Suite 269 (2 page)

E
leven a.m. ripped
into my temples like a jackhammer; unfortunately, it was not of the stripper variety. It was of the hangover kind, with shards of glass exploding like fireworks behind my eyes. My dry throat scorched with fire and heartbreak. Tears blurred out the world.

My fingers reached up and over to my bedside table, grabbing my alarm clock. Squinting through one eye, I set it for three o'clock that afternoon. I needed to sleep off the rest of the horrible night then jump on a five-fifteen plane to downtown Chicago for a three-day conference for the magazine. My hand bumped into a tall glass of water and bottle of aspirin that someone thoughtfully left on the nightstand for me.
Nice. I wonder if Trager left it after he finished screwing Sophia
. Maybe Sophia left it after she finished riding him. I shoved the blankets over my face, refusing to drink anything either of them might have left for me. The sheets still smelled of him, of us, and I dry heaved over the side of the bed.

Sleep played a nasty game of hide-and-seek with me, finding me every few minutes, only to fill my head with visions of the night before. I lay awake then drifted off, clutched at my sheets in a groggy struggle with reality, and fell asleep again, repeatedly. The cycle was maddening.

At five that afternoon, I was running through terminal five in JFK airport, my carryon swinging wildly behind me. I must have looked the part of a murderous, jilted woman because I was stopped by security three different times; at one point completely patted down and buzzed for explosive residue. I mentally kicked myself for not remembering the load of dynamite I usually take on airplanes. When I jokingly said this aloud to the TSA agents, I won a full body scan. Yay me.

Very few people get my humor. It's a shame how much they miss out by having poles up their bottoms.

They ended up delaying the plane ten minutes due to my unappreciated sarcastic wit. An ancient dinosaur of a flight attendant pursed her lips at me when I was finally allowed to board, "You should be apologizing to each and every passenger on this plane."
Yeah, I'll get right on that, lady
.

The two-hour flight had me leaning against the small, rectangular window watching the sky slowly darken. The weight of everything that happened the night before pressed heavily on my shoulders—which only added to the stress of a three-day work conference
with all the cheating parties involved
.

I tried to mask my anxiety from the rest of the passengers by flipping through the conference's itinerary. A mother holding a small child sat next to me, softly humming a lullaby. The gentle scent of lavender and baby formula tingled at the bridge of my nose. My eyes watered. My heart ached. Trager and I had planned to try for kids right away.
Stupid cheating ass
.

Tears. Lots of them. They fell. Practically drenching my shirt with sorrow.

Ignoring the baby’s precious little snores, I wiped roughly at my eyes and tried to focus on my paperwork. My eyes traveled across the papers, yet the only thing I could concentrate on was the InTrend logo splashed across the top of the pages. InTrend Magazine was the premier account of the biggest publishing group around, Holt Media. It is published every two weeks, focusing on everything from politics to popular culture, and boasted the largest readership of any other magazine ever printed. It's best known for its musical coverage and bi-monthly controversial columns. Quite boringly, the position I was acknowledged for, even though I've accomplished much more, was a fact checker.

That was my humble title.
Lexa Novak: Fact Checker
.

My team worked in the dungeon, deep in the basement of one of New York City's famous skyscrapers. My job was pretty self-explanatory. We check the accuracy of facts by researching. We're the ones that make sure names are spelled correctly, places written about actually exist, and reality matches the words of some of the jerks that write for us.

It wasn't the job I set out to get when I first interviewed with Holt Media. Heck no, I wanted to be something more; a contributor, an editor, something with guts. I was interviewed directly by the Editor in Chief and Owner of Holt Media, Mr. Remington Holt. However, not listening to the weather forecast that day left me sopping wet and dripping monsoon-like rainwater all over his office.

My shirt was white.

White shirt plus rain equals my idol, Mr. Remington Holt, mistakenly calling me Nipples. It wasn't just one time either; he just kept repeating it during the entire interview. “
Well, Nipples, here at InTrend we treat each other like a family and share our nipples
.” And even though I had the brains, the education, and the personality, Mr. Holt senior deemed me a future prodigy in the exciting field of freaking fact checking. "
So you'll always find the right weather forecast
.
We're glad to have you aboard, Nipples
." Yeah, that happened. So, my job was to make sure we only printed the truth.

But the only truth I could concentrate on that very moment was Trager and what he did. I felt so pathetic. Our wedding was in three weeks, with a total of one hundred and fifty-six guests. He was supposed to be
the one
. I knew deep inside my ideas on love were unrealistic. They thumped around in my idealistic brain from my obsession of romance novels and cheesy made for TV movies. I secretly believed in happily-ever-after and fairytales, underdogs rising above their challengers, and being truly madly in love.

Now? I believed it all sucked. Stupid lying romance authors making me want things that just weren't real. Disney Princesses everywhere should stand up and fight back. I laughed bitterly in my seat, waking the sleeping baby, who started to wail like a banshee.

My first step into spinsterhood: making innocent children cry. Next up, adopting a dozen cats, buying a big vibrator, and learning the etiquette of prissy repressiveness. God, the bitterness and anger were overwhelming.

After the plane landed, through thirty minutes of the
Symphony of the Uncontrollable Baby Sob
, I jumped on a Blue Line train packed with a late shift of rush hour business people. A forty-minute jerky ride took me to the Jackson Street Station, from which I trudged all the way to the hotel. Downtown Chicago streets were littered with tourists and college students walking about. I wanted to scream to each and every one of them how much of a loser Trager was. I wanted to start a revolt, have everyone on my side, and attack the stupid little cheater. I finally understood what it meant when people expressed their want to scream from the rooftops.
Oh, if I only could
. The things I would say.

After checking in to my room, my first stop was the bar.

That's right. I'd been sober enough for the day. Long enough to realize the next three weeks of my life were going to suck big time. It seemed like a justified thing to do. I walked the corridors of the lobby looking around for Trager the Mailroom Guy. His flight was scheduled earlier than mine; conveniently made plans when you're screwing someone at work. I guess he was going for a rendezvous before I got there. He didn't even need to be at this conference…he was the mailroom guy. But he’d said he just couldn't be away from me. Yeah, right. I straightened my shoulders and moved through the crowds of visitors. People sneered at me as I tried to dart in and out of their way. I didn’t care about the looks though, I just had my heart ripped out of my chest and I needed a bottle full of liquid oblivion.

I ducked through a pair of deep crimson curtains that decorated the entrance into the hotel bar. Scanning the area quickly, my shoulders relaxed when I recognized no one from work and I let myself appreciate my surroundings. Dark cherry wood tables furnished the room, tastefully dressed with plum covered linens and topped with creamy white burning candles. The lights were dim, some kind of jazzy music was floating through the room, and the scent of the pine logs burning in the huge fireplace filled the air.

If I weren't feeling so murderous, I'd think it was romantic.

Winding through the tables, I made my way to the bar and introduced myself to the bartender as his new best friend. Then with the brazenness of tongue that someone like me could only accomplish through enormous amounts of alcohol, I told the bartender and most of the people in listening distance, my crappy bachelorette story.

Preston, the bartender (possibly lying about his name) kept the drinks coming. Smart man.

An obnoxious amount of alcohol later I was still chewing off Preston's ear, when I glanced up at him to make sure I still had his undivided attention. I of course, didn't—story of my life.

Preston's eyes held this certain glazed-over lustful look as he stared at something,
someone
, far behind me. My shoulders immediately tensed as I swiveled around my stool, curious as to what caused the expression. Mr. Jameson Holt (Remington '
Nipples
' Holt's son), and Sophia Willington had just walked in. Mr. Holt's eyes swept the bar and passed right over me with no recognition at all, but that's a given since he's the managing editor and I've never actually worked with him. But
Sophia?
Sophia turned in my direction; her eyes held mine, and the witch smirked. A surge of pure hate roared through my veins. "You find that attractive?" I slurred in Preston's direction.

"Who wouldn't," Preston answered.

"I'm revoking best friend status," I snapped. "She's the one I caught sleeping with my fiancé."

"I wasn't looking at the girl, darling," he smiled.

I stared at him blankly, "Kay. You're my new best friend again."

Conversations stumbled around us as the two walked through the bar; all eyes watching the newcomers saunter in like they were on a runway. I would definitely admit to the fact that they were quite a stunning sight to behold. I hated them both. People should just not look that good. It's unfair, really.

"Why couldn't she go for a single guy like Holt? Why'd she have to pick what was mine?" It was a serious question. And I demanded an answer from poor Preston. I even pounded my fist along the bar top.

"I don't know what your Trager looks like, but I wouldn't kick that man," he chuckled and pointed to the table they sat in, "out of my bed."

"Right? Because, I mean just look at him. Jameson Holt is so damned attractive; it
literally hurts
to look at him.” I sighed loudly. “He makes your girl parts ache."

"Uh huh, girl. He makes my girl parts ache," Preston teased.

"He's one of those perfect guys, the ones you only see on the cover of magazines, or on the photos of 'Hottest Men' Pinterest boards, and never in real life. Trager the Mailroom Guy, not so much. He kind of resembles a giraffe."

"And you wanted to marry a giraffe?"

"He was
my
giraffe," I groaned.

"Time to leave the zoo, baby," Preston fired back.

My head was spinning
. Kind of unbelievable if you ask me, and as I sat there trying to wrap my head around the entire situation, I was still hoping that my alarm would go off at some point and I’d find it was all a really bad dream. I was in complete shock, taken off guard. I mean, just the night before the incident—which will forever more be called Cheater's Eve—he told me how happy and excited he was to finally get 'hitched.'

Kevin Trager and I were supposed to be married in exactly twenty days. The entire ballroom was paid for. My dress was hanging in my seamstress’s closet waiting my last fitting before the big day; that
big day
that every girl dreams about. And yet, here I sat at the bar, on my fifth apple martini, watching it all play out. Okay, it might have been my sixth. Tenth?

"Cheaters are jerks," I slurred, hugging my martini glass.

Preston nodded and wiped up the fourth (tenth) drink I spilled. "I agree."

"Do you want to know why people cheat?" I asked.

"Because they
can
," he said.

"It's because they're a greedy, selfish bunch of people who take whatever opportunity they can get and
screw it
. Why do cheaters say they cheat? Oh, there's a long list of excuses, reasons, and justifications to blur the lines of morals." Downing my drink, I slammed it back down onto the bar. I missed, but it was okay because Preston caught the glass before it hit the ground. "
I was drunk.
I thought it was you.
She/he understands my needs and you don't.
She/he appreciates me and you don't.
They're a bunch of idiots.
"
I grabbed my glass out of his fingers and held it upside down above my head, looking for whatever drops were left.

"What were the giraffe's reasons?"

"Oh, Mr. Giraffe pretended he was drunk." I gulped back the small remnants of my drink. "You've heard of that crap, right? A bad game of beer pong gone wrong."

Preston laughed loudly.

"I'm considering throwing a drunken tantrum. Think I could nail her with a martini glass from here?" I held up the empty glass, drops of liquid falling along the bar.

Preston preempted the tantrum by inserting a fresh drink in my hand. "Oh look, they're having a spat," he chuckled.

The other people sitting at the bar swiveled their stools around to watch the increasingly loud bickering of the whore who shall not be named and Mr. Hot…
I mean Mr. Holt
.

I tried to turn around nonchalantly, but I just ended up slipping off the stool. Preston pulled me up by my arms.
What a good best friend
.

Mr. Holt was
speaking in loud whispers, but I couldn't hear a damn word of what he said because of all the gulping and slurping of some drunken idiot. That might have been me. Whatever. I spun myself around on my chair.

Preston took the opportunity to deal with waiting customers and I immediately felt jealous. But it was short lived, because my attention was fixed on Mr. Holt and Sophia. I narrowed my eyes to zone in on them better.