Page 52 of Beach Bodies

Ah. He’s in the middle of an evening gym session with Tim fromTake it Off. It wasn’t on his schedule earlier… I note that it lasts until eight thirty. Hence him sounding a little winded.

I wonder why he’s suddenly so interested in working out.

But I do know that it gives me, starting now, exactly thirty-nine minutes if I want to break into his room.

Chapter Nineteen

‘Hi,’ I say in a friendly tone to the woman behind the reception desk. ‘I’m so sorry to bother you, but—’ I lower my voice and lean forward over the counter. ‘We have a journalist staying with us. Daniel Black? And he, um… just locked himself out of his room. Could I grab a key for him?’

The woman’s brow wrinkles. ‘We’d be happy to issue him another key if he can come down himself—’

‘He’s naked.’ I make a cringe face. ‘Vic is really keen on keeping him happy, so I’m supposed to run Mr Black a key as quickly as possible. Oh– I’m Lily. I work here too. Sorry, I should have said.’

Still, she hesitates, possibly because I’m a sweaty mess and not looking on-brand.

‘Look,’ I say, with an edge to my tone. ‘I’m not trying to be difficult, but this is urgent. Do you need me to get Vic?’

Immediately, the resistance melts off her face.

‘Of course not, no need to bother Mr Salinas. Let me just activate a new card for Mr Black—’

Key finally in hand– and multiple minutes wasted, ugh– Itake the elevator to his floor, slicing the card back and forth along my palm because the ascent feels unusually slow. Can’t they build faster elevators? Time is money, people! Finally, the doors open. Two guests are waiting. I smile, they smile back. I walk down the hall slowly, knowing their eyes may still be on me. As soon as the elevator doors close fully and I’m free from watching eyes, I sprint.

My lungs are heaving as I finally reach his door and jam the key card in. Inside the dark room, my eyes immediately find the bright green digits of the bedside clock–shit. Only twenty-two minutes to spare.Move, Lily!I flip on the lights.

First: dresser drawers. All empty; he hasn’t even unpacked. I push open the mirrored closet door where the room safe is. His luggage is on the floor– a hardback Tumi splayed open, with a mess of clothes spilling out. At least that makes it easy to search.

I rummage through the clothes, looking for anything– identification, papers, notes.

Nothing.

He has a backpack leaned up against the TV console, a laptop open on the desk, and a pair of reading glasses on the nightstand. I go through the backpack next. Water bottle– almost empty– some pens, an unused legal pad, a sleeve of tissues, a battered pair of sunglasses. Onward.

The laptop springs awake at a touch of my finger to the mousepad, but of course it’s password protected. Even though I already know it’s a waste of time, I make a few random attempts– DBlack123, DanielB, DanielB1. When it warns me that I have one attempt left, I stop.

The nightstand drawers are also empty, save a hotel notepad, a laminated TV guide and a room service menu.

The bathroom is messy. A towel on the floor. Personal hygiene items scattered across the sink. Aftershave– mm, smells like him– and immediately, I’m mentally on his bed again, naked under him, the smell of sweat and desire rolling off him, my hands clawing at his back—

Trash bin! Trash bin!

Back to the present. Cheap razor, a beard trimmer, a toothbrush, Colgate toothpaste. I note toothpaste smeared in the sink, hair clippings on the counter, some Q-tips in the trash. I return to the bedroom area and check the clock. Ten minutes left, and I’ve found nothing of worth. Certainly nothing magazine-related… no notes for his article, though of course those would likely be on his phone and laptop, no press ID… would he keep them in the room safe?

The default number, I happen to know, is 1-2-3-4. Most guests change it, but… I punch the numbers into the keypad. It pops open– hah!

Inside the safe, there’s finally something. A microphone. A ring light. Some cash, US dollars and euros. And finally, a US passport. I reach for the passport and open it. Daniel’s face stares back, utterly serious. Almost scary-serious. My eyes immediately fall on his name.

Daniel Aleksy Lukiewicz.

What the …

I’m reaching for my phone to take a picture of his passport when I hear a voice outside the door– Daniel’s. Shit! He’s back early from his workout!

Tossing the passport back in, I shut the safe, but there’sno time to close the sliding closet door. I make a wild scan around the room for the best hiding place, then dive under the bed, already feeling the sting of a rug burn down my leg. It’s a tight, tight fit– I have to keep my head turned to one side. I’ve barely wiggled my feet out of sight when the door clicks open. The clearance is so low that if he sits down on the bed he might actually crush me.

‘Did you get the coroner’s report I sent?’ It sounds like Daniel’s on the phone. ‘No. I’m not sure yet… I’ll shoot over my notes. See what you think.’

And then, he sits on the fucking bed.

---