Ambition (Private 7)

Thurber and Lorna Gross had been there to witness it. "There's no one in the bathroom, either," Lorna said, checking it. I turned and

checked both closets, now almost hoping I'd find some psycho lurking about. Anything to make me look like less of a paranoid delu-

sional nutcase. But there was nothing. "You don't get enough attention around here?" Missy said with a smirk. "Now you have to cre-

ate fake stalkers? Poor, poor President Reed. Always such a victim." "You know, you're even uglier on the inside than you are on the

outside," I snapped. Missy's jaw dropped. For a split second I actually thought she was going to cry, and I didn't even care. I was too

pent up, frustrated, and embarrassed to care. And besides, why did she always have to be so rude? She had no idea what was going on

in my life. No clue. And did she care? No. She just lived to attack me. "You are such a bitch," she said through her teeth. "You may

have everyone else around here snowed, but I know the nice-girl thing is all an act, and sooner or later you're going to get yours, Reed.

Just wait." She stomped out of my room with her blankets, leaving Lorna hovering behind. Was that a threat? Had Missy just threat-

ened me? And why had she used the word stalker? I hadn't said anything about a stalker. Just that I thought someone was in my room.

Did she know I had a stalker because she was the stalker?

Fab. Now my brain was starting to hurt. "Are you okay?" Lorna asked me quietly. "Yeah," I said, catching my breath. "I'm fine.

I'm just going to... get ready for bed." "Okay." Lorna picked up her blankets and went after Missy. I closed the door and rechecked ev-

erything, just to be safe. The bathroom, the closets, under the beds. Nothing seemed amiss. I took a deep breath and tossed my coat on

the hook behind the door. Then I turned to my dresser for my pajamas and froze. No. Couldn't go in there. No drawers. Rationally, I

knew that all I had seen were the moving curtains, but I was irrationally scared anyway. I pulled my sweater off over my head and

glanced at the closet. No. Couldn't go in there either.

Feeling childish, I folded my sweater and placed it atop my closed laptop. Suddenly, I felt exhausted. Beaten down by my own

paranoia. I didn't want to wash my face or brush my teeth or check my e-mail or do anything. My bag for tomorrow was already

packed, sitting on the floor at the end of my bed. If I went to sleep, I could wake up and go to New York. Get out of here and not see

this room for two whole days. Two whole days in a place that didn't know me. Two whole days in a town where Cheyenne's memory

couldn't haunt me. Two whole days where whoever was messing with me couldn't reach me. New York. The words were like a

promise. I would feel less crazy there. I knew I would. Jeans and T-shirt still on, I crawled under the covers and, leaving the overhead

light blazing, attempted to get some sleep.

POWER TRIP

The lobby of the exclusive Gramercy Park Hotel was like something out of a modern-goth Alice in Wonderland, with its checker-

board floors, abstract art, ornate chandeliers, and dark stone walls. Yet it was somehow cozy. Comfortable. Welcoming. In two words

it was this: Not Billings. I felt myself start to breathe easier as we stepped further inside. There was a couple at the front desk sur-

rounded by piles of buttery leather luggage, a tiny dog peeking out from the woman's handbag. A group of men in tailored suits strode

by us in heated conversation, clearly on their way to some high-powered brunch, and they all stopped talking to check us out as the