Page 107 of Burn It Down

“Can you pull in here?” I ask almost too late. It’s a little after nine, but their light is on and their hours say they’re open untileleven. He pulls into a space and my door is already open. “Wait here, I’ll be back in a minute.”

“Why can’t I come in?” he argues.

“Do you trust me?”

He purses his lips at me and cocks his head to the side, clearly meaningduh.

And while that look might not mean shit for a lot of people, it makes Dylan’s point perfectly. I lean over the console to kiss him.

“Then wait here.”

He doesn’t need to see the lube, the Gatorade, or the butt plug I’m about to purchase.

I’m back in the car in under ten minutes and he eyes the bags now resting on the floorboard between my feet.

“You gonna tell me what’s in there?”

It’s my turn to smirk. “Nope.”

He pulls back onto the road and follows the signs for the highway. “I thought we’d better head uptown to your place for this…for obvious reasons,” he says, looking over his shoulder as he merges into light traffic.

“I was actually thinking we should grab a hotel room.”

He looks over at me with furrowed brows. “Really? Why?”

The need to touch him constantly has become my norm. I rub my hand along his biceps, down to his forearm, and back up again, craving the feel of his inked skin under my hands.

“Because I don’t want to do this inmyspace. I want to do this on neutral ground. Some place neither of us has memories of someone else. A place where there’s no possibility of someone stopping by to interrupt us. A place where we can truly shut the world out and focus solely on each other.”

He nods his head and licks his lips. “Yeah. Okay.”

I fire off a text to Charlie, letting him know Dylan and I are safe, but won’t be back until the morning and then I make areservation at the Hacienda Gótico, an upscale hotel I’ve passed several times, but have never had a reason to stay since it’s local. With an average of four-point-eight stars out of seven thousand reviews, I feel pretty confident it’s a good choice.

The architecture reminds me of the older buildings in a small town called Puebla, Mexico. A place I visited several years ago with a group of friends in undergrad. The pictures online show that the rooms are done with a light Mexican gothic theme and they remind me of Dylan’s tattoo.

Most hotels these days have a chat box feature that connects you to the front desk. Since my requests are specific and on such short notice, I begin typing.

Guest: Good evening. My boyfriend and I are in need of a hotel room at the last minute. I’m searching for a garden-view room, preferably on the end or corner.

On a random Wednesday in September, I don’t expect to have much trouble and am relieved when the message comes through.

Hacienda Gótico: Hello! Thank you for reaching out to us. I am pleased to inform you that we can accommodate your request. If the room selection below is satisfactory, please click the link to proceed and complete your booking.

I click the link for theCorner Suite with Garden View and Balconyand fill out the form. There are add-ons on the last page. I select a bottle of Dom Perignon and the room-service breakfast. I’m tempted to click all the damn buttons, but Dylan isn’t really aroses on the bedspreadkind of guy.

I check out and give him directions to our new destination.

Check-in at the hotel is easy and since this is totally impromptu, we have no bags except for the ones from the drugstore. I chuckle because it’s pretty obvious what we’ve come here to do, but the staff is nothing but professional, welcoming us with smiles.

A lot of older buildings in Mexico aren’t much higher than five stories, and true to its heritage, this building only has four. It’s open in the center to a courtyard that houses the tables and chairs of the restaurant. Hanging baskets, fountains, and small pools create an authentic, intimate feel. The cast iron railings of the balconies facing the courtyard are visible from the lobby and I feel good about my choice of an exterior facing room.

We’re riding the elevator up to the fourth floor when Dylan realizes, “Shit, I don’t even have toothpaste.”

I smile and hold up the heaviest of the bags in my hands.

He smiles at me from across the elevator. “I love a man of action.”

Since my hands are full, he unlocks the door for us and stops just over the threshold, causing me to run into his back.

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