Page 2 of Room 810

Emerson must’ve caught the way Roland’s eyes flicked between them, because he quickly introduced them, gesturing over his shoulder vaguely. “Roland, this is Sawyer Sheen. He’s our new PR rep. I hired him to help boost our image, and he arranged a famous travel blogger to come stay, except…” He swallowed thickly. “The reviewer he invited apparently arrived a day early.”

“But it’ll be fine, like I said,” Sawyer repeated.

“Roland… this man here. Do you remember him?” Emerson tapped the guestbook.

Roland glanced down at the name: Gabriel Barclay. He strained his memory back over the past 24 hours, the blur of strangers through a veil of sleep-deprivation, but a vague image began to rise to the surface of his memory, of a man with slicked-back hair, glasses, and a pinched expression. When he saw the room number beside the guest’s name, however, his chest tightened. Room 810. Fuck. “Um… sir…” Roland licked his dry lips, debating how to tell his boss that this man’s room was the one that was flooded.

Before he could get the words out, there was a ding of the elevator, and it drew his gaze. “That’s him, sir,” he gasped, gulping.

If Roland had thought the man looked uptight last night, he looked downright seething now. Behind his glasses, his eyes had deep, sagging creases beneath them, as if he hadn’t slept a wink. For someone whose job it was to take holidays for a living, he looked awfully stressed out. His impeccable suit was now creased, and if anyone was wondering why, his suitcase left a trail of drips across the floor as he marched toward the desk, and it made a wet squishing sound when he dropped it on the floor. “Checking out,” he grumbled, depositing his key on the desk in front of Roland.

Mr. Holland made a whimpering sound, putting two and two together. “Oh, Mr. Barclay, I—I mean, how was your—I hope your stay was…” He trailed off, unable to finish his sentence, because it was clear that his stay hadnotbeen pleasant.

Instead of simpering his apologies, though, Emerson squared off his shoulders, tilted his chin up, and said, “Perhaps we could try this again.”

If possible, the corners of the man’s stern mouth pulled further down. “No, that simply isn’t possible. I don’t stay anywhere twice.” His eyes shifted to Sawyer. “Just ask Mr. Sheen.” The PR rep did indeed look grim as he nodded.

Roland watched his boss’s cool façade crack. “B-but… it wasn’t our fault. It was an accident. I promise we don’t regularly flood our suites. It’s hardly fair to judge us on this. You could stay one more night, surely.” When Mr. Barclay didn’t reply, scowling, Emerson asked, “Well, what are you going to say in the review?” His Adam’s apple bobbed in his throat, and there was a drop of sweat forming at his hairline. Roland hated seeing him like this, helpless to do anything to take away his stress. His fingers itched to reach for him, and he clenched his fists at his sides, gritting his teeth.

Mr. Barclay narrowed his eyes on Emerson. “I only ever write the truth, of course.” He bent down to pick up his squishy suitcase. “You can read the review when it is published on my blog, A Nomad’s Travel Guide.”

They all watched helplessly as Gabriel Barclay stormed through the lobby, the doorman rushing to pull the door open in time for the travel blogger to stomp through. None of them said a word until he had passed out of view though the plate-glass windows.

Sawyer cleared his throat and headed out. “Well, I guess I’ll go earn my pay. I’ll be on damage control.” He reached a hand across the counter to shake Mr. Holland’s hand. “Don’t worry, just leave it to me. I’ll fix this.”

It was more than obvious that Mr. Holland didn’t believe his claim. This wasn’t something that could be fixed so easily with charm and sweet talking, especially when the blogger seemed so high-strung.

The two of them, boss and employee, stood side by side, the air tense. Roland could feel Emerson beside him, close enough to touch, and he found himself reaching his hand out in the gap between them. He hesitated, struggling between propriety and the urge to comfort the man he had loved for years. His breath caught as he realized the risk he was taking, but as he withdrew his hand, hoping his boss hadn’t noticed, Emerson shifted, reaching out and clasping his fingertips.

“I’m so sorry, sir,” Roland whispered, glancing across at Emerson, squeezing his hand.

He shook his head just once. “Nothing to be sorry for. If The Scarlet Hotel is meant to survive, it will.” He stepped away, their hands drifting apart with reluctance.

1

Gabriel

Nothingfeelsright.Ihate this.

I tucked a finger into the collar of my shirt and tugged it away from my throat, focusing on taking a slow, even inhale. There was a tight knot in my chest, making it hard to breathe. My eyes felt itchy from lack of sleep, my skin crawling from being trapped in this suit, the fabric stiff after being air-dried instead of the usual dry cleaning. The hotel had offered their cleaning services, but who could trust them after that fiasco?! And the shower I took this morning was completely wasted when I had to climb back into my damp suit. My entire morning routine was ruined!

I shifted, trying to get comfortable in the back seat of the cab, but I clenched my hands in my lap, glaring at the tear in the upholstery of the driver’s headrest. The inside of the car smelled like over-perfumed air freshener—the scent probably deceptively labeled something likeCherry Blossom Sunrise—searing the insides of my nostrils, and it made me wonder what unsavory odors the driver was trying to cover up. Sweat, cigarette smoke, the greasy takeout food long forgotten under the seat.

I really, really hate this.

At least we were almost at the airport. Once I got on the plane, I could get back on track and close the file on this whole disaster.

I had told the hotel manager the truth; my reviews were always honest, and it was just his bad luck that my stay had been a wreck from minute one. Sure, the flood might have been an accident, but what was their excuse for the subpar dining experience? I would certainly highlight the gorgeous architecture and the polite staff, but that was not enough to earn them a good review. The only question now was whether I would give them one star or a more-than-generous two…

I’ve stayed in worse, I reminded myself, shuddering. Like the hotel with the suspicious stains on the carpet. Or the time where I heard gunshots down the hall, clutching my sheet to my chest and wondering if I would be next; then I laid awake all night listening to the wailing of sirens. Then I recalled the bed bug infestation at a so-called “luxury resort” last year. Two stars for The Scarlet Hotel then, because at least I hadn’t woken up covered in bites this time.

The cab pulled up at the departure terminal, and I forced my fists to unclench. “Thank you,” I told the driver, because manners were always required, even though I was fairly certain he had gone out of his way to hit every pothole. He hopped out to grab my luggage from the trunk, but I waved him away. I would rather do it myself.

I had timed everything perfectly to allow enough time to check my bag and get through security but to minimize the amount of time I would have to wait for boarding. It was a precise calculation, but I’d had years to perfect it. This was why I was good at my job, my careful attention to details. My readers trusted my travel tips and recommendations.

Airports were kind of like Petri dishes, with too many people sharing the same air, touching every surface, spreading their germs. I made sure to touch nothing and to take shallow breaths. It would be better on the plane with their HEPA filters.

After only waiting ten minutes at my gate, a voice came over the PA: “Attention passengers, we are now boarding Aegis Airlines flight 682 to Miami.” They called up passengers requiring assistance with boarding, and then it was my turn, seated in business class.

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