The Two Deaths of Daniel Hayes (22 page)

The façade was gray stone carved in intricate patterns, framing an archway thirty feet high. Lavish flower arrangements spilled out of concrete planters. The flags above the arch whispered and popped in the breeze. A uniformed doorman stood at attention. “Welcome to the Beverly Wilshire.”

“Thank you,” Daniel said, and gestured Laney through the open door, ignoring her are-you-crazy? look. The lobby was echoing marble and graceful curves. A chandelier of shimmering crystal hung in the center of the room. Daniel took a deep breath: clean air, faintly scented with lemon. Behind the reception desk, a smart-suited man nodded to him.

“First, I’m going to get us a room. Then I’m going to do terrible things to you in it.”
Still looking down, she smiled, but said, “This very romantic, but we can’t take the risk. Bennett has people everywhere, he’ll know if you use your credit card.”
“How much cash do you have?”
“About five thousand dollars.”
“Five
thousand
dollars? What are you doing with— It doesn’t matter. That’s plenty.”
“But they won’t let you—”
“Relax,” he said, feeling better than he had in weeks. “I’m a writer.” He winked and turned away, strode over to the desk. The man behind the counter flashed a bright smile, said, “Good morning, sir.”
Daniel straightened his posture, glad he’d left the gaudy Hawaiian shirt back at the Farmers Market. Great thing about L.A., anyone in a black T-shirt might be a producer. “Morning. Are you the manager, by any chance?”
“Yes, sir.” The man’s suit had never had a wrinkle. “How may I help you?”
“I’d like a suite.”
“We have several Beverly suites available.”
“The rooms are nice?”
“They’re lovely, sir. King-sized bed, Italian marble soaking tubs, balconies offering stunning city views. For how many nights will this be?”
“Just one.”
“Yes sir.” The man clicked on a hidden keyboard. “All I’ll need—”
“Here’s the thing— I’m sorry, what was your name?”
“Thomas River.”
“Here’s the thing, Thomas. I’d like to be discreet about it.” He gave the tiniest motion with his head to indicate Laney behind him. “I’m sure you understand.”
“Certainly, sir. We just need a credit card to book the room, but we don’t charge it, and you can pay however you like.” The ready answer of a man experienced at accommodating cheating husbands.
“I appreciate that, Thomas, I do. But my credit card bills go to my house. And while I’m sure
you
would be careful, I can’t chance one of your employees making a mistake, maybe charging room service. I’m afraid I need a little more discretion than that.”
“I see. Well—”
“So what I’d like to do, if I may, is give you cash, up front, for the room. And of course for your trouble.”
“Sir, I—”
“How about . . .” He pulled the money from his pocket, all that remained from pawning his Rolex a week ago. “Two thousand, one hundred and . . . eighty-seven dollars. I’d leave it to you to determine how that money broke down, of course.”
The manager’s smile widened by a scant degree, and then he nodded his head with military polish. “Welcome to the Beverly Wilshire, sir. I hope you enjoy your stay.”
“I will.” He took the key cards the man handed him, nodded again, and turned back to the lobby.
Laney had settled in a tall white throne screened from the entrance by a broad pillar. She sat with legs to the side, knees together, one hand at her chin. Her hair was blond instead of the dark brown he remembered, and she was smaller than she looked on TV. The oversized sunglasses could have landed on the diva side of the scale if it weren’t for the slow smile that bloomed as she saw him coming toward her. With calculated languor, she brought her hands up to tangle through her hair, arms framing her face.
Daniel shook his head. “Jesus.”
“Did you miss me?”
“Come upstairs and I’ll show you.” He held out a hand, and she took it. Their footsteps echoed through the lobby. The elevator seemed to take a long time, and he studied her as they waited. This was his wife. The woman he had married. They had lived together, loved each other intensely and as best they could. They had made dinner and cleaned the house and woken on Christmas morning. They had fought and been ill and overworked and stressed.
And you still don’t remember it.
Suddenly he felt like a fraud. Who was he to be taking this woman to a suite, to be planning to make love to her? The adrenaline from the escape had worn off, and the reality that remained was complicated. He may have been her husband on paper, but without his memory, this felt like a violation. Like he was pretending to things he didn’t deserve.
With a gentle tone, the elevator arrived. They stepped aboard and Daniel hit the button for fourteen. He said, “Listen. There’s something I should tell you.”
“What?”
“I. Things.” He stopped. “Have you ever felt like you didn’t quite know who you were? No, that’s not. I mean, I know who I am. It’s just that—”
“What?” she asked softly, stepping forward. He could smell her sweat, and see the downy hairs on her neck. “You haven’t forgotten where everything goes, have you?”
He laughed. “No. But I have forgotten—well, not completely, but . . .”
“Daniel.” She stepped closer.
“I—”
“We just escaped from a psychopath. We’re alone in an elevator. Can’t you think of something better to do?”
“I just, I don’t want to take advantage—”
She put a finger to his lips, and he felt that solar plexus kick. Desire, but also recognition, and something even more elemental.
On the other hand . . .
She stepped forward, her head tilted up, eyes on his, lips slightly parted—
The tone sounded again, and the door opened. Laney held the gaze for a second, then glanced down at his hand, snatched the key card, and bounded out of the elevator, giggling. For a moment, he stared at her retreating body, conflicted.
Fuck it.
He ran after her.
Laney had barely opened the door by the time he caught up, and he grabbed her, pulled her inside. The suite was wide and spacious and there was a king-sized bed, and that was all he saw of the room. She didn’t so much touch as envelop him, her whole body against his, making a clumsy two-step across the room without breaking the kiss, his blood pounding as he tugged at her shirt, yanked it up over her head, the neck getting caught, her giggling again, skin creamy and glowing, and then they both went sideways over the bed, and the giggle became a throaty laugh. He pulled the shirt the rest of the way off, fumbled at his own, both of them rolling now, flesh to electric flesh, every nerve ending singing. She reached behind her back to unsnap her bra, tossed it, breasts falling free, his lips kissing down her neck, teasing a nipple into his mouth, his cock straining in his pants, throbbing against her as she ground into him, her head going back in a moan, god, he knew that sound, knew it on some base level deeper than thought. He hooked one foot behind the other, kicked off his shoes as she straightened above him, ran her hands through her hair, shook it free, then bent back down so that it enclosed them, the world narrowed down to a whimpering prayer and a dance of touch. Somehow she had her jeans off, and he could feel the heat of her through the thin lace of her panties as she rocked forward to undo the buttons of his pants. He arched his hips and reached down, got his jeans and briefs down to his thighs in one motion as she pulled the panties aside and slid herself over the length of him, wet and warm and welcoming, and then she used her hand to guide him inside, and there was nothing but sensation, her head back, a cry from her lips as he pushed all the way into her, yes, yes,
yes.
Home.
Sweat, and the smells of sex, earthy and rich.
The tangle of limbs, the awkward weight of flesh.
The sweetness of the curve of the inside of her thighs.
A rhythm feverish then measured then greedy again.
The spill of her hair across luxurious white sheets.
Her voice, begging, urging, pleading, cajoling, teasing, ordering.
The cold of her bare toes—they were always cold, he remembered that—the feeling as familiar and intimate a knowledge as her most secret wetness.
That sense of reaching for something shimmering and just out of reach as he thrust into her.
The way her whole body tightened as she came, every muscle straining. His own orgasm a release, the bars of a cage flying open, a soundless howl, a taking and a giving.
And then he collapsed on top of her, both of them panting, skin slick and sticky. So close he couldn’t tell where he ended and she began. Their breath fell into sync, the rise of her back matched to his exhale. He buried his face in her hair, his eyes closed, nose filled with the smell of her. They lay together, floating in a world beyond words. Finally, she cleared her throat. “Wow. You did miss me.” “You have no idea.”
She blew a breath, shifted slightly, and he moved to lie behind her, spooning. Sunlight spilled across their bodies. “I don’t know,” she said. “Maybe we ought to fake my death every so often, just to spice things up.”
His laughter was almost as good as the orgasm.
When he could move again, they untangled themselves. She sat up, yawned. Stretched her arms wide, then sat cross-legged, every inch of her body exposed. She had always been completely unselfconscious about nudity. He’d loved that, loved that it was only for him, that she had always refused to do it for the screen, to share her body with the hungry eyes of strangers.
“I hate to spoil the mood,” he said, “but can we talk?”
“Where do you want to start?”
“How about the part
where you’re alive
.”
Laney reached for a pillow, dumped it in her lap, lay her hands on top of it. Her expression was hard to read, the traces of satiation mingling with something else, fear maybe, or regret. He flipped onto his back, put his arms behind his head, content to wait her out.
Finally, she began to speak.