Page 5 of My Favorite Bad Decision
She asked if it was true that my father’s firm made most of their money representing human traffickers.
“Everyone likes a client who can pay in cash,” I replied.
For the first time all night, her mouth twitched, and it was as if I’d won something, though I had no clue what it was or why I cared about winning it.
“Sorry about Kit,” Maren said as she walked me to the penthouse’s private elevator to the lobby. “That was unusually bad, even for her. I’ll make sure it doesn’t happen again.”
Weirdly, by that point, I no longer wanted Kit’s abuse to stop. Because it served a purpose, yes, but also because I’d begun to enjoy it. When she sent that acid tongue of hers in my direction, it was like she was throwing down a toy she wanted me to fight her for.
As I left, I could suddenly picture staying with Maren, becoming part of her family. Returning, week after week, to bat off Kit’s abuse.
It would take me way too long to understand what had really changed.
3
KIT
The bus slows as we turn down a tree-lined lane and then stops inside the gates of the resort, where we will spend one last night in luxury before venturing onto the mountain. I climb out, intentionally cutting Miller off to do it, and come to a shocked halt.
Tents. All I see are tents. And sure, they’re nice tents, on platforms, but they are still fuckingtents.
I’ve come to such a short stop that I’m knocked into from behind by someone, and naturally that person is Miller. He reaches out, grabbing me by the waist to keep me from toppling forward, and for a half second, my back is pressed to his very firm front and his incredibly large hand is tight against my stomach and half around my hip.
I’m a tall girl. It takes a whole lot of man to make me feel dainty by contrast. There’s a tiny clench of desire in my core before I can stop it. I’ll go to therapy for a decade if necessary in order to forget it ever happened.
“I really hope you’re able to walk uphill a little better than you climb off a bus,” says Miller, releasing me, “or Kilimanjaro is going to be painful for everyone hiking behind you.”
My jaw grinds as I move out of the way.If that person is you, I will go out of my way to make it painful.
The white-clad hotel staff exits the largest of the tents and form a line to greet us. Somehow, they seem to already know who each of us is…a nice touch, yes, but I wish I could swap that nicety out for an actual hotel room.
One with a door.
“Miss Fischer?” asks a smiling man. “Come. I will show you to your lodging.”
He leads me to one of the tents, opens the flaps, and secures them to the sides before he gestures me in.
Inside, there’s a bathroom and a canopy bed shrouded with mosquito netting. It’s actually quite nice, if you’re someone who doesn’t worry about being murdered. I’m from New York, however, so wondering if I’m about to die occupies roughly fifty percent of my waking thoughts.
The bellman shows me how to operate the shower and indicates the way I can secure my tent—a way that will stop no one with opposable thumbs. When he’s gone, I go straight to the bed and pull back the covers to discover what will prove a woefully insufficient sleeping situation. At home, I sleep on a temperature-controlled mattress that raises and lowers on command, on sheets my mother orders from France, and this...is very far from that.
I wasn’t always this way. With Rob, my ex, I was different, but I was also younger then. With every year, I get a little more inflexible, a little less able to roll with the punches.
You said it was a five-star hotel. This is not five stars.
Dad
“Five stars” is relative. I’m sure you’ll survive. You and your sister could stand to learn a bit about how the other half lives.
This from the man who will return a gin and tonic that is accompanied by a slice of lime rather than cucumber and who bought a private plane in a fit of pique after a flight he was on didn’t have lie-flat seats.
It’s a TENT. I have no DOOR. When I’m murdered in my bed, I will hold you responsible.
Dad
Once dead, you won’t be able to hold anyone responsible. Technically.
With a groan, I flop down on what I pray is a newly laundered blanket to mope.
