Othello Station (2 page)

I nod. It’s time to go. I dig for my wallet and retrieve a twenty dollar bill. “Well, welcome to Seattle. Keep the change.”

Mira accepts the bill and blanches. “But—but that’s too much.”

“It’s nothing. Buy yourself a drink after your shift.” I pat the counter and walk away, heading back to the elevator. All this conversation stuff has just reminded me why I wanted to be alone in a hotel room. Away from people. Away from the world. Well, maybe not all people. Not the entire world. I still want some company tonight, but I won’t be heading out to the bar scene to find it. I’ll settle for one of the contacts I already have on speed dial. Mira calls after me, thanking me again for the tip. Maybe she’s broke. Shit, it wasn’t even that good of a tip.

The silence swallows me up again when I re-enter my room. It’s both comforting and alarming, confusing to the core. I approach the desk and thumb through a local magazine, scanning some real estate and apartment ads. I’m used to the city life. I’ve lived here my whole life. But each part of Seattle is different. Each district is distinct, each neighborhood its own little world. The idea of something new is appealing, but the thought of leaving Othello Station causes my chest muscles to seize up.

I close the magazine.

I still don’t know what I’m doing here. I only know I can’t be home right now. I can’t stand a second more, stepping out of that apartment, walking to the station. When I moved in a year ago, it was a great idea. The perfect way to honor and remember my father. Now it’s nothing but a heavy burden, a place that evokes stillness. Darkness.

Defeat. Suffocating defeat.

My thumb glides over my phone screen, scrolling for her number. Trish. The feisty blonde with the tongue ring. She knows I like it rough. And right now, I need it against the wall, with my name rolling off her lips. I could always call Samantha. Just the thought of her leaves me salivating. But she’s too needy. Asks too many questions. There’s too much potential there for emotional attachment. On her end, of course. I quit that shit two years ago. No strings, here. All I need is a good fuck.

Trish it is.

I send the text message and start for the shower, but think twice. I pick up the phone on the bedside.

“Thank you for calling the front desk, this is Mira, how may I help you?”

“Hi, yeah. Can you please send a bottle of Pinot Noir to room 805?”

“Sure, no problem. Can I get you anything else?”

“That’ll be all.” I hang up and resume my trip to the shower. It’s time to get this out of my system.

I’m done with my shower in no time, slipping into a pair or grey sweatpants. There’s a knock at the door and the familiar, friendly face from the front desk greets me. My brows rise. “Wow.” The word comes out dry. “They really have you doing everything around here, don’t they?”

“They’re cross training me.” Mira shrugs. “Plus we’re short-staffed this evening, so…”

“So you left the desk to bring me that?” I point to the wine bottle in her hands.

“Um…yeah, sort of. So, I’d better run.”

“Well, wait. Uh….wait a second.” I turn and grab my wallet. What kind of hotel has its front desk staff play bartender and room service attendant all at the same time? A shitty one, that’s what kind.

“Oh, that’s not necessary.”

“Yes, it really is. And for the record, this is ridiculous.”

Mira’s smile drops. Her skin pales.

“No. Not—you’re not ridiculous. I mean this…the fact that they have you doing all of this is crazy. You’re one person. You can’t possibly do everything. I’m going to talk to your manager tomorrow.”

“What? Please don’t. I mean,” she wrings her hand over the wine bottle and looks from left to right, “I would just hate for my boss to think I was complaining or something. I love this job. I need this job.”

I hold up a hand. “I wouldn’t mention you specifically, don’t worry.” I hand her a fifty dollar bill and she stares down at it incredulously.

“I can’t accept this.”

“Yeah, you can.” I take the wine bottle from her, trading it for the fifty dollar bill. She won’t stop staring at it. She’s frozen, as if I’ve just stunned the hell out of her. “Look, I’m not going to say anything that would put your job in jeopardy. If I mention your name at all, it would only be because I’d like to put a good word in for you. You should consider working for a different hotel, anyway. This place is taking advantage of you.”

Her eyes bounce up to meet mine. “I don’t know what to say. No one’s ever…thank you.” She suddenly lifts her head and straightens her back. “Just thank you.” She nods once and turns away. Her fist is wrapped tightly around the money as she floats down the hall, as if in a daze. I can’t help but let my eyes linger on her ass again as she disappears.

A harsh breath pushes past my teeth and I shut the door. Trish better get here soon, or I might just explode.

Not even a minute passes when I realize I have no glasses. Not even little plastic cups in the bathroom. Seriously? This is a four star hotel in downtown Seattle. The reviews are great; the place is clean, classy, and well kept. And yet they leave one chick to fend for herself at the front desk and fail to provide even the most basic necessities in the rooms? I’m a hotel snob. My standards might be high. But seriously? This shit is crazy. I throw on my coat, jog out of the room, and head down to the front desk.

Again.

Mira’s on the phone, making a coffee for a displeased customer, and attempting to shuffle through a pile of paperwork. When she spots me, she eyes me cautiously for a moment, then returns her attention to the multitasking at hand.

I wander to the edge of the desk and wait patiently until she serves the coffee and hangs the phone up. Her nose scrunches and she winces. “Is the wine no good? Do you want that cash back? Because—”

“No.” I lift a hand. “I just need some glasses.”

“There are none in your room?”

“Nope.”

She bites her lip, and my gaze follows. It’s far from seductive. She’s nervous as hell. But something about it makes my cock twitch. “I’m so sorry.”

“It’s not your fault. Unless you’re the housekeeping department, too. In which case, I wouldn’t be surprised.”

She jumps toward the bar and begins the search for the glasses. “No,” she laughs awkwardly, “of course not.”

“Well. That’s a relief.”

She returns with one glass.

“I need two. I’m having company.”

She’s dumbstruck. A tinge of red paints her cheeks. “Oh! Yes, of course.” She hands me a second. “Anything else for you?”

“Yeah…” I veer around the desk toward the bar and snatch a menu from the counter. “Can I order some food to go?”

“Absolutely. Give me just a second.” She straightens a pile of paperwork and reaches for a notepad before joining me at the cash till. I watch her glance over her shoulder, then eye the phone. She’s a million miles away. She’s overwhelmed, is what she is.

“Are you the cook, too?”

“Pfftt.” She waves and puffs her lips. “God, no.”

“Actually, nevermind.” I set the menu down and slide the glasses toward her. “I’ll be back to get these. I’m going to grab something to eat around the corner instead, here in Belltown.”

“Wait! You don’t have to do that. I’m really not the cook, I swear!”

“I certainly hope not.” My bland expression must affect her, because she retreats right back into her shell, like a scared turtle.

“Well, I’d be happy to recommend some places to eat.” Her voice softens, and I suddenly feel like an asshole. I’m good at that, apparently.

“I know Belltown pretty well. Thanks, though.”

Her shoulders sag a little, but she smiles kindly and wishes me a good night. I head outside into nightfall and sail around the corner, crossing two blocks until I reach my favorite dive bar. I order wings and a salad to go and wait outside while they put my order in.

Asian lovers stroll by, feeding one another gelato. A valet driver whistles at his colleague from the curb, his face lighting up with laughter. So much life, buzzing all around me, but nothing dwells within. Not since he passed away. Not since I’ve dedicated every ounce of energy to my work. My job as a graphic designer fuels me, brings me joy, but not life. Not the kind that existed before.

Now I rely on biking, hiking, and women to dull the ache. We all have vices. I’d like to think mine are healthy. Biking equals exercise and fresh air. Win. Hiking equals more exercise and more fresh air. Double win. Women equals sex, and we all need that. Triple win.

Still, somewhere, the light faded out. And I don’t even know how to begin getting it back.

An old man with a beard lights up a cigarette beside me and cracks open a newspaper, and as I notice him, I sense a sort of kinship with this stranger. This routine of his—smokes and his paper—is what keeps him sane. Brings him comfort. My routines have saved me. Like reading the paper every day and searching for a favorite section, I’ve found peace in knowing what to expect when I stick to the plan.

Exercise. Work. Women. Sex. The end.

Maybe I don’t have to come back to life, anyway. This road works for me. Why try and change it now? Maybe I’m just meant to be Frankenstein. Alive, but not quite.

I shake myself from my thoughts and duck back inside the bar to pick up my food. The walk back to the hotel chills me to the bone as the rain starts to fall. The sidewalk’s still wet from the earlier rainfall. This is exactly why we can never escape the dampness here. Our feet are constantly wet. Which means we’re never really dry.

Ever.

Your bones just soak up the rain, leaving no part untouched. Kind of like memories. Once your brain’s saturated with them, there’s no getting around that shit.

When I re-enter the hotel lobby, I swing by to retrieve the wine glasses. Mira’s on the phone as she passes them to me. I nod in silent thanks and check my phone. No word from Trish. It’s very unlike her. Usually she comes running the second I call. She likes to fuck just as much as any man I know. A frustrated sigh breaks free and I lean on the edge of the front desk, scrolling through my text messages. The lobby is deserted, and some cheesy, generic elevator music echoes in the background.

“Is everything okay?” Mira’s voice causes my head to snap up. She’s off the phone now, scribbling something on a clipboard, glancing at me in between notes.

“Yeah. Fine. Just waiting on someone.”

“Your guest?” She eyes the wine glasses.

I nod and my gaze returns to my phone. I’m not here for small chat again. I want to see Trish walk through those doors. My impatience is taking on a whole new level of crazy. I exchange text for an actual phone call. I push away from the front desk and pace the lobby, waiting. Still no answer.

“Shit.” I hang up.

“Hot date, huh.” Mira’s voice floats toward me again. She looks up from the keyboard as she types.

“Something like that.” I feel the frown seize my face. It should be permanently etched on there. Smiles are too much work, anyway.

“Me, too. As soon as I get off.”

I look at her. Why is this girl still talking to me? I’m sure she has a shit ton of work to do. My gaze scans the empty lobby.

Well, maybe not.

“Nice.”

“Yup. Me, a hot bath, and a bottle of wine.” She laughs softly and my cock jumps. It’s a smooth, sensual sound, and it brings more than just my dick to attention. My eyes bounce up to watch her. Her fingers fly gracefully over the keyboard, the movement a soft flutter, like her laugh. Images of her on my lap, in that hot bath, swamp me. Her dark hair, wet and tangled in my fingers as she rides me, her breasts brushing against my chest as she pumps her hips.

I tug lightly at my coat collar. “Sounds exciting.”

“Oh, but it is. There’s no relying on men—or women, for that matter. People are human. They let us down. But a hot bath and a good glass of red? They’re loyal to the very end.”

“People are unreliable. Period.”

“Preach.” She shakes her head and cracks another smile. I’m still frowning. Trish is definitely blowing me off tonight, and I don’t like it. Not one bit.

My fingers hover over my room key and the wine glasses clink at my side. I don’t want to go back to my room. Not alone. I need a woman beneath me. “Well,” I set the glasses back on the counter in front of Mira and turn back to the elevator. “You have fun with that. Good night.”

“Night.”

Once again, I head back to my room. I check my phone obsessively. Still no word from Trish. Maybe I need to resort to Samantha. It’s getting late, though. I strip down and plop onto the bed. My head hits the pillow with a thick thud and my eyes find the ceiling. The tick of my watch fills the quiet room. Seconds pass, then minutes. The ceiling begins to bore me. Maybe if I started counting sheep or some shit like that, I’d doze off. Maybe it would help me ignore my aching cock.

I read some Vonnegut. I imagine constellations on the ceiling and ponder names for them. I move to the desk and stack the tea and sugar packets neatly on the serving tray. I contemplate putting myself out of the misery all together. Can someone really die from tea overdose? What about sugar comas? Are those real? Sounds like a good way to go.

Fuck it.

I change into my workout clothes and put on my running shoes. Zipping up my hoody, I swipe my wallet up and stalk toward the elevator. I can’t jam the first floor button fast enough. The second the doors open, I’m out. I adjust my earbuds and fire up the iPod, then haul ass out the lobby door. My feet pound the sidewalk. There’s nothing like a nighttime run. Nothing like chasing away the anxiety that plagues me. I thought for sure it would be better once I got out of the apartment. Instead, it only made it worse, made me more aware of just how lost I really am.

I jog down Wall Street and head toward Second. It’s Saturday night and Belltown is coming to life. Twenty and thirty somethings are out and about, flocking to their favorite watering holes. As I approach Second Ave., something familiar catches my eye. The woman walking in front of me. She glances behind, sensing my presence. Her fists are shoved in her leather jacket pockets, and earbuds hang from her lobes. She doesn’t recognize me, too lost in her world. She keeps up a steady pace.

I slow down, finding myself watching her as she walks with purpose. A grey Nightmare Before Christmas messenger bag is slung over her shoulder, and her tight, round ass is accentuated in a pair of black jeans. Combat boots dress her feet. I wonder what those legs would look like in four inch heels.

The music beats at my eardrums, and my body is suddenly on autopilot.

I mirror her path, power walking behind her, turning a corner when she turns. Where is she headed at  this hour? Home? She said she lives in Capitol Hill, not Belltown. The Crocodile, maybe?  She looks like she belongs at The Crocodile. Much to my surprise, she sails past the club and then across the street, heading for a corner shop with an ugly green door. I chill low for a second, slowing when I reach the curb outside the shop. I jog in place for a few seconds and glance around. The music continues to blare, until my ears hurt.

My body takes over again. I remove the earbuds and walk inside the shop.

“How’s it going?” A monotone voice greets me, an alternative goth chick behind the counter. Her thick, black bangs and Wednesday Adams pigtails freak me out for a second, but I shrug it off. She’s probably just as freaked out by my sporty workout attire as I am by the death glare she’s delivering right now. Her brow arches. “That well, huh?”

“Sorry. How’s it going?”

“Oh, this could be a loooong night.” Her gaze drops to the magazine in her lap. “Let me know if you need anything,” she adds dryly. “Some electrolytes, a helmet, maybe…”