Chapter 8 Salem
SALEM
I know he’s a bastard, so I go to his hotel, text Houston that I’ll pick up her things instead. She shouldn’t have to deal with our brother. Not today.
Uber, not the bike. I don’t want a scene in the valet. I don’t want my plates in gossip site B-roll. I ping a ride, grab a hoodie and a cap, and head down.
The driver pulls up. Mid-thirties, clean car, curious eyes in the mirror. I slide in back.
“Short hop. Meter running. Wait for me when we get there. I’ll tip heavy.”
“How long?”
“Fifteen,” I lie. “Twenty if he’s mouthy.”
He laughs like he thinks I’m joking. “I’ll wait.”
We roll off the circle and onto the boulevard. Saturday, late morning, the heat is already up. The Strip is quieter than it pretends, like it’s catching its breath after last night. I know the feeling.
I check my phone. No new fires. Two texts from Knox—You good? and Don’t stab him.
I text back Good and No promises.
We turn into Troy’s hotel. Paparazzi swarm the front like flies on a dropped drink. Long lenses, stupid questions shouted at the glass, all energy and no aim. They don’t see me. Cap down, hoodie up, back seat. I tap the driver’s shoulder. “Around back. Service lane.”
He nods and cuts left. Loading dock. Employee parking. Concrete heat. A security kiosk with a bored guard and a clipboard.
I get out and lean in the window. “You’ll stay put, right?”
He taps his phone. “I’ll be right here.”
I walk to the kiosk like I belong. That’s half the battle with these situations.
The guard looks up. Mid-fifties, radio on his shoulder, a face that has seen worse than me. “Back entrance is closed. Move your car. This is for deliveries only.”
I smile like I’ve got a secret. “I just need five. Guest recovery. Very important guest recovery, if you catch my drift. He’s going to set off the smoke alarm with whatever he’s burning in there, and then you’ll have paperwork. Let me help us both not have that day.”
He snorts. “Name and room.”
“Guest is Troy Turner. You can call up, but he won’t answer.”
“You got ID?”
I prefer not being recognized. Makes things easier most of the time. Today, though, it could go either way.
I slide my license across the counter with two VIP laminate passes from the residency and a folded bill under them. He looks at the ID. He looks at me. He looks at the bill and leaves it where it is, which I respect.
“Two minutes. Use the staff elevator. Don’t make me need to know you.”
“You got it.”
“I’m a man who wants quiet,” he says, and buzzes the door.
“Understood.” Most security guards are.
Back corridor. Concrete block. Fluorescent hum. The staff elevator is slow enough to make me want to kick it. I don’t. He’s on the fifth floor. I step out onto carpet that smells like lemon cleaner and bad choices.
Must be a bruise to Troy’s ego to stay here. He was used to how we do things. Resorts, spas, the works.
I wouldn’t order room service in this place.
His door is open a crack. There are voices. A laugh that hurts my teeth. Music coming from a phone tossed somewhere.
I knock once, then push.
Heat, perfume, stale alcohol, the candy-sweet metallic edge of cheap vape pens. Girls and guys spill past me on their way out—heels in hand, shirts half-buttoned, one dude in a towel that isn’t his. Someone says, “Oh my god, it’s him,” like I’m a second course.
I ignore it.
Troy stands in the middle of the room, half-dressed, half-awake, eyes glassy, hair in twenty directions like he fought the pillow and lost. He blinks at me.
“What.” Not a question. A complaint.
“I’m here for Lou’s things.”
He laughs. It’s ugly this close. “Of course you are.”
“Laptop. Clothes. Whatever she left.”
He staggers a step closer and squints like the light is personal. “You fucked every other woman on the planet,” he says, volume rising. “Now you gotta fuck my used-up ex too?”
My hand goes to his throat, palm to larynx, thumb under his jaw. I walk him back until his shoulders hit the wall, and it rattles. He smells like old liquor and something worse. Pretty sure my hand is sticky from touching him.
“Choose your next words carefully, Troy,” I growl. “Houston isn’t here to save you today.”
His eyes flare. His mouth opens. No sound. I feel the beat of his pulse against my hand. I hold him just long enough to make the point, then I let go. He drops to the carpet like a marionette with cut strings and coughs until his face goes red.
I step back, let the room breathe again.
“Closet,” he wheezes, pointing with a weak hand. “Take the garbage out with you.”
I don’t rise to it. I go to the closet. It’s a mess.
Clothes on hangers, clothes on the floor, the smell of cologne.
Lou’s is the small, neat section—a black garment bag, a soft hoodie, leggings, a pair of sneakers tied together by the laces.
Her laptop sits on the desk with the charger half-coiled and a sticker on the lid that makes me smile despite myself.
I unplug, wrap, tuck it into the sleeve sitting beside it. Chargers too. I check the drawers for anything that looks like hers and find a small pouch with pencils and a folded sketch. I grab the bag and hoodie and sneakers and sling the strap across my chest.
Click. Then a whispered “Shit!” followed by fumbling sounds.
Someone’s still in the bathroom.
I step to the side and look. A girl stands halfway behind the door, phone up, camera aimed at me and Troy. She’s twenty, maybe. Glitter on her cheekbone, smeared liner, a smile she thinks will save her from being held accountable.
“Phone,” I say, hand out.
She clutches it tighter. “It won’t help. It’s already in the cloud.”
I look at Troy. He’s on the floor, leaning against the wall now, rubbing his neck, eyes mean and bright in the way that always means he’s going to say something stupid.
“Don’t touch her,” he croaks. “She’s my guest.”
“She’s a stranger with your room key. Congratulations.”
The girl hits stop with her thumb, moves the phone to her chest like I’m about to snatch it. I don’t. Doesn’t fucking matter now.
I sigh and look back at Troy. “You want to be a headline? Here’s a faster way. Walk outside. Scream. Real paparazzi will eat that up.”
He coughs a laugh into his hand and grins. “You’re so tough when Houston’s not babysitting.”
“I’m so tired of your shit, Troy. And you’re boring me these days. Why don’t you surprise me and become a decent person?”
He just sucks his teeth and looks away.
I scan once more. Toothbrush that isn’t Lou’s. Makeup bag that isn’t hers. Earrings that aren’t hers. All set. I zip the garment bag and hook it over my finger. I take the hoodie and the laptop and the sneakers, and I stand in the middle of the room and look at him.
“You done?” His petulant tone grates on my nerves.
“With you? Years ago.”
He smiles wider, ugly. “You took turns on Lou, right? I’m sure she just loved that. She didn’t even like sex—”
I take one step, and he bites the rest of the sentence in half. Good choice.
The annoyance spikes and flattens. It’s not worth a second round. I scan the nightstand in case she left another charger. Nothing. I don’t touch anything else.
The girl stands in the bathroom doorway now, arms folded. “Your brother was just having a good time. You don’t have to give him shit over it.”
“Here’s the part you don’t get. He’s going to use you, and you’re going to be nobody to him by noon.”
She looks at Troy. He’s impassive as always. But I’m not making her my problem. I’m here for one thing.
I turn for the door. Troy clears his throat like a ninety-year-old man. “Tell Lou I said—”
“Don’t finish that sentence,” I say without looking. “Keep whatever you think to yourself and try swallowing water today. You sound like shit, and your voice is starting to go. You’re too young for that.”
“Well, you’re too old for Lou!”
“Not my fault that guys her age don’t know how to touch her.”
Bathroom Girl snorts.
I open the door a crack and listen. Voices down the hall, not this door.
Good. I slide out and pull it shut without a bang, then reverse my steps back to the exit.
The guard looks up. He sees the garment bag, the laptop sleeve, the sneakers hooked in my fingers.
He doesn’t ask. He buzzes the door without me touching the bell.
“Saint,” I say.
“I’m a man who wants quiet,” he says again.
Even though the load I’m carrying isn’t getting lighter, I have to ask, “I’ve never really had quiet. What’s that like?”
He chuckles to himself. “I’ll let you know if I ever get any.”
Outside, the driver straightens in his seat when he sees me. I load the garment bag in the back with a gentleness that would get me roasted if Salem from five years ago saw it. I slide the laptop onto the seat and climb in.
“Good?” the driver says.
“Good.”
He glances at the mirror. “You were fast.”
“There wasn’t much to take.”
The driver’s radio murmurs low. The city opens ahead like a hallway with too many doors. I lean my head back for one second and breathe.
I replay the grip on Troy’s throat, the sound of the cough, the way the girl’s thumb twitched when she said the word cloud. It’ll surface. It always does.