Page 21 of Lovers Fate

He doesn’t respond, probably processing what I said.

“It was nothing that you did,” I reassure him. “She was high on coke.”

He glances at me like I’m the root of all evil. “How would you know? You work at The Church?”

“Just started.”

He looks at the door to my room, then back at me. “Not going well on your first day?”

“I’m not on the clock.” I head to the stairs to ask Simon for soap to take a much-needed shower.

“Wait… you stay here?” he calls out.

“Pick a better partner to fuck, lover boy.” I look over my shoulder. “It’s a shame to waste a perfectly wonderful orgasm.”

“What’s your name?” he calls out, but I ignore him taking the stairs. The fewer people know I exist, the better.

I storm into the front office. Simon has his nose deep in a science fiction book, and I notice the red handprint on his neck.

“What now?” he says dryly, placing the book down, marking the page.

I lean on the counter. “I need soap.” He sighs, opens a drawer, and hands me a bar of soap the size of a pack of gum.

He lifts an irritated brow when I don’t move to leave. “Yes?”

“I need a towel.”

“Your room doesn’t have one?”

“Are you serious?” I scoff. “Have you seen it?”

He gives me an irritated look. “This isn’t the Marriott. I’m sure you’ve noticed.”

“I’m aware. My neighbors cleared that up perfectly.”

He sighs. “Look, I’m trying to help you out here, but you’re not making this easy.”

“I’m asking for normal shit every motel in the country provides.”

“Well, this isn’t like every motel if you haven’t noticed.”

“I’m aware.” He gets up and walks around the counter to a closet, pulls out a set of keys from his pocket clipped to a loop on his jeans, unlocks the door, and hands me two towels that feel like sandpaper. “Thanks.” I think paper towels from a public bathroom feel softer than this.

He locks the door, turns around, averts his gaze, and sits behind the front desk. After a few seconds, he looks up at the ceiling, annoyed that I haven’t moved to leave.

“What now?” he huffs, each word dripping with annoyance.

“Why do you let them pick on you?”

He lets out a puff of air, clouding his glasses. “I don’t want to talk about this right now.”

“Why not?”

“Because it’s not going to change anything.”

“How do you know them?” I ask curiously, not caring if I’m testing the limit of his patience.

“School. They go to Stockbridge University, and I’ve known them since high school.”

---