Fifteen minutes after falling asleep, Wes sat up with a start. He really did need to let the trip organizers know he and Sylvia would be missing his airplane. He moved as silently as possible out of the huge bed he shared with Sylvia and tiptoed from the room, leaving her passed out after an especially intense sexual experience for which he was responsible. The gas logs in the fireplace hissed and glowed, warming the room that was chilled from the rain, now extending into its fifth hour of continuous downpour.
Wes flipped the light switch that turned on the living room fireplace, a much more colossal affair than the bedroom's. He crashed his naked body onto a sofa and grabbed the phone, punching the number for Roger's cell phone, which he had memorized. Roaming around a strange place nude made Wes feel both exposed and titillated at the same time. There was a feeling of power as he took advantage of the privacy afforded him in such a massive hotel suite, and he felt that power in a tactile way; he sensed the sofa texture under his buttocks and where his penis lay between his legs, sensed the heat from the fire on his legs and stomach, detected a draft from the air conditioner fluttering through his short hair.
Roger answered the phone. "Hello?"
"Hey, it's Wes."
"Wes! Oh my GOD! You are the coolest fucker on the planet."
"What?"
"Everyone's talking about you and Sylvia."
This could mean a number of things. "Like what?" Wes asked.
"'Like what?' You say it like you're surprised. I mean, all you did was lie about sharing a hotel room for three nights with the prettiest brunette on campus, disappear for half-a-day and almost miss the national finals for piano, which you ended up winning just before Sylvia won hers, and after that you both disappeared with your trophies and didn't tell anyone where you'd gone. Meanwhile there's a few HUNDRED students and professors waiting in the lobby of your hotel to find out where you are so we don't go to the airport and leave your asses stranded 800 miles from home. So, YEAH, you're the buzz."
Inexplicably, Wes grabbed a throw pillow and covered himself. Everybody was talking about him and Sylvia. The idea made his stomach rumble; not only had this week brought him the love of his life and the greatest sexual affair he'd ever imagined, it had probably also given him a raging ulcer. Only in moments like these – rare in his life, or anyone's – did he most deeply understand the extent of his social disorder. He wasn't just shy, he was debilitatingly shy. But... maybe, just maybe, with Sylvia by his side...
"We're not going back. Tell the professors we have airline tickets for tomorrow."
"They might throw you out of school, Wes."
"Bullcrap. We're money makers."
"I know. I'm just shittin' with ya. Hold on, your coach wants to talk to you."
"No!" Wes yelled. "I don't want to talk to anyone but you."
"I'm shittin' with ya again. You're both a pussy AND a dick. I love you."
"Roger, I should have kicked your ass."
"A, you can't, B, I know, and C, you love me, too."
"Stop saying that."
"I owe you one. Lunch was hot today. Faith and I got in that bathroom after you left."
"You're kidding."
"This time, no. In fact, a waiter figured out what we were doing in there and listened through the door. The horny toad had his ear pressed to the door when we opened it. It was hilarious. I threatened to kill the bastard, but my heart wasn't in it. I'd've done the same in his uncomfortable shoes."
"So you guys are better."
"Well, I thought about what you said. I was being an asshole, and I really like Faith, so I'm gonna tone my latent Rogerness down a notch."
"I'm glad to hear it."
"Oh shit. Your coach is walking this way. No joke. You sure you have a way back?"
"Yeah, I do."
"And you'll tell me everything when you get back?"
"Most of it."
"So how long are you staying? And where the hell are you guys anyway... No sir, it's my mom. She wants to know if I'm washing behind my ears. Wes, he's grabbing the phone. Run!!!"
"Wes? Is that you?" said a new voice. Roger had been telling the truth, and Wes now spoke with his piano coach, also the head of the instrumental music department. At first Wes thought about doing the responsible, adult thing and trying to explain his actions to the older man. But even as he debated what he'd say, his finger pushed the hang-up button. Then, dialtone. Hopefully the explanation he'd given Roger would suffice for the school chaperones. If not, well, he and his girlfriend could fly to Germany tonight.
The clock read fifteen 'til five in the afternoon. Wes watched the second hand on an antique clock for a full minute, enjoying the fireplace heat on his naked skin, feeling the stress drain. Certainly the posh hotel room had an inherent calming effect. (Could you call a dozen-room suite a hotel "room?") He thought he should go back to bed, but he just sat where he was, listening to the rain. Tiredness still held him in its grasp; sleep had been hard to come by all week, for one delightful reason or another.
Too anxious to truly sleep just yet, he decided to check out the rest of the penthouse. First he rummaged around in the study. It looked like a study from a real house and, in fact, reminded him of his friend Al's home back in Montana where Al's dad had a similar room. But all the drawers were empty, so there wasn't anything to find. He thought about turning on the computer, but the things bored him.
Beyond the study was a complete wall with a door, only the second full wall he'd seen. The door opened into a second bedroom, smaller than the first but still very luxurious, colored in reds and browns with scattered knick-knacks on tables and shelves, just like in a real house. He wandered around the room, not really looking for anything.
Lying on top of the bedspread, he turned on the TV, housed in a huge darkwood armoire. Even with 140 channels to choose from, he ran across eight different stations playing "Friends" reruns. Much more intriguing were the four channels of hardcore porn. A muscular fellow fucked a petite brunette on a bed while, inexplicably, another man fully clothes at in a chair and watched from the corner of the room, his head hanging in despair. What must the story be with these people? Flimsy, most likely.
"Sylvia's gonna love this," he muttered.
Wes turned down the volume and left the TV on. Feeling worn out both physically and mentally, he only wanted to crawl back in bed with Sylvia. A door in the opposite wall led to the penthouse's master bathroom.
"Whoa," Wes whispered.
Covered floor-to-ceiling in flawless marble, the room glowed peach and cream even without lights on. He saw a gigantic bathtub in the center of the room, with steps surrounding the basin. There were vanity desks on either side, and a shower encased in smoked-glass. Wes relished the sensation of being underwater, as the rain cascading the windows cast wide shadows across the room's floors, walls and mirrors.
Wes quietly opened the door and found his new girlfriend in her huge bed, pretty as a myth. He felt the strange compulsion to nibble her like a snack. He slipped under the covers. Sylvia stirred but did not open her eyes as Wes put his arms around her.
"Where'd you go?" she asked sleepily.
"To call Roger."
"Oh good."
