Damian pulled into the hotel parking
space and the engine sputtered off. As usual, the door did not want to open when
he pushed against it. He put his shoulder down and gave a harder shove. It squealed
past the point of resistance, flinging wide. Thankfully, the space next to him was
unoccupied. He'd chosen this space – furthest from the door – for just that reason.
Sometimes, it is considered mercy
to kill a lame horse, Inigo pontificated.
Damian chose not to respond. Instead,
he yanked the trunk open and removed his luggage. He slung a black bag containing
a laptop over his shoulder. The other, larger piece was on wheels. Damian heaved
it out and pulled on the handle. It slid halfway, and then stuck.
Damian pressed the button again and
pulled. Nothing. He pressed harder and jiggled things a bit. The handle would
not budge. He pulled and rattled, rattled and pulled. No dice. He cursed, but that
didn't solve the problem, either. Finally, Damian turned and trudged toward the
hotel, stooped at an uncomfortable angle.
I wonder if she got my voice message,
Damian's mind wandered.
Are such messages often waylaid?
Inigo asked.
Damian considered. I suppose it depends
on the person.
She could have lost her phone for all
Damian knew. Or left it at home while she was at work. Or turned the ringer off
and didn't realize he was trying to reach her. Whatever the case, he hoped she wasn't
sitting alone at home, waiting on him. Not that any girl ever would ever do
that. Ever.
He considered calling again, but didn't
want to risk pushing the number of missed calls into double digits. It would
seem desperate, he reasoned with a nod.
Inigo let that one pass with only a
chuckle.
The check-in went as smoothly as one
might expect. His last name had been misspelled: G-a-r-d-n-e-r, Gardner. People
always insisted on adding an extra “e” for some reason. He was neither a botanist,
nor a tiller of land. Wide brimmed hats made him look silly, and his thumbs were
most assuredly not green. In fact, all of the plants in his apartment were plastic.
The room was tolerable. There was not
an inch of dust on the faux-wooden surfaces. No shards of glass lurked in the bathroom
sink. The air was free of a musty chlorinated smell. The bed was only slightly lumpy
when Damian lay down atop the comforter. He'd been in worse. Heck, he might even
risk sleeping beneath the covers.
There was a time when one was fortunate
to be able to sleep on something other than straw, Inigo noted. Shall I call
you Lord Damian?
If you wish, fair subject, Damian
answered. He waved his hand majestically to the amusement of the empty room.
If the voice in his head could have
scowled in disgust, Damian was sure Inigo would have. It made him smile. The smile
made him think of Genny. Damian pulled out his phone and stared at it. The clock
read quarter to eight.
Damian sighed and reached over to turn
on the bedside lamp. It was long, skinny, and utilitarian, like everything else
in the room. Perhaps he would do some reading. He began to rummage through his
things.
It is not too late! Inigo interjected.
Damian sighed. She is over an hour away, Inigo. There is no way I would
be able to keep the date now.
A pity.
A knock at the door startled them
both.
Read more
