Page 12 of Rim Job

6

CHRISTINA

Istep out of my husband’s limo in front of my hotel.

My fucking husband.

I’m still trying to wrap my head around this fucking shit-storm that is somehow now my life. The searing desert heat is only making me feel worse.

“Thank you, Marcos.” The giant shuts the limo door behind me. I need to Google my husband. He obviously is doing well for himself, so information should be easy to find.

“Mr. Banks said to tell you he’ll be in touch soon, my lady.”

I half-turn to look at Marcos.

Wow, these English men sure are formal.

“Um, okay, thanks.”

He lowers his head in acknowledgment as I throw him an awkward wave before I push through the doors of the hotel into the lobby. The cool air washes over me, a welcomed reprieve. I need a key, since I don’t have a purse anymore, so I make my way to the desk.

“I’m sorry, I can’t allow you access to that floor without identification, Miss.”

I really don’t want to slap this woman. I’m sure what she is saying makes perfect sense to a person who isn’t so hungover. I just want a key to my room and a shower. I lay my head down on the cool marble and close my eyes when she answers the phone.

“Yes, sir. Yes, sir, she is here now. Yes, sir. Right away, sir. I didn’t know, sir. My apologies. Good-bye, sir.”

I don’t want to have to call Glory and have her come get me but that is what I’m going to have to do. I was hoping to sneak in while the girls would still be asleep. The fewer the questions, the better. I can’t even imagine what they will say when they find out about my husband.

My fucking husband.

I will not be telling anyone this today or maybe ever.

“Mrs. Banks.”

The marble underneath my face feels so good on my fuzzy hung-over brain. Maybe I can just take a nap here.

“Mrs. Banks, ma’am.”

The receptionist taps my shoulder. My head snaps up, the room spins slightly, and I groan, squeezing my eyes shut. What the hell was I thinking last night getting so drunk? Obviously, I wasn’t thinking or I wouldn’t be married.

“Mrs. Banks, I apologize, ma’am. I didn’t realize who you were. One moment and I’ll have a replacement room card made for you.”

“I’m not Mrs. Banks,” I growl at the poor receptionist.

“You aren’t? Mr. Banks just called and described you, even what you are wearing. He said you’d left your purse and to give you anything you may need.”

I just want to get to my room, so if playing the part of Mrs. Banks is what gets me there, fine. I’m not interested in standing here in my wrinkled, panty-less state any longer.

“Yes, he is right. I left my purse.” I’m not even going to worry about how he managed to secure a key to my room for me. I’ll worry about my stalker husband after a hot shower, a bottle of aspirin, and a coffee I.V.

Fucking husband.

“Here you go, Mrs. Banks. Again, I am so, so sorry.” The receptionist slides the card across the counter to me, and I scoop it up.

“Yeah, no problem. Thanks.” I dash toward the bank of elevators. I’ve got about forty minutes to get ready and get to this breakfast.

What the hell will I say to the girls?

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