Kya
The stripper stepped around me in her impossibly high heels and walked straight across the suite to Fenton's room. She left the door open and I could hear her call out to him.
"You came! I'm so glad. Just give me a minute," Fenton replied. The shower turned off and their voices dropped lower.
I stood in the doorway and could not hear what they said. Did it matter? There was only one real reason he had invited such a woman to join him in his room. I heard him come out of the bathroom. I turned on shaky knees and disappeared into the master bedroom, before he could see me through his open door.
My hands shook as I dug through my suitcase. Stuffed far in the corner was the black bikini I had packed at the last second. Lounging by the pool had been the one luxury I was going to allow myself on this business trip. I fumbled with the ties, but got the bikini on. I tugged a wispy sundress over the top, found my sunglasses, and raked my fingers through my loose hair.
In the living room, I rushed to find the pair of sandals I had left by the patio door. Just as I slipped them on, I heard the other bedroom door handle rattle. I darted across the suite and made it out the door before Fenton could say anything. I fled down the hallway and into the stairwell, unwilling to be caught by the elevator and forced to hear whatever flimsy excuse he had.
There was nothing he could say. I read the whole situation wrong. The swirl of emotions had been entirely on my part. I wanted to blame the adrenaline, the slow ebb of excitement after my dangerous encounter with the fight fixers, but that was a lie. I’d wanted Fenton from the first moment I saw him in that Vegas nightclub. It had all meant something to me. To Fenton, though, I was just another conquest.
I found a lounge chair in the already blazing sun and lay down. I hoped to bake the chill out of my heart, but there were tears welling behind my sunglasses. It was ridiculous to cry over Fenton Morris. He was not worth tears, no matter what he had made me feel. He was the type of man to invite another woman into the suite minutes after we had been together.
"Would you like me to bring you something from the bar?" a waiter asked.
"A mimosa," I said. "Wait, no, skip the orange juice and just bring me champagne."
I gave the waiter my suite number. I was already in debt to my boss for the room, so I might as well enjoy it. And, I hoped the bubbly burst of alcohol would offset the eroding sadness I knew too well. The last time I felt so alone was after my parents had passed away. Strangely, that thought gave me some comfort. The way I had pulled myself out of that grief was to set my feet firmly on a practical path. I was the only one that was going to look out for me and it was better to focus on that than Fenton.
I dug my phone out of my purse, glad I had grabbed it before I fled. The champagne arrived as I checked my bank accounts, paid a few bills, and calmed myself down. I was fine. Everything was up to date. It did not matter if my love life was now a complete disaster because everything else was neat and orderly.
I tipped the flute of champagne and finished it, then checked my email. I sent a few professional responses, scheduled some phone calls, and felt my head clear even as the champagne fizzed through my system. The last email I checked was from my real estate agent. My offer on the house had been accepted and everything was set pending an inspection.
I clicked the link and scrolled through the photographs of the house for the hundredth time. It was perfect – in a comfortable neighborhood with room for easy improvements that would boost my equity immediately. It was small with two bedrooms and two bathrooms, but there was more than enough room for a single woman. I imagined walking through the empty rooms on my own and closed the browser window. Maybe being out on the road for work was not such a bad thing.
I rewrote the email seven times, but finally sent a response to my real estate agent. The inspection was set for the next week. I would be home from Las Vegas by then and would move forward with the purchase of the house. If anything, I would fix the house up and sell it as soon as possible. It was a good investment.
Thinking about my finances, I calculated the loss I was taking on the luxury suite. That plus the loss of my bonus would make things tight for the next year, unless I found another client and made it count. My first thought was Mario Peretti, but he was too closely linked with Fenton and the thought of Fenton made my stomach flop. I shoved the sadness away and racked my brain for a new business strategy.
There was a large golf tournament in town. Not only did I have an excellent business history with golfers, but it would piss Fenton off to see me back with the country club set. If he cared at all. If not, I wanted to be as far from him and his rule-shirking type as possible. I pulled up the golf statistics for the tournament and started studying the players' numbers.
"I don't care what people say about him, I find him irresistible," I overheard the woman three lounge chairs over say to her friend.
"Really? I suppose he does have sexy eyes,” the other woman said.
I kept my eyes on the golf statistics and prayed they were not talking about Fenton. The last thing I could handle was hearing other women drooling over him.
"Come on, tell me you don't think he's handsome," the first woman sat up and thrust a magazine at her friend.
"Polo shirts are not really my thing. He looks kinda stuck up."
My shoulders eased and I was able to turn my head. The women were looking at a tabloid magazine with the headline "Oh My God!" Underneath the bold letters was a clean-cut, all-American man with short, cropped brown hair. He did have sexy brown eyes, minus the devilish glint that Fenton's often showed.
I looked again and recognized the man on the cover. I had met him minutes before Fenton came to speak to me at the nightclub. I studied the tabloid cover the women held up and almost laughed out loud. The man held a golf club over his shoulder – he was a professional golfer!
"Excuse me, what's his name?" I asked the women.
They looked up from their magazine and both their jaws dropped open.
"Jackson McRay," a voice behind me said.
I turned around and caught myself before gaping like the other women. He was even more handsome in person than his cover shot and his smiling brown eyes were fixed on me. My bikini instantly felt too small, but I could not reach my sundress without wriggling all around.
"We met the other night," he said. "Remember?"
"Yes, I do. I mean, I remember. Sorry, my name is Kya," I said.