Resist (Sphere of Irony 3)
“Ready as I’ll ever be to see some ‘art or some shit’.” I make air quotes, holding back a chuckle.
“Fuck off, Gav.” Hawke flips me the bird.
“Yeah, yeah. Come on.”
The corner of his mouth twitches. Hawke reaches out and pulls open the door to the suite. “After you, sir.”
I flinch, glancing into the hall to make sure it’s empty before stepping out.
“Hey,” Hawke grabs my arm. “You’re safe, okay?”
I nod even though I don’t believe a word he says.
“Right. I know.”
We take the elevator down to the lobby of the gilded, upscale Peninsula Hotel. The entire ride, my mind mulls over all the ways s
omeone could walk up and hurt one of us. Hell, some psycho did it to Sydney Tannen a few years back. It could happen to me. I swallow around my thick tongue, my heart pounding against my ribcage.
“M-maybe security should come upstairs next time,” I whisper, sweat collecting at the back of my neck.
“If that’s what you want, Gav. Whatever it takes,” Hawke murmurs, his shoulder bumping mine to let me know he’s there.
Outside, we climb into the waiting car and I’m able to relax. Not much, but a little.
Halfway through the displays at the MOMA—I opted for the Warhol exhibit—I begin to enjoy myself. I’m no longer observing the other patrons. Checking each face to see who looks like a psychopath and who looks normal.
The bodyguard hired by the label trails behind. He leaves enough space that I can forget he’s there, but stays close enough to keep me from feeling vulnerable. Regardless, he can’t stop fans from whispering when they recognize us, or from asking for autographs. Every time someone approaches, my throat closes up and my heart skips a beat. Despite it all, I manage to have a good time.
Hours later, Hawke is cackling the entire way back to the hotel. “Fucking soup cans! Shit. I wish I thought of that. I’d be rich.”
My expression must be a sight because Hawke’s eyes widen and he laughs harder. “You are rich,” I say drily.
He snorts. “Yeah, I know. But soup cans!” Hawke has laughing fits all the way back up to my room. This time, at my request, the big bodyguard joins us.
“Dude, you’re losing your mind.” I snicker, sliding my keycard into the slot. When the light turns green, I push it open.
“Mr. Walker?” The bodyguard—Pete? Paul? Phil? I can’t remember—motions that he should enter first.
“Oh. Right.” I step back, letting the huge man pass.
Hawke and I follow him inside.
Mistake number one.
Pete or whoever he is holds up a hand from his spot next to the bed. “Stop!”
I keep moving forward, unable to control my own legs.
Mistake number two.
He pulls out a phone. “Yeah, I need backup. NYPD and call Ross and Jeremy.”
The hairs on my arm stand straight up, sending chills down my spine. Pete/Paul hangs up and pulls latex gloves out of his pocket, snapping them on. He circles the bed, leaning over to look at something on the duvet. Trying not to touch, he prods it with a pen, unfolding what looks to be a piece of paper.
Drawn in, the horror pulling me like a magnet, I step into the room.
Mistake number three.