Chapter Four Skye #3
“What’s your room number?” I hope the people in the bar don’t think I’m kidnapping this woman. “I need to get you very far away from these bottles filled with bad decisions.”
“Four,” she mumbles, and I know that can’t be right. “…teen.”
Fucking kill me.
I get her to the elevator, to her floor, down the hall, and hold her upright outside the door with a large, gold fourteen in the middle.
“I need your key,” I tell her, not wanting to dig through the little pink clutch she’s holding. I only carry a magnetic wallet that attaches to the back of my phone, but even I know that a woman’s purse is sacred ground and “thou shalt not stick thy hand inside.” Even with permission.
“Pocket,” she whispers, letting her head fall against my chest.
Ain’t no fucking way I’m digging through a drunk woman’s pockets.
“Get it, please,” I say through clenched teeth. I very rarely use the word please, but I feel like desperate times call for desperate measures.
I try to remind myself she’s going through a lot. For whatever reason, she’s in Milan with her ex-boyfriend. I’m not sure if they’re sharing a room, but I would assume they aren’t. At least I hope they’re not if I have her hanging on me out here in the hall.
Not sure what else to do, I knock on the door.
No answer.
I knock again. Still no answer.
“Alright, so you’re in a room alone,” I sigh, knowing she isn’t going to be able to form words or acknowledge the fact that I’m talking.
“I’m not doing anything inappropriate," I assure her as I slide my hand over her thigh pocket to feel for a hotel room key.
“I just need to get you into your hotel room.”
She groans quietly against my chest. “Nice.”
Drunk Woman is not turning me on. She’s not. No chance.
She’s not even gay. She has a boyfriend.
Ex-boyfriend, but still.
“Got it.” I quickly grab the key from her pocket, touching the lock pad by the handle, and push open the door to her room.
It’s a nice room. Then again, the Four Seasons Milan doesn’t have a not nice room, so I guess I can’t expect anything less.
I place her clutch on the counter in her kitchen area and manage to get her onto the bed in her bedroom.
Somehow, I was able to get her on her side under the blankets instead of on top of the blankets, and I’m not sure why I spent so much time tucking her in.
Maybe I just feel bad for all the shit she is going through with her ex-boyfriend.
“Michel…” she mumbles. “Gonna be mad.”
No idea who she’s talking about, but it’s not my problem. She’s not my problem.
Staring at her, I watch as she tucks her face into the pillow and tilts her chin toward her chest. Her breathing slows, and I can tell she managed to find a comfortable position that will let her sleep off the vodka.
“You’re going to feel that in the morning.” My voice is almost a little too soft for my liking.
Giving myself a few more seconds to admire just how pretty Drunk Woman actually is, I head out of her bedroom. I don’t want to cross that line into creepy by watching her sleep.
I find the hotel notepad on the desk in the seating area and write a note explaining nobody touched her bag, and all her cards and money are tucked safely inside.
“Do I sign my name?” I whisper to myself. I’ve never exactly escorted a woman back to her hotel room without climbing into the bed with her. I almost feel like I’m walking out on her.
I decide against it and quietly leave her room, heading back up to the third floor, where I can hide safely from the public.
“This is what I get for staying in a hotel instead of the Olympic Village,” I say to myself as I strip out of my clothes and climb into my bed.
“Holy. Shit.” I groan, feeling the impossibly smooth fabric under my hands.
The sheets are cool, but warm up quickly with my body heat as I sink into the supportive, yet cloud-like mattress.
The pillows hug my head, and just as I’m feeling like I could fall asleep, I find my eyes moving toward the door, wondering if Drunk Woman will be all right.
“You’ve done everything you can to help her,” I tell myself, rolling onto my side, getting comfortable.
It’s not like I want to get involved with another woman.
Alisha was the only girlfriend I ever took to meet Aunt Keisha, and now I regret that interaction with every fiber of my being.
Now Keisha always asks about her because that’s what happens when you have dementia.
I can’t be mad at Keisha for it; she can’t help her disease.
But it’s like a knife to my chest every time she asks.
I got to the point where I just started replying with “she’s good, Keish. She’s still out trying to save the world.” Makes me want to vomit every time I say those words, but Keisha doesn’t need to be stressing over something that isn’t her problem. She has enough going on.
I adjust under my hotel blankets and take a few deep breaths to clear my head.
With one last peek toward the imaginary door to Drunk Woman’s hotel room, I let sleep take me away from the chaos that was my first night in Milan, Italy.