Chapter 8
Colt
We found out soon.
I wish to God we hadn’t.
We’re standing side by side in the middle of what can only be described as a pay-by-the-hour establishment. How do I know this? One, the quarter slot near the headboard was a dead giveaway. Twenty-five cents gets you a vibrating bed for a good ten minutes, though I think ten minutes is a rip-off because who wants to fish around for another quarter just when things are getting hot and heavy? A bit of an inconvenience, if you ask me. And two, I’m pretty sure I’m staring at blood on the floor. Or old urine, if urine darkens over time. Whatever it is, it’s definitely the size of a baseball—or a fist, which would make sense if it’s blood. Either way, avoiding it might be a problem.
I glance at Rory. She’s clutching her backpack and staring at that spot like it might jump up and bite her. Or snatch her bag. From the look on her face, that might be the bigger fear. What is in that thing? Also, how the heck did we wind up here?
I’m about to ask this question out loud when I glance over at the real problem next to me. Blood, vibrating beds…that doesn’t even touch the surface of the horrible mess that has just become our lives. A strange woman sniffles and buries her head into the strange guy’s shoulder, and I know I’m looking straight at the problem. It’s even worse than I thought.
The other couple. Except the lady from the airline left an important detail out. I take a deep breath and make myself speak.
“So you say you’re on your honeymoon?”
“Yes.” The man glares at me and tightens his grip around his wife’s waist.
“And you got married yesterday?” I’ve asked these questions a couple times already, but I keep hoping he’ll change his answer. Rory closes her eyes and works her jaw back and forth. I’m pretty sure she’s hoping he’ll change his answer too. Or that I’ll shut up. But seriously, who gets married this close to Christmas? It’s ridiculous.
“Two days ago, actually. We spent the night in Dallas before we flew here. The Dominican Republic for a honeymoon, it’s what Stacy wanted. I wanted to go fishing in Alaska, but of course that’s not important right now. This place won out, and here we are. Sharing a seedy hotel room with another couple while a late-season hurricane comes through. Life’s fun like that.”
The woman cries harder. He props his chin on her head and rolls his eyes.
If his attitude is any indication, they’ll be divorced by Independence Day. Fitting if you think about it.
“If it makes you feel better,” Rory says, dropping her beloved backpack on what is little more than an over-sized twin bed. “I wanted to be in Seattle right now. You know, since it’s Christmas and all. Sharing a room with three people I don’t know real well wasn’t in my plans either. Besides, December in Alaska doesn’t sound much better. Too cold this time of year.”
“Three?” The guy looks at Rory, his brows all scrunched together. “Aren’t you two married?”
I keep staring at the bed, a realization coming over me that we’re going to have to share it. Might be awkward…or interesting. There’s a smile on my face before I realize Rory is staring at me. I clear my throat and give her a look. “Yes, we’re married. Have been for a while now. But after a few years, sometimes you can start to feel like strangers. That’s why we came on this vacation.” I snake my arm around her waist and pinch her on the butt. “To reignite the fire, if you know what I mean.”
The woman sucks in a breath and looks at her husband. “Will that happen to us? Will we turn into strangers again?” Her tears intensify.
Rory wiggles away from me and plops on the bed, but not before she whispers in my ear.
“Way to go, moron. Why don’t you give the poor girl something else to worry about?’
When the husband gives me a look, I grab Rory by the hand and pull her toward the door. She’s fights me for a second, but eventually gives in. But not without her bag. Whatever. I need a beer. Whiskey. A few dozen tequila shots. I’ll carry the stupid bag myself if she will hurry.
We’ve just crash landed in the worst possible scenario, and I’d like to drown it out with something.
“How did we wind up here?” I say once we’re safely cocooned in the hallway. There’s a busted window to my right held together by gray electrician’s tape. This keeps getting better. With any luck, we’ll see a few dozen rats scurry by. “I thought I’d be in Los Angeles by now, drinking mojitos and singing a drunken version of ‘Deck the Halls’.”
“Well I thought I’d be on my way to Seattle watching a movie by myself, but also drinking mojitos. Think they’ll have any around here?”
“We’re about the find out,” I say.
We walk into the lobby. It’s dimly lit, and from the looks of things it hasn’t been redecorated since the sixties. A dancing Santa with one broken leg and a dying battery sits on a table to our left. His Ho Ho Ho is deep and drawn out, and his dance is awkwardly one-sided, looking more like a limp. A Christmas tree is propped against the wall. I think it’s broken too. To make things worse, only the top half is lit up and tinsel hangs to the floor. If this is Christmas in the Dominican Republic, Santa should skip it.
On the upside, we find a bar around the corner. We walk toward two open barstools located in the far corner, and I pull one out for Rory. We sit side by side in very close quarters and wait for someone to take our order. My arm is pressed against hers and there’s no hope for moving it. The room is packed with people stranded just like us, suitcases lined up against the wall like matchsticks waiting to be plucked and shuffled. We might be here a while. But anything is better than that room. I can’t believe our stupid luck.
As though she’s reading my mind, Rory brings it up. “A couple on their honeymoon? Can you believe we got so lucky?”
Something in her tone makes me laugh. Lucky isn’t the word, but there’s something funny about bad turning into worse and worse turning into awful. That’s been the way of this whole freaking trip.
“Yep, real lucky. Did you see the look on her face when I said we were practically strangers?” I can’t stop laughing. She joins me, and soon we both sound crazy. Like two sleep-deprived lunatics who finally cracked under the pressure of pretending to be okay.
“Married five minutes, and we already need counseling.”
I run a thumb under my eyes. “Yep, because of you and all your issues.”
“The only issues I have are of the Sports Illustrated variety.”
“I’ve seen them. No issue there. Not any unpleasant ones anyway.”
Her giggles multiply. “Why thank you, sir. Also, did you see the size of that bed?” She leans her head on my shoulder, and her side shakes. “We have to share it. Hope you don’t mind cuddling all night, husband. I hope you can sleep with me practically on top of you.”
At that my laughter slows, and I kill it on a hard swallow. Finally the waiter comes by and I order us two beers. They’re fresh out of mojitos—of course they are. Two minutes later I take a long gulp of whatever was on tap, still thinking about her statement.
That bed.
I saw it.
Of all the things that have gone wrong on this trip, I can’t help but think that’s the one thing that’s gone right.
I trace the rim of the frosty mug with my fingertip.
I don’t mind cuddling at all.
Especially not with Rory Gray.
Sleep though…there’s no chance of that happening tonight.