Lost in Hotels (13 page)

“Get down on your knees, Jamila,” I say from my seated position. Jamila drops to the ground behind her.

I get up, move closer to the couch, approach Jamila, and guide her head between Amber’s thighs. Jamila hesitates as I resist joining Jamila’s tongue with my own. She falls onto the couch and I back away again. She spreads her legs in an exotic invite as her eyes open to look at me, and then at Alex, who remains clearly in her eye line. Jamila jumps up, grabs me from behind, and rips open my YSL shirt. A button snaps off, flies across the room, and lands next to the door. I push her away again. I must stop.

I didn’t want to be here as I near Amber and straddle from above with my body fully on the precipice. Jamila rises above Amber, forcing her to eat her out in a position of dominance that she took when I positioned myself to enter Amber and not her. I want to stop, but all I can think about is being inside Amber. She squirms in desire moaning for me to take her. She grabs her hair and body as if on stage or performing for an audience.

As Amber begs me to enter her, I push Jamila out of the way. The thing about threesomes, with a third unknown partner, someone is left out in the lust of a couple who wants to be left alone.

Jamila is fully naked and moves across the room and onto the terrace. I stare into Amber’s eyes, fully ready to be inside of her. Alas, this must stop before it is too late. An awkward and abrupt halt shivers through my body, and I collapse next to her in a sweated retreat. I stopped. I actually managed to stop. Her breath withdraws from exhaustion as a forgiving stillness engulfs the room, and I immediately know I made the right decision, regardless of how late and the fact that I’m still very much erect.

Neither one of us said a word; both of us are probably relieved this didn’t go any farther. My hand reaches to Amber’s in a humble, excusing motion in hopes she won’t feel rejected or confused that I chose not to go any farther. But before she can gesture in return, the silence is interrupted. Jamila is on the terrace atop Alex and moaning in exaltation, both hidden behind the curtains and the very dark night. As I look at Amber, her peaceful spirit fades to emotion as her hand pulls away and eyes retreat from mine. I take my cue.

There’s an echo with the slam of the bathroom door; a cold tiled heaven away from all that remains in the next room. What was I thinking? How did I let this happen? I begin to masturbate voraciously, wanting to rid myself of the poisons that make me ruin every good relationship I’ve ever known, even when it’s not my own. I pull harder and harder, and I finally erupt catapulting me away from that moment and into a solitary place where all I desire is to take back those last two hours. My dick falls limp as my inner regret cyclones. I pull back the shower curtain and pretend for a moment that none of that just happened, that no one still lingered in my room, and these wildly different paths hadn’t crossed in the whirlwind of a Chateau night.

The hot water hisses as it labors through the old pipes of the building, and I stand under a cold spray that doesn’t have a massager or a rain head, just a simple chrome spout that sprays frigid water that envelops my body. Slowly, the water turns warmer and then almost too hot as the cold moves down my body. A warm, tingling sensation relaxes me to the point of urinating on the perfect white tiles.

To the rear of the bathtub, a long mirror antagonizes me as I look at my bare body with legs beginning to show their oldness around the knees and my chest and shoulders that aren’t near as bulky as they were a few years ago. And my face, that face with my anybody eyes that are too spread apart with black circles above my big nose and lines leading down around the mouth that are far too deep for my age. Then there is this, this endless carnage of relationships that gets more and more complicated as my desire becomes ravenous for the unknown pleasure that leaves me here hiding and once again alone.

The following morning I awaken to a city covered in a misty fog that leaves a slick residue on the patio even at the late hour of noon. Its wet cushions and consistent drip fall from the Chateau’s roofline, down its rusted gutters, and to the pavement along my terrace. I have a few hours to awaken fully before Catherine arrives from New York. I walk into the living room where the phantoms of last night linger through tossed pillows, ruffled furniture, and smudges on the credenza literally licked clean with not a grain of coke left by Jamila.

“Hello, this is David Summers,” I say into the chunky old-fashioned cordless phone.

“Yes, sir, how may we help you this day?” the perky receptionist responds.

“Might I request my maid service as soon as possible?”

“Absolutely, we will send someone straight up.”

“And would you mind forwarding my request for a double espresso and dry wheat toast to room service?”

“Right away, sir. It shouldn’t be more than ten minutes.”

My mix of jet lag and hangover haze has me retreating into bed where I lose myself in the plaster ceiling with its handful of cracks and faint smell of paint that comes across the uninterrupted morning. I imagine all the people before me lying in this very spot, some in the company of the one they love and others like me isolated and wondering if I would have even noticed the intricacies of the ceiling if in the presence of another. I also imagine what it would be like lying here with Catherine with no memories of last night resting heavy on my mind.

A hefty knock on the door has me thinking espresso and not the ungainly Guatemalan housekeeper dressed in white with a smile dotted in metal-capped filling who waits on the other side in the company of her vacuum and cleaning bucket. I, standing there in just my white cotton sleeping shorts, leave me a little embarrassed when her eye line is more to my waist than my head.

“You request housekeeping?”

“Yes, come right in. I’ll just stay in the bedroom and out of your way until you’re done.”

She enters directly into the messy living room and sweeps her gaze before going about the process of reassembling what was the visuals and memories of the previous night fade with each pillow in place, every pull of the drapes back to their check-in position, and moving the couch from where I thrust it while inside that young girl. As I withdraw to the bedroom, the door rings. I swivel back and open it to see a dapper twenty-something room service attendant who stands in a crisp white shirt that perfectly opposes the black espresso in the transparent cup.

“Good morning, we have your espresso for you.”

My near-nakedness is overlooked in lieu of direct eye contact with the guy who is likely a model or actor cast with his angular jaw line and James Dean looks that would likely emasculate lesser men in a single glance, especially when standing there in their underwear. He lingers in the doorway as I attempt to grab the tray from him with both hands.

“It’s very hot, so just tell me where to put it,” he insists.

He surveys the room and sees the lone housekeeper with a spritz bottle in her hand laboring over the glass coffee table and looking at both of us.

“Actually, just follow me and put it in here,” I say, turning and retracing the steps to my bedroom well aware of what the housekeeper is thinking.

“You can just put it right there.” I gesture toward the side table.

He takes instruction quickly and turns abruptly with a bill to sign.

As he approaches, he studies my body with such severity that his gestural statement takes me aback. He looks at my stomach, my underwear, and then my chest without looking into my eyes again.

“I guess I should sign that,” I say, taking the bill from his hand.

His gayness catches me off guard, straight appearing and total-guy acting in almost every way. I’m complimented and almost a bit smug by the attention of someone almost half my age, and twice as attractive as I am. Without a word, he stares into my eyes as I grab the pen, sign, and hand the bill back to him.

“My name is Sam. If there’s anything you need or want during your stay, please ask for me directly.”

Sam gazes down at me once again, objectifying me just enough to have me backing into the main room and seeing him to the door. Without my replying even a thank you, Sam scampers away to leave me with my espresso and disappointed housekeeper.

After a shower and a morning of work, I make my way down to the lobby. The corridors of the hotel linger in near complete darkness despite the afternoon hour. The city sits under a blanket of gloom that will at least dissipate from my mind with the arrival of Catherine. I crave her conversation, the sight of her face that lights up in a story where my mind doesn’t retreat into my own thoughts, and instead hangs on her every word.

My clothes are strategic, a long-sleeve knit polo shirt in sky blue that reflects a husband-like glow in my eyes with arms that are soft to touch and potentially cuddle over black denim jeans, and black sneakers you wouldn’t be caught dead wearing in any London hotel. The lobby is empty, just the way I was hoping, a cozy corner facing away from the entrance would allow us some privacy. Despite the soggy weather, the patio still manages a crowd for a late lunch, but I still want the comfort of those bouncy sofas that soothe my hangover.

“Can I get you a drink?” the same waitress with the statuesque shoulders from the previous night inquires.

“Actually, just a hot tea would be lovely.”

“Any particular kind? We have Earl Grey and English breakfast and chamomile, I believe.”

“A green tea would be perfect if you have it.”

“That shouldn’t be a problem, but chamomile if not?”

“Actually, an espresso if not,” I correct myself.

Without a moment to spare, I see her circling the lobby looking every bit the celebrity with her black sunglasses and impeccably tailored leather jacket over two long legs kissed in flowing black pants of an avant-garde cut above boots that stretch for days in front of her. She’s far more glamorous and sexy than even I remember. Her eyes have been on me awhile, our gaze connecting in an instant without her pretending to look around the room or searching as if she hadn’t seen me. There’s realness to Catherine that’s refreshing, she doesn’t partake in those typical relationship games. She looks stunning as she nears; her hair is a bit lighter than before. She pulls off her glasses and reignites that feeling I get inside since the first time our paths crossed in that Rio airport.

I remain seated, almost straddling her with my legs apart as she approaches the final few steps. I jump to my feet and grab her around the waist as a whiff of fresh leather lingers on her with an underlayer of that citrusy fragrance. I jostle my nose into the cold flesh of her neck and take a bite with my teeth. She pulls away at the forwardness of my hug.

“David Summers, I’ve missed you.” She gazes into my eyes while holding both my elbows in the cusp of her hand.

“I can’t tell you how excited I am that you are here. I’m so excited it all worked out.”

“How could I not come see you while visiting my country?”

“You seemed so busy, I wasn’t sure it would actually happen.”

“Well, I wouldn’t have been able to stand the thought of you staying at the Chateau without me.”

Her eyes hover over mine like an artist tracing on parchment. My eyes move from her stare to take in her body that’s a fair amount thinner than just a month ago, even in her New Yorker winter clothes.

“Are you tired? I always forget what a hefty flight that is from New York.”

“I was able to sleep most of the way, with a little work in between.”

Our conversation seems to detour almost immediately into small talk, as if what we had in Paris and Rio didn’t translate over time and distance. She talks of interviews, office politics, and New York weather before asking the obligatory question of me in each area. She settles into the couch. I scoot in closer catching her off guard as she oddly moves away as if the intimacy makes her uncomfortable.

“I have to tell you, I’ve really missed you since Paris. I’ve thought about our time there almost every day since,” I say.

“I had such a great time; it was so unexpected.”

“I’m so happy you could make this weekend work. I only have some quick work on Monday morning, otherwise, I’m all yours,” I say.

“That works fine because I have to be on the red-eye back to New York on Sunday night. So once again, we will have to make the most of the short time we have together.”

She loosens up just a bit, delivering bad news and shortening her stay by an entire two days without mentioning it in advance or even offering it in its own sentence.

“No, of course, work comes first. I’m totally keen on making the most of whatever time we have together, whether it’s our time here in LA, or elsewhere.”

Quietness lingers between our words in a disjointed series of questions and answers that make each of us unsettled. I look around the room wishing the chemistry had ignited as fast as in our previous meetings.

“So why are you here in LA again?” she asks.

“Oh, you’ll love this. There’s this whole phenomenon here with these popcorn crisps, have you heard of them?”

“Air Chips?”

“Yes, exactly. They are trying to find a partner to fund a few other ventures with the intention of selling or making a public offering somewhere down the road.”

“Have you tried them? They’re really good. Barbecue is my favorite,” she says.