Page 5 of The Jilted Lovers Club
Those fucking trespassers. My photo is probably being passed around like a trading card in this backwards town. If I wasn’t afraid of losing my business connection with Winslow & Associates, I’d walk my ass out of this hotel and book the next flight home. But I need this job, and I’m not leaving this hotel without a fight.
“I made this reservation weeks ago,” I hiss. The gloves are off, especially as I see the slight tilt in her mouth. She actually finds this funny! I pull my own phone out so I can find the confirmation in my email, but she just shakes her head.
“I’m afraid I can’t help you,” she says.
Fuck. This. Place.
“Can’t?” I ask, “Or won’t?”
She says nothing, only turning her back to me to do some invisible work on the counter behind her. “I am not leaving this spot until you give me the keys to my room.” I bang my hand on the countertop, trying to get her attention. “Are you listening to me? I reserved the suite, and if you don’t want a huge lawsuit on your hands, you’ll make sure I get what I reserved. Do I make myself clear?”
Bernice turns, peering at me over her glasses, and she shakes her head. “Ma’am, there is nothing I can do for you. Your name is not in our system. Furthermore, we have no rooms available for the night, let alone the month. If this is going to be a problem, you are free to sit your ass on those chairs over there and wait to tell your story to the police for loitering. Is that clear enough for you?”
I glare, though I’m panicking internally. What do I do if she really doesn’t let me stay here? I don’t know anyone around here, and the nearest hotel is at least an hour away. I could get an Airbnb, but the last time I stayed in one, I ended up in the room of a hoarder house that looked nothing like the photos on the website. It was so traumatizing, I swore I’d never do it again.
I have no choice but to pull out the big guns.
“I would like to speak to your manager,” I say, narrowing my eyes as I enunciate each word. Bernice smiles, almost sweetly.
“How about the owner?” She hands me one of the business cards from the stack on the desk. I look at it, and my stomach drops. Bernice Lahoma, Owner of Lahoma Hotel.
Fuck me. With a last name like Lahoma, she probably owns this whole fucking town—and I’ve just made an enemy of her.
“Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to get ready to welcome our registered guests.” She glances pointedly at the door. “I suggest you move along.” She smiles, then tilts her head, “Or maybe you really do want to talk to the cops.”
“You won’t call, I’ve done nothing wrong.”
Bernice picks up her phone, then dials. I stay where I am, arms folded in front of me. What exactly are the cops going to do?
“Ted?” Bernice says, then relaxes into a laugh. “Yeah, it’s Bernie… Oh for sure. You tell Emily that’s an old family recipe, I’ll bring it over the next time I come for dinner. Hey, I hate to bother you, but there’s a disturbance happening at the hotel, and I was hoping you could send one of your cars over.”
Right. Bernice’s town, not mine.
“Forget it,” I say, grabbing my luggage.
“Oh, you know what? Never mind, it looks like the situation is seeing itself out. All right now, you all take care over there. Don’t work too hard.” Bernice hangs up, then turns to give me her back as she prepares for … no one? There isn’t a soul in thislobby except me and her, and whatever died on this god-awful furniture.
There’s also no point in arguing. By this point I’m famished, and I need something to eat before I figure out my next move. So I roll the suitcase behind me, banging my way through the double doors as I head out into the evening.
The fun didn’t stop at the hotel. When I get back to my car, there’s a ticket on it for being an inch into the red painted on the curb. I crumple up the accusing paper and throw it on my passenger seat before jamming the luggage into the trunk.
Finding food proves to be a disaster as well. I come upon a French bistro a half block down the street, and even though the place is only half full, the hostess insists they have no more tables left. The next place, an Italian restaurant, tells me they’re closing in twenty minutes and aren’t seating anyone else. A place that serves Peruvian food locks the doors before I can open them.
I want to cry, but I won’t. This is personal. I hate this town, and yet, I hate the feeling of rejection even more. It’s not even my fault. I’m not the one who bought this building. I’m not even the real intruder of their small town. I’m just a person trying to do her job, and they’re vilifying me for it.
I’m fucking hungry, tired, and I have no place to go.
I try one more door. Charred Steakhouse. As soon as I open the door, the scent of seared steak overwhelms me. My stomach rumbles, and I know there is no going anywhere else, even if they try to kick me out.
“We’re full for the night,” a guy says, cleaning a glass behind the bar. I look around, noting that every table is indeed taken. But there’s room at the bar, and I nab a seat immediately.
“Looks like I’ll be sitting here, then,” I say, offering a curt smile and hanging my purse on the hook at my knees. “I’ll take a menu and your house chardonnay.”
“Get her the Manhattan, Griff.”
I turn to my right, and even though this day has gone to shit, my heart does a little leap at the familiarity of Ashton’s face. In a town full of strangers, just looking at him as he stands and makes his way over to me helps me feel less alone. Like I have a friend in this angry, unfriendly town.
Then I recall the way he abandoned me just beforehand, how his face turned stony once he knew who I was. Even though I’m desperate for an ally, I force my heart to ice as I direct my gaze in front of me.
