14. Chase
CHASE
I don’t usually do things that are illegal, per se. But I will take any opportunity I can to bend the rules.
You’re not legally supposed to open anyone else’s mail.
But there’s no written rule about not opening little envelopes that are attached to little serving trays full of expensive caviar, caprese sticks, and various little desserts.
So fuck it.
I slip my finger beneath the upper fold of the green and gold envelope, one of the premium ones on Bellwood Hotel stationery.
It’s attached to a tray that will be going up to Logan’s suite shortly.
The flap isn’t sealed shut, just tucked in, so it opens easily.
I slide out the card inside, reading the neat cursive.
Logan Stone,
Please enjoy this complimentary gift. We are pleased that you’ve chosen the Bellwood Hotel for your second stay in New York.
Don’t hesitate to call with any needs.
-The Bellwood Staff
I haven’t spoken to Logan in a week.
The last I heard from him was the video call where he admitted he was considering doing a nude photoshoot, which I still can’t wrap my mind around.
I got off to the idea of it a few times this week, which I only felt slightly guilty about.
I pull out the pen I keep in my waist apron for labeling shit in the kitchen. I push the card up against the wall and write along the bottom of it:
And if you have any further needs or desires, a member of our kitchen staff will be happy to provide for your needs in a very discreet manner, at no extra cost. Xo
P.S. I’m still a photographer. A very talented one.
My handwriting is way cooler than the stuffy cursive.
I draw the city skyline along the bottom of the card, sketching out two figures under the neon sign across from the Bellwood. I lick the golden underside of the flap, sealing the envelope shut.
It’s frigid in the walk-in cooler. David sent me down here to fetch the tray for delivery up to the VIP Penthouse.
The tray is slightly chilled, on a gold cart, ready to be wheeled up to the top floor suite.
I’m not one of the staff who typically takes food or drinks up to the hotel rooms, and I don’t even typically know who the guests are in the hotel unless they have restaurant reservations.
I push the golden cart onto the little service elevator that takes me back up into the main kitchen. David’s here on the phone, looking frazzled as usual.
“Thanks for grabbing that, Chase. Ruby should be out in the hall ready to take it upstairs. I’m heading to my one o’clock meeting.”
I give him a little salute. “You got it, boss.”
I push the wine cart out into the main hall and find Ruby, one of the kitchen staff, waiting there on her phone.
“Hey,” I tell her. “I can take this upstairs. You go ahead and take your lunch break.”
Ruby nods. “Sweet,” she says, looking back at her phone and walking off.
I get in the elevator alongside a couple who look like they’re walking mannequins for Louis Vuitton, with all of their bags and jackets sporting the logo.
I make it to the top floor and push the cart out.
I’m not up here often.
Since last year, I’ve tried to avoid it, unless I was taking a break on the rooftop.
I get to his door and knock twice, and it swings open quickly.
And I’m met with a woman who is definitely not Logan.
“Hi, there,” she says, her face bright but unsmiling. “We didn’t order room service, I don’t think?”
I blink at her in silence for a moment.
Holy fuck.
Logan is up here with a beautiful hookup.
A boulder sinks in my chest, and it’s as if I just had the rug pulled out from under me.
“No, no. This is a complimentary gift for Mr. Stone. From the Bellwood. I’m Chase. I work in the restaurant downstairs.”
I reach out to shake her hand.
“Oh, you’re Chase,” she says. “I’m Emily, Logan’s manager. You can come on in and put the cart by the dining table. Sorry it’s such a mess in here.”
Score.
I have absolutely zero claim to Logan, but I still like the idea that he’s at least not fucking a woman right now as I enter his suite.
I wheel the cart inside and see that the suite isn’t a mess in any sense of the word.
Emily has a tablet, a phone, and a giant bag down on the table, but that’s about it.
She’s peppier than Logan but she looks just as stressed as him, barely glancing at me as she leads me further into the living room, pulling her long hair into a ponytail.
“Do you have access to any of those little desserts they serve downstairs?” she asks. “Those were incredible last year. I did an extra thirty on the treadmill every day because of them.”
“There’s some right here, actually,” I tell her, opening up the portion of the tray with the sweets. “I made them this morning.”
“You make those?” she says, her eyes going wide. “Sinful. Fucking delicious. You’re going to be my downfall.”
I hand her one of them and she pops it in her mouth, her eyes rolling back.
“I’m in love with you,” she says. “Thank you, Chase.”
A breeze moves the curtains along the living room, and I catch a glimpse of the balcony.
Logan is out there.
I see his tan skin in the sunlight as he leans back on a picnic chair outside, eating lunch across the table from three other people. It’s one man and two women, and all of them look just as screen-ready and gorgeous as he does.
One of the women reaches her arm up and starts flexing her biceps, laughing and joking with Logan, and he starts flexing, too. He’s making everyone at the table laugh as he pretends to be some sort of Adonis, posing and getting out of his chair to strut.
The breeze flutters the curtains again and blocks the view of the balcony for a while.
“Logan’s told me about you,” Emily says, looking up from her tablet for a moment to glance at me.
“Hopefully confessing to you how badly he wants to buy one of my paintings?” I joke.
She smiles. “Come. Sit for a second,” she says, pulling one of the dining chairs out beside her. “I want to write out an order for desserts to take to an event tonight. Is that something the restaurant can do on short notice?”
“We will do just about anything for Logan Stone, and by extension, Emily…”
“Vega.”
“Fuck, you have a cool name, too? Vega and Stone sounds like a sick comic book.”
“I guess Logan and I have to team up and take over the world as supervillains.”
“Please do,” I plead in a playful voice. “I’d like to live in a world ruled by you two.”
I push my sleeves up as I sit down, being careful around my new tattoo that I just took out of its clear healing wrap earlier. It spans the lower half of my forearm. I got it the day after Logan’s premiere, on a whim when I needed to distract myself, and I’ve been very happy with the decision.
Emily’s eyes glance over at it and she does a double-take at my forearm. “That’s beautiful,” she says. “Is that a Morpho butterfly?”
“Luna moth.”
“Its wings are amazing.”
“Thank you. Lunas are usually green, but I asked the artist for blue. I figured that if it’s my arm, I’m in control of the colors. Hurt like a motherfucker, but I think it’s my favorite tattoo now.”
I glimpse Logan outside again for a moment as the curtains shift.
I take a moment to gaze at him while Emily’s checking out my arm. Logan is facing the other direction on the balcony, and he still has no idea I’m here. The sun shines over his hair, bringing out the pale highlights in his golden curls.
“I like your Black Flag one, also,” Emily tells me, nodding at the tattoo of four little stripes on the edge of my other wrist.
“You know the band?”
She nods. “I know I look like Corporate Barbie now, but when I was younger I was obsessed with punk bands. I’ve taken out all of my piercings by now, but… hold on.”
A moment later she shows me an old-looking photo on her phone of a girl with neon green hair, dark makeup, and a ring at the center of her stuck-out tongue.
“No way that’s you,” I murmur.
“I used to be cool,” she says, grinning as she locks the phone. She’s probably a few years older than Logan, maybe somewhere in her mid-30s. She pulls in a long breath, shaking her head. “Best advice I can give you is don’t ever grow up.”
“Nah. Growing up is a good thing. I’m so glad I’m not the same as I was last year… let alone when I was a teenager.”
“Were you bad?”
“Very bad,” I tell her, looking down at the table. “And not in a cool way. In a he needs help way.”
“Ah. Seems like you turned out well, at least.”
“Therapy. So much therapy, Emily. Turns out if you go to enough behavioral group sessions when you’re fourteen, you eventually won’t think the world hates you anymore.”
Her smile is genuine, and I’m relieved.
“Don’t see why someone would hate you,” she says. “I see why Logan likes you, for sure.”
“Yeah? Does he have a penchant for broken toys?”
She shakes her head. “No. You just have good energy. I’ve been talking to you for two minutes and I already get it.”
“Honestly, I have been told I have good energy at least a few times. Horrible decision making and self-control, but good energy.”
“See?” she says, raising her eyebrows. “I’m never wrong.”
I smile at her, feeling a weight lift from my chest.
I like being complimented, sure. I eat that shit up.
Once upon a time, if a woman like Emily was being this kind and conversational with me, I would be flirting so hard I’d already be mentally planning out the appropriate time to ask if she’d like an orgasm or three.
I always enjoyed women who were older than me, and they’ve tended to enjoy my cock, too.
Now, though?
All I can focus on is what she said earlier.
Logan likes me.
The thought glitters inside me. I’m like a kid pulling petals off of a daisy.
Emily asks me about which desserts we have on hand and quickly taps out a list, in a spreadsheet complete with color-coded columns, for an order she wants to put in. She sends it wirelessly to a printer, prints it out, and hands me the list.
“Thank you, Tongue Ring Barbie,” I tell her.
She laughs and reaches up to give me a high five. Just then, Logan steps in through the billowing curtains over by the balcony doors.