14. Rose
ROSE
Can I not go one moment in Dante’s presence without making a fool of myself? Apparently not. I have spent two days with him and have put my foot in my mouth more times than I have with any other client.
Now I need to figure out where to ship all my deliveries and come to terms with having to spend more nights in this godforsaken motel room. Maybe I could work from the diner until they close so I can prolong returning to my musty, dimly lit motel room that smells of cigarettes and old fast food.
I’d better go talk to the motel manager first about extending my stay, and then I can head to the diner for a late dinner and get some of the smaller orders placed that can be delivered to the local post office.
When I pull into the empty parking lot in front of my room, I immediately notice the door to my room is open.
I quickly look around to see if there is a cleaning cart or maid in sight to explain why the door to my room would be open, but no one is around.
There’s not even another vehicle parked in the small lot.
Should I get the manager and have him take a look, or should I just go in by myself?
Did I maybe leave it unlocked when I left this morning, and the wind or something caused the door to swing open?
I definitely wasn’t in the right headspace, so it’s possible but unlikely.
I grew up in New York City, and one thing you never do is leave your door open, let alone unlocked.
I can do this—just push the door all the way open and take a quick look inside.
You got this. Okay, not my brightest idea, but I’d rather not have to drag the manager into this if I just left it unlocked.
Maybe I should call Dante? No. Why would I even think that?
He’s my client, and I don’t need him to come save me. It’s probably nothing anyway.
Walking up to the door to get a better look, it’s obvious someone forced their way into my room based on the cracked doorframe and the handle hanging off the door.
What do they think I have in there? We are in the middle of BFE at the shittiest motel in history!
Stay calm, Ro. You need to go in there and take pictures so you can call the police to file a report just in case something was stolen.
Luckily, I only kept some clothes and toiletries in the room while I was gone, and I have all my electronics and design gear in my car.
As I push the door fully open, my eyes scan over the small room, taking in the destruction.
There is no other way to describe what I’m looking at.
The sheets have been ripped from the bed and scattered all over the floor.
The mattress looks like someone had a personal vendetta against it because it has several long gashes all the way through to the springs, which I’m guessing were made by some kind of knife.
Every drawer from the small dresser has been removed, and the clothes I did have stored in them have been torn to shreds and left on the stained carpet.
It’s like a train wreck you can’t look away from.
That has to be the only reason I continue to walk across the room like I’m in a trance to the bathroom instead of running outside and immediately calling the police.
The bathroom is small enough that I can quickly take in the entire scene in front of me.
All my makeup and toiletries have been smashed and tossed on the ground.
The mirror has a splintered indent in the middle that looks suspiciously like a fist slammed into it, and two words are written on the mirror in my favorite red lipstick: “Hello, Princess.”
Now that gets my feet moving. This was clearly intended to send some kind of message, and they just got the wrong room. Running out of the room, I make my way to the front desk and crash through the door. The manager looks up with annoyance at my abrupt entrance, but I don’t care.
“We need to call the police! Someone broke into my room!” I shout, out of breath from running and the adrenaline coursing through my veins.
The manager just simply quirks a brow at me like I’m crazy.
Is this dude high? How is that his response to what I just said? Does he not notice my clear distress?
“Are you sure you didn’t leave your door open?”
Is this psycho for real?
“Can you at least come and see what they did? I can’t stay in there tonight!”
“Fine. But if there is any damage to the room, you’re responsible for it.”
“You can’t be serious! My belongings have been violated, and I’m telling you someone broke into my room and that’s all you have to say?”
“I don't know what kind of people you associate with, and the agreement you signed for the room states you are responsible for all damages.”
“For fuck’s sake—fine! Can you at least give me another room for the night? I can’t stay in there.”
“I’ll have to charge you an additional night for the second room.”
I slowly blink once, twice, three times. Stay calm, Ro, stay calm. Do not throat punch this man.
“Whatever. Just give me the key. I only need it for one night and will check out in the morning. You can bill me for the damage.”
Snatching the key from his hand, I stomp out of the reception area and back outside, but instead of going to the new room the manager assigned me, I go back into my room to see if any of my belongings are salvageable.
Spoiler alert: everything is destroyed. Just great.
This is exactly what I needed to round out the clusterfuck of the past few days.
Pulling out my phone to call the police to, at minimum, file a police report, I notice I have several missed calls from Dante from a few minutes ago. That’s weird. I must not have heard my phone in all the chaos. I’ll just call him back in the morning. I’m not in the mood to talk to anyone tonight.
I can tell my adrenaline is coming down, and my brain is going to crash.
I’m about to dial 911 when Dante’s name flashes across my phone screen with an incoming call.
I watch his name on my screen, and indecision gets the best of me because a few moments later, the call goes to voicemail and the screen goes blank.
Thankfully, the decision to answer his call and talk to him was taken from me.
While I would love nothing more than to tell Dante what happened, knowing he would come help me deal with this mess, it wouldn’t be appropriate professionally to treat him like anything more than a client.
Now that my heart rate has slowed back to normal and I can take a breath and think, I decide it’s not worth reporting this to the police, lock my phone, and slip it back into my purse.
There aren’t any cameras here, and clearly, the manager doesn’t care enough to report anything, so it’s not like they would even have anything to go on to find out who did this.
Plus, it didn’t look like they actually took anything and just destroyed it, which is strange.
Who knows what that message on the mirror even means.
Maybe they thought my room belonged to someone else and this is just an annoying misunderstanding.