Page 19 of Brass
“Fine,” I mutter, not bothering to hide my displeasure. “Whatever.”
The clerk types with agonizing slowness, each keystroke deliberate. “Name?”
“David Wilson,” Ryan answers without hesitation. A lie, delivered with such conviction that I almost believe it myself.
I add this to my mental file: Ryan Ellis uses aliases smoothly. Without preparation or hesitation. Another piece in the puzzle of who exactly I’ve tied my survival to.
The clerk slides two key cards across the counter. Ryan takes them both, tucking one into his pocket and holding the other loosely between his fingers.
“Room 412,” the clerk says. “Elevator’s to your right. Checkout’s at eleven.”
Ryan nods his thanks. His hand finds the small of my back, guiding me toward the elevator. I should shrug him off. Should assert my independence. But his touch stabilizes my uneven gait, and I’m too exhausted to refuse the support.
The elevator doors close with a soft chime, sealing us into a mirrored box that multiplies our bedraggled reflections into infinity. Ryan drops his hand from my back, creating distancebetween us. I catch him watching me in the reflection, his expression unreadable.
“One room is safer,” he says quietly, breaking the silence. “I can’t protect you if you’re in a different room.”
I meet his eyes in the mirror. “Is that what you’re doing? Protecting me?”
“What else would I be doing?”
A dozen possibilities race through my mind, none of them reassuring. Kidnapping me. Using me as bait. Extracting whatever information I have before disposing of me once I’m no longer useful.
“I don’t know,” I answer honestly. “That’s the problem.”
The elevator stops with a slight jolt that sends pain shooting through my ribs. I inhale sharply, hand automatically moving to brace my side.
His eyes track the movement. “How bad?”
“I’m fine.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
The doors slide open, saving me from responding. He checks the hallway before stepping out, those ice-blue eyes scanning every corner and shadow. I follow, noting which way the exit signs point and calculating how quickly I could reach the stairs if needed.
Old habits. Survival instincts.
We stop outside 412. Ryan slides the key card into the lock, waits for the green light, then pushes the door open—but doesn’t enter. Instead, he steps aside, gesturing for me to stay put, then moves into the room without me. I watch from the doorway as he checks the bathroom, the closet, under the bed, and the windows. Only after this methodical inspection does he nod for me to enter.
I limp into the room, letting the door close behind me with a soft click. The lock engages automatically. I wonder if it would keep out the kind of men hunting us.
I doubt it.
The room is standard budget hotel fare: a king bed dominates the space, a particle-board dresser with a TV bolted on top, and a small round table with two chairs by the window. Beige wallpaper, carpet, everything. But it’s clean, the sheets look fresh, and there’s no obvious mold in the corners.
After maintenance tunnels and rainy alleys, it seems almost luxurious.
Ryan draws the curtains closed and turns to face me. For a long moment, we stare at each other, the reality of our situation settling like dust after an explosion.
My heart pounds against my injured ribs. The flash drive in my pocket feels suddenly heavier.
“So,” I say, trying to keep my voice steady. “One room. One bed. What happens now?”
Ryan doesn’t immediately answer. Instead, he moves to the heater unit beneath the window, adjusting the settings until warm air begins to circulate. This small consideration—addressing the chill from our soaked clothes—catches me off guard.
“Now,” he finally says, “we deal with our situation practically.” His tone is matter-of-fact, as if we’re discussing a business arrangement rather than the logistics of sharing a bed with a stranger. “You take the bed. I’ll sleep on the floor.”
I wasn’t expecting that.
