Pink Slips and Glass Slippers (18 page)

Brooke wanted to kiss his forehead, caress his hair, peer under the covers…Instead, she turned and darted away. There was just enough light under the door, and Brooke slipped her dress back on and bounced up and down while she tugged on her zipper. She reached down for her purse, then grabbed each high heel. She inhaled, wishing for a hat and sunglasses and quietly eased out the door.

Brooke squinted into the unflattering brightness illuminating her in the hall. With eyes adjusting, she spotted a man in a hotel uniform walking toward her. Clutching her heels and purse like batons, she sprinted to him, and gasping for breath, said, “Excuse me, do you work here?”

The man stopped and turned around. “Excusa me, senorita?”

“My key doesn’t work. Can you let me in?”

He raised his eyebrow while scrutinizing her, “I’m room service, senorita. I don’t have keys to the rooms...”

“Can you do me a big favor?”

“Sure, anything, senorita…you want me to call someone for you?”

“Yes, thank you.”

“Right away,” he pressed on his walkie-talkie and spoke in Spanish. He inspected Brooke again, and asked, “Which room are you in, senorita?”

“I, uh, I’m not sure…nineteen something…near 1950.”

“Ah.” He flipped his hand-held radio again, and rambled in Spanish. Brooke glared, wondering what he was really saying. She wanted to crawl in a hole, anywhere but this bright display in the hall of shame—clad in yesterday’s garb. She hoped he wouldn’t paint an “A” across her forehead. She feared the noise roused Chase—
he’s the last one I want to see me now
.

The man said, “Sit tight,” then left. Brooke hovered near 1930, then remembered her room number—1944. She tip-toed over and plunked down with her back against the door. The more she tried to will the maid, the longer it seemed to take. A door swung open down the hall and she turned her head the opposite direction. Brooke froze, hoping the guests would stop soon. They paused. Brooke glimpsed, then her eyes bulged as the pink intruders giggled—
oh shit
.

“Brooke?” Louder giggles.

“Hi Amber. Hey Brandi.” The duo still donned wedding party pink dresses—now wrinkled—but they had fresh makeup and acceptable hair.

“We wondered where you went last night,” Brandi lilted. Brooke pressed her finger to her lips, hoping to avoid answering. Amber chimed, “Why are you sitting there?”

“My key doesn’t work. I’m waiting for…long story…”

“I bet,” Brandi said, mouth hanging open, “Looks like you had some fun, girl…Do tell.”

“Brandi, shhhhhh. Keep your voice down,” Brooke said while eyeing room 1950.

Amber said, “We ended up in a hot tub at some big-shot doctor’s mansion. That’s all I remember—until we woke up next to him in his waterbed.” Amber glanced at Brandi, who giggled. “What was his name again?”

“Dixon from Duke,” Brandi said, then, “But that’s all I remember too. Hey, you think that creep drugged us?”

Brooke’s eyes rolled to the back of her head. “Dr. Dixon Carter by any chance?”

“Yeah, that’s it—Carter—like the president, he said. Hey, how’d you know? Were you there?”

Brooke froze, looking like she’d just been tasered. “No.”

“How do you know Dixon from Duke then?”

“I don’t really…” Finally, Brooke noticed the housekeeping cart. She said, “Looks like they’re here. I’m okay, thanks for your help ladies.” Brooke wanted nothing more than to crawl into her room alone. She whimpered, “What time do we need to be downstairs?”

Brandi said, “In, like, twenty minutes. We’re supposed to decorate the room.”

***

“Brooke Hart, get over here.” The voice nearly bowled Brooke over.

Pressing her hand over her heart, Brooke said, “You scared me…Good morning Mel…I mean
Mrs. Racer
. How was your night?”

Melissa rolled her eyes, then pulled Brooke aside, “Fast Eddie set the quickie record, then passed out on me. Needless to say, my
magical
night wasn’t like yours I bet…”

“Were you talking to Brandi and Amber?”

“Umm hummm.” Melissa hummed in an evil pitch.

“Don’t do this. I’m soooo tired right now.”

“Do I know him?”

“Don’t do this.”

“Brooke, you have to tell me.”

“Okay, if I tell you, will you stop asking questions?”

“Yes, for today, at least.”

Brooke smirked, then cupped her hand, and whispered in her ear, “Chase.”

Melissa’s eyes darted back and forth like ping pong balls, “You mean the guy you work for?”

“Shhhhhhhhhhhhhhh. No questions, remember?”

Melissa gripped Brooke’s shoulders, then said, “That is so not fair. You can’t tell me something that juicy and expect me to just play dead. I’m your best friend, remember? Tell me.”

Shaking her head, she said, “One final question, then you’re done?”

Melissa nodded, bit her upper lip with her lower teeth, then said, “How was it?”

“The most amazing night of my life,” Brooke’s eyes welled up, bringing a loving sigh from Melissa, “You have no idea how hard it was to leave that room.”

***

The thump startled him. “Huh.”
Where am I? What time is it
? Then, another clack, clack, clack on the door. He said, “Who is it?”

“Housekeeping.”

Pulling off the sheet, he frowned at his nakedness, then frantically searched for his clothes. Chase darted toward the door like an antelope, saying, “Not right now. I’m in here. You’ll have to come back.”

No answer, but as the cart wheeled away, Chase sighed; he flipped on the light and rubbed his besieged eyes. Shit, not another dream—it seemed so real. What is it with me and elevator dreams? His foggy mind trailed his movement, then he spotted it.

Chase nearly fell, then regained his balance, and scooped it up. He caressed its silkiness, pressing it to his face. Chase inhaled deeply, as if enjoying a vintage cognac. Exhaling, memories flooded in. No dream. He returned back to bed.

Admiring her pink laced lingerie, he closed his eyes and inhaled once more. He pictured her skin, as silky as the garment, but holding so many mysteries. She made him feel like a worldly explorer, responding to his every touch. She was the sexiest woman he could ever imagine. And, she made him feel like the sexiest man alive. The way she gazed into his eyes, as if connecting to his soul. Her wavy hair, luscious lips, the way she kissed—all over. He felt a stirring. Where is she?

Chase flipped on the bedside lamp, then drew the shade open partially. He surveyed the entire room for a note or some sign. Nothing. He checked the bathroom—maybe she showered? Dry. Scanning the counter, he noticed lipstick on a half-full water glass. Lifting the cup like a chalice, he pressed his lips against the red semi-circle and imagined another embrace. He yearned to taste her lips one more time. I hope she feels the same.

Chase figured Brooke must have somehow gotten into her room. Thinking she left a voicemail he darted back into the bedroom finding the hotel phone unhooked on the floor. He returned the receiver and stared at the tiny orange message waiting box. No flash. He dialed the hotel operator for messages—none. Cell phone—where is it?

He ambled to his slacks crumpled on the floor next to his boxer briefs. He paused at the spot where he hoisted Brooke up in the air. Chase closed his eyes and pictured her look of surprise as they became one. She felt so light—and so right in his arms—his muse, familiar yet stimulating. She brought out an inner beast he didn’t know existed.

With cell in hand, Chase vaguely remembered the lady spilling champagne on it. Though he dabbed it with a napkin, then aired it out, it failed to work. He pressed the on button, and after a second, it lit up. He dialed voicemail—four messages. The first was from Ruth 4:47 p.m. Friday—that could wait till Monday, then two from Dixon: 12:37 a.m. Sunday, “Answer your phone ya wussy. This freakin’ bar’s hoppin’…It’s like babe land…I’m in the can—get your ass down here!” Followed by: 2:06 a.m. Sunday, “Where the fuck are you? I got two babes following me home…They wanna hot tub. They’re in sexy bridesmaid dresses, but not for long. Even you could get laid. If you get this, get over here. Otherwise, call me doctor ménage.” Chase frowned, wondering if the dresses were pink.

The fourth message: 8:18 a.m. Sunday, “Hi Chase, it’s Mary. Hope I’m not calling too early. Parker asked me when you were coming to pick him up to go shark fishing.”

Shark fishing? Oh shit.

***

The last twelve hours came in like a breeze but left like a hurricane. Speeding to Mary’s house, thoughts of Brooke raced through Chase’s mind. Good thoughts. Naughty thoughts. He desperately wanted to call now that his cell worked, but didn’t even have her number. Directory assistance was useless. He nearly crashed his BMW, then wondered how he’d ever be able to fly.

“Daddy!” Parker squealed, then sprinted and dove onto Chase’s legs in a monkey hug.

Feeling lucky to avert serious injury, Chase rubbed his son’s head, saying, “Hey little buddy—I guess you missed me,” then glanced at Mary and said, “How was he?”

“He’s always so well behaved. He’s so excited to go shark fishing—what a great dad you are.”

Raleigh East Airport was owned by a college buddy—a perfect place to fly in and out hassle free. They housed only thirty single-engine planes, and bypassed a big airport’s post-9-11 bureaucracy. Chase ran a little late but hoped they’d understand. He hadn’t flown in over three months so he needed the flight time. Though the memories of Brooke ignited a special adrenaline, he was exhausted, in need of a boost for the flight to Hilton Head.
Starbucks is on the way.

Parker kept Chase’s mind on overdrive, peppering him with questions about sharks for the entire twenty-minute drive. Pulling into the parking lot, Parker said, “Do we get to fly in your plane, daddy?”

Chase hadn’t informed Parker of his plan. After a smooth take off, Chase caught a second wind, thanks to his spunky three year old. He marveled at his son’s enthusiasm and the unfiltered questions he kept rifling.

“Are we high enough yet?”

“Yes, do you wanna help me with the wheel now?”

“Yippee!”

Clear visibility and, aside from the occasional wind gusts, the flight was smooth. Hilton Head Island Airport was mainly used for small crafts, but included commercial puddle jumpers—the big jets flew into Savannah or Charleston. On approach, he was directed to circle once, then cleared to land. As the plane touched down, Parker’s eyes nearly popped out. While taxiing, he asked about shark fishing for the millionth time. Chase just smiled. The guilt from not spending enough time together was replaced by anticipation. Though he thought about Brooke during most of the flight, he looked forward to a great father-son day.
Who needs Disney?

Hilton Head Fish Stories specialized in sport fishing, boasting catches of line-sizzling king mackerel, acrobatic sailfish, and a South Carolina record barracuda. But, Chase chartered a private boat and guide to catch the big one. Though Captain Carlos Rodriguez couldn’t guarantee a shark, he had a photo album that would have made Captain Quint envious.

The sun smiled down on the three as their twenty-six foot boat cut through the waves, heading out to sea. Parker looked adorable with his life jacket pressing up against his chin sitting on his father’s lap, eyeing Captain Carlos. Suddenly, Chase pointed to the right and said, “Look.” Parker turned just in time to spot an adult dolphin curve back into the water, followed closely by another.

“Wow. Is that a shark?”

Chase laughed, “No, those are dolphins—a mommy and a daddy.” As the words left his mouth, Chase braced for the mommy question.

Instead, Parker asked, “Can we catch one?”

Captain Carlos said, “We’re not fishin’ for dolphin today…we’re huntin’ sharks,” sounding a bit like Ahab.

“Yippee.”

Carlos said, “You ready to get us some?” Parker nodded with wide eyes in an exaggerated motion. With that, Carlos slowed the boat, then dropped two already baited lines into the water, leaving a bloody trail across the phosphorescent water. Carlos set the poles in their holders. Chase was relieved they were trolling—Parker was too young to hold the poles. Carlos handed Chase a beer and a juice box to Parker.

Parker asked Carlos, “Is this where the sharks are?” Chase grinned at Carlos, who caught the hint. For the next hour, Carlos captivated Parker with tales of landing sharks. He handed them a photo album containing pictures of an assortment of interesting sharks caught—a 1,000 lb. tiger, a blacktip looking like a
Jaws
remake, a bull, and the intriguing hammerhead.

With Parker immersed in the photos, Carlos said, “You’ve got a bright boy. Most kids his age get confused by sharks.”

With admiring eyes, Chase said, “Thanks, he keeps me busy with the questions.”

“I wish more kids were like him. Seems all they want to do is sit around watchin’ TV or playin’ video games.”

“Not my Parker. He sure is—”

One of the lines popped up and down, then buzzed as the line released. “Got one!”

Carlos yanked the pole out and pulled it high in the air as the reel screamed. Parker’s eyes bulged, “Is it a shark?”

Carlos said, “Hard to tell—it sure feels like one though.” He pumped the reel for several spins, then clutched as the fish outran the effort. This continued for thirty minutes and held both Chase and Parker spellbound. The fish jumped out of the water and twisted as if showing off, before plunging angrily in the water. “Tiger shark, about five feet.” With sweat gleaming across his ruddy dark complexion, Carlos said, “You guys wanna try it?”

Parker’s head twisted and froze on his dad with laser-beam eyes. Chase said, “Absolutely. Come on buddy.” He lifted Parker in his arms as his son clung tightly to his neck. Chase set the base of the pole in his fishing belt and for the next twenty-five minutes, did some serious deep sea fishing with Parker at his side. Not making much progress but enjoying the feeling of man versus beast, Chase glimpsed at Carlos with weary eyes. Carlos said, “You guys tired her out. Want me to bring her in?”