Total pages in book: 96
Estimated words: 91146 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 456(@200wpm)___ 365(@250wpm)___ 304(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 91146 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 456(@200wpm)___ 365(@250wpm)___ 304(@300wpm)
I’m lost as to what she means until her eyes drop to my skimpy nightie.
“I’m not a…” I can’t say prostitute while standing across from one. “I don’t work in this… industry. I don’t sell my body for money.”
My last sentence is barely a whisper, but she hears it. “Then doesn’t that make you silly?” My scoff doesn’t bother her in the slightest. She moseys to the door, her hips swinging, opens it, and then gestures for me to leave with a head nudge. “You give it away and still get treated like trash. That makes you no better than me, baby cakes.”
“He didn’t… I didn’t…”
I’ve got nothing.
Not a single comeback.
“I’m sorry for barging in on you. I’m just desperate to have something returned that can’t be replaced.”
Her huff bellows down the empty hallway. “You gave that away for nothing…”—her eyes rake my body for the second time when she says the word “that”—“and your virginity. What is wrong with girls these days?”
My eyes bulge. “I didn’t give him my virginity.” I try to hold back my grumbled comment, but it leaves my mouth before I can. “I wasted that on Tony Stepanova at the end of prom.”
“Tony Stepanova? The balding man from Marcella’s?”
With my heart in my throat, I nod.
I forget even sex workers have hometowns.
The redhead takes a step back. “He’s at least double your age. How did you end up at prom with him?”
Her math doesn’t add up. “I’m twenty-six—”
“And I’m the Virgin Mary.”
This is usually when I’d dig out my ID, but since I am without my purse and an ounce of dignity, I reply, “Tony is only three years older than me. He got the balding gene from his father. There were more hairs than my womanly secretions on the back seat of his Pontiac after our three-minute wrangle.”
I cringe at my poor choice of wording, but the beautiful specimen finds my disastrous dating life hilarious. I can barely hear her over her voracious laughter. “If you thought the shedding was bad back then, look at the sheets.” Bile scorches my throat when she gestures her head to the unmade bed on my right. A noticeable sweat imprint shadows the bedding, and there’s enough body hair to fix Tony’s hideous combover. “The hair on his head now… nothing. Kaput.” She shudders while saying, “But you can wax him on Monday and wake up to that Tuesday afternoon. The man has body hair for miles.”
“And yet you called me silly.”
She waves off my snarky comment with her hand before asking for the name of the man I’m seeking. “I have contacts who may be willing to share details if it’ll stop you from walking in on them mid-deed.”
I almost feel bad giving Laken’s credentials away, but the guilt only lasts as long as it takes for me to remember he stole my most valued possession from me right under my nose. “Laken Howell.”
“Howell.” She tests his surname a handful more times before nodding. “I recall a booking under that name.” I want to vomit until she murmurs, “He was a no-show,” while flicking through her planner. “Room 37D.” She checks the room number on the open door. “Third on the left.”
“Thank you so much,” I reply, racing for Laken’s room.
“Anytime.” My steps fumble when she says, “And if you ever want to take one of my prepaid clients again, reach out. I’ll give you a cut of the profits.”
“I’m good, thanks.”
My denial of her offer is still rumbling down the hallway when I knock on the door of 37D.
When my bang goes unanswered, I flatten my ear to the door.
I startle when a heavily accented voice says, “No one there. Room clean. Checked out this morning.”
“He’s gone?”
I shouldn’t be upset when a maid pulls open the door and nods, but I am. And not all my devastation resides with losing my songbook.
“Can you please let me in?”
“No, sorry.” The maid backs away while clutching the master keycard on her lanyard. “I could lose my job.”
“Please. There’s something very important inside I need to get.” When my begging tone doesn’t get her over the line, I try another angle. “I can call Lesley and ask permission. She will say yes.”
“No! Don’t call Lesley.” She looks desperate, almost petrified. “I’ll look for you. What are you seeking?”
“A songbook.” I recall how much I loved all its little quirks when Colette gifted it to me on my fourteenth birthday. “It has burnt-orange stitching, and my name is on the front in leather letters. It’s about this big.” I hold out my hands to show her the size. “And there’s an inscription inside the front cover.” Tears burn my eyes. “Words mean nothing—”
“Unless there is music behind them,” the maid fills in, shocking me.
“Yes,” I murmur, my voice a sob. “Have you seen it?”