At least there won’t be two of them going upstairs with me, an idea that is bittersweet relief. There is still Oliver, and I have to tamp down on the horrible places my mind could travel right now about what comes next. Oliver palms the doorman a wad of cash, and I want to throw up. A wad like that is meant for one thing and one thing only: hush money.
Oliver turns his attention to me and motions me to the door. “Shall we?”
No, I think, but I start walking anyway, wondering if he’s as smart as he thinks. We’re on camera right now. Then again, a good tech guy could wipe that feed and for all I know, the Allen family has an interest in the hotel, or even just the staff could be enough.
The doors to the hotel open and we pass through side-by-side and enter a giant lobby, shiny tiles beneath our feet. I scan the area, trying to gain as much information as I can. My life might depend on it. I realize now I’ve been in this place before, for an event, though it was years ago, and this means an inventory of my surroundings is critical.
To my right is the registration area. Six total stations, all with granite counters, but the two farthest from the door have humans attending them. To my left is a sitting area framed by decorative archways, a mock living room complete with bookshelves and a cozy fireplace inside. I could always hide behind one of the sofas if needed. Not ideal, but it’s better than nothing.
Onward and again to my right, there’s a long bar with plenty of seating clustered about as well. The bathroom signs point down a long hallway that tracks between the bar and registration. If I remember correctly, the ladies’ room is huge, with about a dozen or more stalls and floor-to-ceiling heavy wooden doors. Not only would it be impossible to find me there, I could detour to the mens’ room and hole up in a stall.
The elevator nook is coming up, but just beyond it, and in front of me is a coffee shop, while a restaurant sits across from it. I could head to the kitchen of either and ask for help. For that matter, I could hide behind the lobby bar and whisper to the bartenders to call Tyler. My options have run out. Oliver motions me toward the bank of elevators and I’m forced to cut in that direction while people exit several cars and others wait for higher levels along with us.
Us.
I hate that word right now.
It implies I’m with Oliver by choice, and yet, I guess I am. I chose to walk with him. I chose to wait for the elevator with him and as the doors open, I choose to allow him to wave me forward as I step inside. I do all of this for Tyler. My stubborn, stubborn man, who will never forgive me for putting him over me. But I would never forgive myself for doing this any other way.
Oliver joins me in the car, and a huge group of people follow him, to the point we’re sardines in a can. Somehow, Oliver is behind me, which is not where I’d prefer him. Especially when he leans around me, his body pressing to mine, to allow him to slide the key over the pad. “Punch twenty,” he orders, and he’s still right on top of me.
Even after I push the button, one of his hands settles on one of my shoulders and I’m ice about to break. I feel it happening. The elevator stops several times. His hand never moves. When our floor arrives, the car is still mostly full, as it seems everyone is headed to some bar.
“Excuse me,” I say, easing through the crowd and the movement forces the removal of Oliver’s hand from my body but the question is: for how long?