The hotel was near the Interstate, near a getaway, but near enough also for officials to visit them once a day or more, in an emergency. Their rooms had the warm precision of business class: single beds, flowers, sofas, flat screens on the wall, and an adjoining door.
On the first night, the door would be closed, but unlocked. On the second, it would be opened. On the third, it would be shattered.
****
They drove through the night, descending into the hotel's six circles of parking hell just before 1am. Lyla had long been asleep, plummeting into unconsciousness, like a newly bathed baby, shortly after getting into the car. Michael had not minded. Less conversation. It was easier that way. Much, much easier.
He had driven for hours, and having killed the engine stretched his lithe arms and legs, hunting for blood clots. Apparently unharmed by the journey. Good. He turned to his passenger. Her warm breath caressed his face, and also made a curl of hair which had fallen across her plump, slightly pouting lips sway back and forth. He reached out a hand to move it, checked himself, and she awoke.
"We're here."
Lyla sat blinking in the harsh light of the silent lobby as Michael took care of their luggage and the business end of things. He stood at the desk, long after a boy had scurried off to a lift, with their things, reading a printed e-mail. He let the paper fall, then looked up at Lyla. Her face tightened.
"It's OK," he reassured her, "No news. Just an itinerary. Lets go to bed," he immediately corrected himself. "Lets go to sleep."
"When will we hear from the General?" she asked wearily, slumping against the mirrored interior of the lift as it purred higher and higher.
"We get briefed tomorrow, at 10 am. We'll be served breakfast, and all our meals, in our room. They don't want us out there. They don't want a... circus."
"When can we leave?"
"When we know."
Her eyes fell to the floor, and his did too. He could see her bottom lip trembling. For a moment, she looked like her 16-year-old self. Fighting the instincts inside that usually forbade such an action, he reached out his large, smooth and capable hand, took hers inside it, and enfolded it firmly.
The bell dinged, the doors opened, she sniffed and led the way purposefully out of the lift and turned left, walking some paces ahead of him.
"Um, Lyla?" Michael stopped, failing entirely to suppress a smile. "We're the other way."
She turned, frowned, and walked alongside him to their rooms. Michael tipped the bellboy, who quirked a brow at the specifics of the note he'd just earned, Lyla noted as she entered her room. Softly, Michael said "Goodnight. I'm right next door, if you... if you... need to talk?"
Damn idiot, he kicked himself inside. Bloody fool.
But she smiled at him, a terribly tired, adult smile, and she looked her true age, a serious, quite beautiful, strong but fracturing woman.
"Night, Michael. Thank you."
He closed her door softly, and slipped into his room. He fell onto his bed, shrugging off his shoes, slipping off his belt, but not bothering with anything else.
As he fell asleep he could see, illuminated by a chink of brilliant, artificial light from outside his hastily drawn drapes, that there was a door in the wall separating their rooms. Just before he fell, he wondered: is that real?
****
Lyla was exhausted, completely and utterly drained, but she was also restless. Thankfully she'd slept for the better half of the trip. She was trying to remain calm and collected, but inside she felt herself crumbling. If it wasn't for the fact that Michael was with her, his solidness keeping her steady, she'd hit the floor hours ago.
Michael...the warmth of his hands grasping hers, trying to bring her comfort, still lingered on her skin. Her skin tingled where he touched her, as it always had. It was unnerving and not at all what she needed to focus on at the present. So instead she stripped out of her clothes and sank into another a hot tub of water, doused with complimentary bubbles. She sank neck deep into the warm water and shut her eyes.
She couldn't even imagine what was going on with Matt. Where he was, if he was safe and what the situation was. In truth, it scared her to think of what had happened. She was both worried and also angry. She'd warned him,
begged
him to stay, but he'd been a stubborn mule of a man as per usual and left.
Drawing a deep breath she cracked her eyes open and tried not to think. To only feel the warmth of the water...the warmth of Michael's touch. She groaned and shook her head. It was no use. How was she supposed to deal with all of it? Despite her guilt, she felt another stab of contempt...if it hadn't been for Matt leaving, Michael wouldn't be here. Just a room away.
He'd offered to be there for her if she wanted to talk and at that moment, she was sorely tempted, but knew better. Talking led to tears or anger, perhaps other emotions she wasn't ready to face. Alone, with beds, secluded from prying eyes. No way.
With a resigned sigh, she changed for bed and slid under the cool sheets of her bed, squeezing her eyes tightly together. Surrounded by pillows and a heavy blanket, Lyla struggled to find sleep again, but eventually succumbed to the darkness.
A few short ours later, she was startled awake by a knock at her door. "Just a minute." She managed to call out, her voice husky from sleep. Fumbling for her robe, she tied it around her waist and moved to the door, peeking through the peep hole before opening the door.
Room service stood on the other side and the young woman smiled sweetly. "Good morning. I'm bringing in your breakfast."
Lyla stepped aside aside, mumbling a thank you. Before her eyes, the trays were uncovered with enough food for two. Fresh fruit, eggs and bacon, toast and juice and thank heavens, a huge carafe of coffee. She sighed softly. Regaining a little thought, she grabbed a tip from her purse and gave it to the young woman before she left, the regarded the meal, her stomach clenching. Obviously they'd sent breakfast for Michael as well.
After a quick trip to the bathroom, she came out with brushed hair and clean, fresh breath, her robe still synched tightly. She knew she was being silly, but never the less, it took several calming breaths and courage to gently tapped her knuckles against the adjoining door. "Michael?"
When there was no reply, she knocked again and cracked the door open. "Michael? Breakfast is here when you're ready for it."
****
He awoke in his brother's bedroom, lying on his bed. On the ceiling above, fluorescent stars that had once shone brilliantly in the dark formed yellowing daytime blobs. The walls spoke more to his brother's later childhood interests than the constellations on the ceiling: playmates, sports stars, trucks. With everyone out at the ball game - as always, the whole family had turned out to watch the rising star, save him, "studying hard" for college, he knew he had time.
His left hand slipped idly off the edge of the bed, sneaking under it, past old sneakers, unmentionable items that may once have been kleenex or gym socks, eventually alighting on a pile of glossy pages. The stash.
They'd begun the collection several years ago, each chipping in as various dog eared magazines came into their possession. Michael had his favorites, and on this occasion was pleased to produce, from the musty vault, a three-year old Hustler involving a particularly endearing pool room session.
Odd: he'd been wearing his jeans when he'd awoken: now they were gone, and his cock had sprung through the slit of his shorts, eager for his attention.
No matter...
