Chapter 15 Frankie
FRANKIE
The only thing that has ever felt longer than that fifteen-minute drive from dropping Sam off with his grandparents to dropping the rental car off with valet parking at this hotel is this elevator ride up to our rooms.
It’s taking fifteen years to get from the lobby to the tenth floor and I’m as far away from Owen as I can be in here, but somehow even after getting barfed on and touching poopie underpants, that man still smells amazing, and I need to get the fuck out of here before I hump his leg again.
“You happy with your room?” he asks.
“Yes. Very. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome. Does it have a view of the bay?”
“No. I’m not inviting you in to see it.”
“I’m not interested in seeing it. As you saw when you were with Sam, my suite does have a very nice view of the bay. You gonna hang out in your room tonight?”
“I’m pretty tired, so I think I’ll just take a bath and go to bed.”
“Sounds good. I’m still pretty wired, so I’ll probably head down to that hotel bar.”
“Interesting.”
“Is it?” He shrugs.
“The one on the patio?”
“Yup.”
“The one with the big group of drunk ladies in tube tops?”
“They weren’t all that drunk.” He arches a very well-groomed eyebrow. “Care to join me?”
“No, sir.”
“Are you sure? Because it seems like you don’t want me going down there by myself.”
“I couldn’t care less what you get up to tonight.”
The elevator finally dings at the tenth floor, and the doors open. I step out and walk down the hall so fast, trying to get the image of Owen having a twelve-way with those obnoxious, tube top-wearing, hammered—
“Wrong way, Captain.”
I stop in my tracks and turn around without looking at him. I don’t need to see that smug face again tonight. We said we weren’t going to talk for the rest of the night.
This is bullshit.
“Y’know,” he says as he reaches the door to his suite. I’m still not looking at his smug face, but I can tell he’s smirking because he sounds so damn smug and smirky. “I think maybe I’ll just hang out in my room too.”
“Like I said, I couldn’t care less what you do.”
“I can tell.”
“Good night,” I say in the way that a super chill person who totally doesn’t care what another person does with his penis would say it. “Thank you for comping my parents.” I try to open the door to my room with the keycard, but it gives me the red light.
“That was really my pleasure.”
I try the stupid keycard again, and it gives me the stupid red light again.
“Would you like some help with that?”
“No thank you.”
“I just feel like—as the man who used to be the guy whose face plastered your bedroom wall when you were a teenager—I should be the man who teaches you how to use a keycard properly.”
I am paralyzed with humiliation and rage when I feel his chest press up against my back.
He takes my hand, which is still holding the stupid fucking keycard, lifts it up right above the swipe reader, and gently swipes it through.
His hand is big and warm and probably moisturized with male model lotion, and I want him to put that thing on all of my lady things—fuck you, Owen Brodie.
The green light goes on in my ovaries and on the swipe reader, and there’s probably a quiet clicking sound from the door, but I can’t hear it because of all the loud swear words in my head.
“Thank you so much. Have a good night.”
“That was also my pleasure, and good night to you too.”
He’s still standing in the same spot when I go inside and let the door close.
“Don’t forget to read what I wrote to you.”
“Uh-huh!”
I pull the folded-up magazine page from my back pocket and slap it down on top of the dresser without unfolding it.
There’s a fancy bottle of red wine on the dresser, a wineglass, a bottle opener, and a small envelope with my name on it.
Beside them, a note from the front desk tells me that this was ordered for me while I was out.
I open the envelope. The front of the card has the logo from the hotel bar on it. Inside the card, it says:
Called the hotel to have this delivered to your room because I thought you and your inner fourteen-year-old might need it. Cheers! ;) OWEN
Did he tell them to add the winky face emoticon?
Would I still be humiliated, confused, and enraged if the card had not included a winky face?
When did he even have time to call and order this? When he left the dressing room to get a change of clothes for Sam? When he was at his in-laws’ house?
Is that winky face being smug or flirtatious or both?
I don’t care anymore because I’m going to get my inner fourteen-year-old drunk.
But I gotta hand it to him—this was a classy dick move.
I pour myself a full glass and finish half of it before pulling my phone out and taking a seat at the chair next to the side table.
I am definitely not about to check Twitter to see if Owen tweeted anything since I turned off push notifications for his account.
I am certainly not about to text him either, even though I should probably thank him for the wine.
Fortunately, there’s a text from Mia, so I don’t have to do anything Owen-related on my phone at all.
MIA: Hi! Are you in Tampa! Did you see the show?! It’s so quiet in the apartment without you here. Even when you aren’t talking it’s like I can hear your funny negative thoughts. LOL
ME: Can you hear the negative thoughts I’m having about Owen Brodie right now?
MIA: Uh oh! What happened?!
ME: Pretty much the worst things that could ever happen.
MIA: Multiple things?! Did you have sex and realize you’re in love with him?
ME: Absolutely not.
MIA: Did you fart while having sex with him and then murder him because you were so embarrassed?
ME: NO! I did not have sex with him.
MIA: So just the fart and murder then? LOL
ME: I wish.
MIA: Awww. You aren’t going to tell me, are you?
ME: Maybe on my deathbed. In a month. When I have to find yet another job. Unless I get fired from this one before the end of the tour. But how are you?!
MIA: All is well and I’m heading out to a movie. Miss you!
ME: Miss you.
MIA: Let me know when you have sex with Owen Brodie and realize you’re madly in love with him.
ME:
MIA: LMAO
I’m so glad someone can laugh her ass off about this.
I fill the tub for a bath, pour more wine for myself, and casually check my Twitter app while removing my clothes.
Owen Brodie @theowenbrodie
Thanks for the laughs, Tampa! ;) #FartJokes #ReadWhatIWrote
I will not be reading what he wrote.
I will not give him more reasons to gloat.
I will not read it in the bath.
I will not let him fuel my wrath.
Even now that I’m squeaky clean
That note he wrote will go unseen.
Whatever it is, I need not know.
I stopped caring about him so long ago.
…
Oh, fuck it.
I swipe the magazine page from the dresser, unfold it, and read what that asshole Owen Brodie wrote.
Dear Frances,
If I had seen any pics of you when I was fourteen, I would have put them up on my walls too.
Not pics of you when you were ten—you know what I mean.
My agency never forwarded any Christmas cards to me.
If they had sent me yours, I would have written you back.
It would have meant a lot to me.
Glad you found such a straightforward way to get your message across to me eventually anyway.
Owen Brodie
Shit.