I’m quick to get dressed, but when I get out to the waiting room, Damian’s not there.
“Excuse me,” I say, walking up to the counter, “has my friend, Damian, come out yet?”
“Yes, ma’am,” the woman behind the counter says. “He walked through about a minute ago.”
Stupid tangled bra strap.
I finally track Damian down as he’s walking back toward his room.
“Where are you going?” I ask. “I thought we were doing the massage and then we were going to go down by the beach.”
“Yeah, I’m really not in the mood right now,” he says.
“I’m sorry I brought all that up,” I tell him. “I was just trying to get to know you better.”
“I know,” he says. “It’s fine. It’s just that, earlier, when you asked what the worst thing to ever happen to me was. It was that. Nobody knows because nothing between her and I was ever official, at least as far as public records were concerned. Add to that a grieving father who’d much rather forget my existence completely and a staff of doctors that are bound by confidentiality and you have the perfect storm it takes to have something like this slip by everyone’s radar. I think it goes without saying that I’d prefer you not talk about this with—”
“Yeah,” I interrupt, “of course. It’s nobody’s business and it’s sure as hell not my business to tell anyone.”
I may have gone a bit over the top there.
Damian eyes me and just says, “Yeah. Anyway, if you don’t mind, I think I’m going to cancel our trip down to the beach. After that massage, I just kind of want to lay down for a bit.”
“All right,” I tell him, “no worries.”
He walks off, and I’m actually grateful I put my foot down about having separate rooms.
The Damian Jones I knew from the glossy papers and TV gossip shows is one of those guys who’s always playing the field, rumored to have had dozens, if not hundreds, of sexual partners, though nobody seems to have any definite numbers. As much as Damian’s tried to dissuade me, though, I like him.
It’s because I like him that I insisted on the separate rooms. It’s because I like him that I insisted we not kiss until we’re onscreen. I’m not a prude, I just don’t want to be another snapshot in the cavalcade of Damian’s skanks.
I get back to my room and the next hour passes grudgingly.
Ben got his first check. Despite assurances that I would never have to talk to him again, he still sent me a text to let me know when the check cleared.
What an asshole.
I’m so pissed off at everything right now. Every time an opportunity comes up, I end up having to pay for it 10 times over. Nothing is ever fucking easy and I’m sick of it.
Five thousand dollars a month for the next 17 years: I did the math. That comes out to $1,020,000. I guess he just figured making it an even 17 years was easier than making it an even million dollars.
I hope the money brings him nothing but fucking misery.
Misery’s a hell of a thing, though. While Ben certainly deserves as much of it as he can get, he’s probably never going to feel the bite of it. Meanwhile, Damian’s down in his room wallowing in misery and he’s done nothing wrong.
I think it’s time to go nuclear.
* * *
It took a little time and a little planning, but after putting my mind to it, I’ve come up with the perfect plan.
Step one: get Damian out of his room.
This part is easy enough.
I find a bellhop who’s not standing particularly close to any of his coworkers and tell him, “I’ll give you 200 bucks, 100 now, 100 afterward, if you’ll go to this room,” I hand the young man a sticky note with Damian’s room number written on it, “and tell the man inside he’ll have to vacate the room for a couple of hours. Say that you found spiders in the adjoining room—I remember reading an interview where he said that he hates spiders—”
“Ma’am,” the bellhop says, “I appreciate the offer, but I should probably remind you the kind of clientele that comes through here. Two hundred bucks may be a lot to someone working a franchise in Who Gives a Shit, South Dakota, but I’m not risking my job for a shitty payday like that.”