Checked Again (24 page)

And…and
I can finally see his eyes. They are staring right at me.

And
they are blazing.

{Alias
is back. Again. Louder this time.}

He—

The
sound of laughter rolls down the hallway. Someone is coming this way.

He
nods his head, his fiery eyes, toward the sound. One last whisper. “Go ahead.
Hurry. I’ll text you soon.”

My
head nods one more time. Then I force my legs to move, to walk away from him.
Back to the conference room for the last half of my last session of the day.
Back to my pretty full bladder. Back to my starving stomach.

6:27
P.M. THE PRESENTATION IS ALMOST over.
Three more minutes. Three more
minutes. Three more minutes.
Three more minutes of thinking about the coat
closet. Three more minutes of praying that my stomach will stop growling. Three
more minutes of hoping my bladder won’t explode. Three more minutes of
pretending not to notice that Dr. Gabriel won’t stop staring at me.

When
I passed him on my way back in to the room, he pulled me aside and asked me
where I’d been.

I
lied. Obviously. I said I was in the bathroom. He bought it. Then he asked
(AGAIN) about dinner. I quickly reminded him that I can’t go to dinner…that I
have to write. And somehow, mercifully, at that moment, the presenter asked for
everyone to be seated (well, I guess she meant everyone except the back of the
wall-standing professors). So I moved away from him.

And
now he’s been staring at me for almost an hour. Making me want to throw up for
almost an hour.

So…currently,
my body is torn between wanting to hurl…needing to go to the bathroom…aching
for food…

And…something
else…another kind of wanting. Needing. Aching. But—

The
presentation ends.

I
pick my body up out of my seat. I quickly pass Dr. Gabriel, who continues to
stare at me as a woman in a business suit talks to him, and I walk back out
into the hallway. Then—

My
phone buzzes.

Chapter
16

hotel
room

ONE
TEXT. UNKNOWN NUMBER.

Count.
Open.

Meet me by room 132.
I have your room key.

Okay.
132. First floor. Easy to escape if some idiot guest leaves a curling iron on
or lights candles or something and somehow starts a fire.

Squeezing
my legs together, telling my bladder to hold on for a bit more, I walk toward
the main lobby. Past many, MANY people. Some wearing conference badges. Some on
cell phones. Some on laptops. Sitting. Standing. Walking. Waiting in line to
check in. On stools at the hotel bar. Talking. Laughing. Being.

People.
All over the freaking place.

{The
Beatles make one of their regular appearances. Now with
“Here, There and
Everywhere
.
”
}

I
walk past the people. Trying to avoid eye contact. Trying to walk the least
crowded path. I pass the front desk, pass the elevators, and pass even more
people.

Perhaps
a first floor room isn’t ideal after all. Too many people. Too much traffic.
Probably the most accessible and convenient floor for murderers to visit…

{The
Beatles continue to sing.}

I
start seeing numbers outside of room doors. 112. 114. 116. I keep walking. I
turn a corner. Walk. Walk. Walk. Room 118. 120. 122. Walk. Walk. Wa—

I
see him. Up ahead. White shirt, black pants. Standing in front of a guest room
door. Waiting. Facing this way.

One.
Two. Three.

I
head toward him. Each step brings another dark coat closet flashback to my
mind. My cheeks get hot. And hotter.

124.
126. 128. And hotter.

{The
Pussycat Dolls pop in with
“Don’t Cha
.
”
}

130.
And—

And
he catches me with his eyes. Full eyes—patient eyes…worried eyes…closet eyes.

I
stop walking. We stand face-to-face…a couple of feet apart.

A
nervous smile slides onto his face, and he begins talking. “This is the first
room I reserved for you.”

The
first
room?

I
nod, unsure of what to say. Unsure of what he means. Unsure of how much longer
I can wait to find a bathroom.

He
continues. Still nervous. “I was going to have you stay here, on the first
floor, so you wouldn’t have to worry so much about getting out during a fire.”
Of
course you thought of that. Of course.
He shakes his head quickly. “Not
that there will be a fire.”

I
wait for more. Wait to see why his eyes are so nervous.

He
runs his hand through his hair and looks at the door, at room 132.

I
squeeze my legs together.
Oh my God.
I can’t wait much longer.

But
I’m not using a lobby bathroom. And I don’t want to use the, I’m sure,
over-used, overly filled with germs bathroom in 132. Who knows if it was really
cleaned after the last person left the room? Who knows if the maid—

He’s
looking at me again. Still nervous. A little amused too. “We’ve got to get you
to a bathroom.”

I
nod for the three hundred millionth time since I’ve met him. A fast, urgent
shaking of my head.    

“Come
on.” He holds out his hand for me.

I
don’t think. I place my fingers in his. And a flood of calm shoots through
me…well, almost through me. It doesn’t reach my head. Or my bladder.

We’ve
gotta go.

With
a tiny smile of encouragement, he turns his head and begins walking, taking me
with him. We move quickly past rooms. 130. 128. 126.

He
takes long, purposeful strides. One. Two. Three. To keep up, I rush behind him
with short, close-legged little steps. Onetwothree. Onetwothree. Onetwothree.
Room 124. 122. 120. Long stride. Little steps. One. Onetwothree. Long stride.
Little steps. Two. Onetwothree. Long stride. Little steps. Three. Onetwothree.
118. 116. 114. We—

We
stop. We stop by an unnumbered door with an EXIT sign above it. The stairwell.

He
turns to look at me. He doesn’t let go of my hand. His eyes plead with mine.

He
opens his mouth to speak. “I checked this stairwell ten minutes ago. It’s
pretty clean.”

I
nod. To tell him that I believe him. To tell him that I’ll go with him. To tell
him to hurry. Relief fills his eyes. He tightens his grip on my hand and pushes
through the door, holding it open with his back until I cross in front of him.

I
glance briefly at the stairs. They look clean. It is pretty dark in here,
though. Probably a good place for an attacker to hide and grab—

I
don’t need to worry about that right now. He. Is. Here. He moves in front of me
and starts up the stairs, holding my hand tightly. I follow a step behind,
watching his feet, his black pants, his long legs…

Up
a staircase. Platform. Twist. Up another staircase. Platform. Stop. He opens a
door marked with a gigantic “3” and nods for me to go through first.

I
move my heels as quickly as I can without parting my legs. I’m running out of
time.
{Avril Lavigne sings the encouraging
“Keep Holding On
.
”
Don’t think she wrote it for my situation, though.}

Room
313. 315. 3—

He
pulls me to the opposite side of the hallway. Room 318. The room is by itself.
Room 316 and 320 are nowhere to be seen.

He
looks at me. Apologetically. Hopefully. “This is the best I could do.”

I
nod (of course). I also clench my thighs together under my skirt.

He
squeezes my hand before gently releasing it. Then he talks quickly as he
reaches into his pocket and pulls out a hotel key. “This hotel has over thirty
floors. Most of the suites are on the higher floors, but I was able to find
this. It’s an executive suite.” He puts the key in the slot on the door. “I was
able to check hotel records, and this room is not booked very often since it’s,
well, a little expensive.” The light on the key reader turns green and clicks.
He pushes the door open a crack. Then he continues talking. I listen as
carefully as I can, my legs starting to bounce.
{Avril continues to sing.}
“The
price isn’t important, of course, but what I’m trying to say is, well, no one
has stayed in this room for over a month. It’s not used very often.” He presses
his back against the door, pushing it the whole way open. I don’t look inside
yet…because I’m stuck in his eyes once again. His nervous eyes.

His
mouth starts moving again. Quickly again. “I hired a very reputable cleaner to
come in today to sanitize the bathroom. I had him replace the toilet seat,
bathroom carpets, towels, shower curtain…everything. Everything in the bathroom
is new.” He stops talking and stares at me. Anxious. Anxious eyes.

But
he doesn’t need to be anxious. He’s thought of everything. As usual.

My
lips scrunch up into a smile and I get out two words. “Thank you.”

He
smiles a little, little smile. Then he nods to the towel on the floor right
inside the door. “The floor has just been sterilized.”

I
watch him slip off his shoes and put them on the towel. Silently, I step beside
him, into the room. I take off my shoes and place them right beside his. Then
he holds out his hands and nods to my purse. I slide it off of my shoulder and
give it to him. Then…well, then, I run past him. Further into the hotel room.
Right into the bathroom.

It’s
time.

I
MADE IT. I USED a hotel bathroom. And even though the bathroom was just
specially sanitized for me…even though a brand new seat was on the toilet…even
though I still hovered carefully over the seat, not touching anything…even
though I had all of that going for me…I’m still rather impressed with myself.     

I
wash my hands in one of the sparkling white sinks just below the bathroom
mirror. The mirror is immaculate. No splotches from toothpaste or hairspray
or…well, or anything else.

I,
on the other hand, am not immaculate. Not at all. My makeup has faded to almost
nothing. My face looks extremely pale…except for the dark circles just below my
eyes.

And
now I have to walk out and see him…looking like this. Like hell. Like crap.
Like a mental case who hasn’t slept in days because she’s been overly busy with
worrying and checking. Like—

Like
his mother.

Ugh.
Stop think—

“Callie?”
He sounds kind of far away. Like he moved to the other side of the room to give
me some privacy. “Are you okay?”

I
look at myself again in the mirror, still holding my hands under the running
faucet. Well, I’m okay as in my bladder isn’t going to burst now, but
otherwise, well, I’m not okay. I look like shit. And I somehow have to spend
the night in a hotel room. And I have another plane ride looming over my head.
And—

“Callie?”

And…and
he’s here with me.
He’s here. He’s here.

“Callie?
Are you all right?” His voice sounds closer now. It also sounds worried.

One.
Two. Three. I grab three of the Kleenex hand towels from the box beside the
sink. I dry my hands. With the towels still in my hand, I turn off the sink and
open the door a crack (I know the bathroom is clean…but still…it can’t hurt to
be careful). I toss the paper towels into the empty (new) trash can sitting
under the counter. Then I push the door further open with my elbow and—

And
he’s standing right in front of me.

He
has his eyebrows raised in a question. Silently asking if everything went okay,
I guess.

I
nod. Nod. Nod.

I
then hold out my hand to take my purse. He extends his arm to give it to me and
somehow—

Somehow
his hand grazes mine during the exchange. My stomach flips as his eyes heat
back—

My
phone rings. My stupid phone.

He
nods his head slowly, telling me to take the call. Then he backs away from me.

I
take a step out of the bathroom as I reach into my purse, finding my phone
quickly. And it’s stupid freaking Dr. Gabriel.

I
could just not pick up…but then he might just come to my room instead. If he
even knows where—

Callie!

One.
Two. Three.

“Hello,
Dr. Gabriel.” I try not to sound annoyed.

“Are
you really sure about dinner? You have to eat. Why don’t we just order some
room service in my room? Just the two of us. You can even work while we eat.”

That
sounds awful. His room. His germs. Dinner right beside his bed.
No thanks.

Pushing
the revulsion out of my voice (I think), I respond. I lie. “Oh, that is such a
nice idea, but I’ve already ordered some food for myself. It should be here any
minute. And I’ve already started sorting through my notes from today.”

“Well,
I can stop by and help you—”

“No,
please don’t worry about me. You go out to dinner with the other professors.
Really. I just need some quiet time alone to write.” I try to sound sweet and
apologetic and busy. I hope it works.

Dr.
Gabriel sounds disappointed, but he starts to talk about alternative dinner
plans. He starts to run through the names of restaurants where the other
professors are going.

I
don’t really hear what he is saying, though. My focus has shifted to my hotel
room, the large, wide open space beyond the bathroom hall. My eyes skim over
the shiny, hardwood floors, the flat screen television, the massive desk, and
the little bar in the corner. All of it is beautiful…and seemingly quite
clean…but none of it is as interesting as what is happening in the middle of
the room.

Because
he’s in the middle of the room. By the bed. A completely stripped bed. I watch
as he walks over to a gigantic brown box and pulls out…

A
new package of sheets.

He
opens the package and begins making the bed, making
my
bed.

Dr.
Gabriel continues to talk. I make “uh huh” noises every once in a while, but I
continue not to listen to him.

In
front of me, Dr. Blake arranges the bottom sheet, a white sheet, pulling each
corner snugly over the mattress. Then he moves on to the top sheet, smoothing
it carefully across the bed.

Dr.
Gabriel is now saying something about a young new professor who might need
someone to eat with tonight (perhaps the woman in the business suit who was
talking to him at the end of the last session?). He says he might take her to
dinner to help her out. Like he’s a martyr.
{Sandi Patty sings her
“Via
Dolorosa”
to celebrate his sacrifice.}
He begins to wonder aloud where
he should take her to eat. I tune him out and watch the show going on in front
of me.