Page 79 of The Cruiser
ChapterTwenty-Eight
VANDANA
Isthis what Rapunzel felt like, trapped alone in her room, waiting for word from a prince?
It’s nine p.m., and not a peep out of Morgan. His meetings in Genoa barely topped an hour and he’s been with Khaled for over two. Barefoot in my strapless Marchesa cocktail dress, I pace around the hotel room. Apply lipstick to the layer already chewed off. Watch more TV in a language I don’t understand. Check my phone again. Khaled’s security took Morgan’s phone for privacy reasons, and he’s gone dark until they finish up. But I’m dying to know how it’s going and can’t handle another minute cooped up in here. Time passes faster with a distraction, and there’s an outdoor bar by the pool that has a seat with my name on it.
I need a drink. Or three.
I worked all day in my room catching up on the backlog while Morgan spent time with his staff, prepping them for the show. Not being part of his day, the sense of FOMO is real. And disconcerting.
My emotions are all over the map.
It’s one thing to sleep with a man. It’s entirely another to have his family welcome me into their fold. And yet another to share a moment as magical as last night. As we dissolved into one, I never wanted it to end. Morgan fucks like the man of my dreams, and his bag of tricks is a nod to David Copperfield, the Kama Sutra and, I’m sure, given the opportunity, the Marquis de Sade. He’s got it going on in every department and then some. For the first time in years, I have no clue how to proceed.
How does this work? Can it work? Do I want it to work?
No surprise, every question ends with work. I can’t do my current job remotely, even if I wanted to. Clients demand in-person handling of events and managing the media in real-time, not Europe time. With Morgan’s career planted firmly here, the other question is, how would it work for him? And is he even thinking about it working? He dropped enough questions yesterday to hint at yes, but maybe I’m getting ahead of myself. Letting the hormones cloud my judgment.
Relax, Vandana.
But the anticipation of another night with him makes me jumpy, my legs restless as I wait for the elevator. When one car arrives, a petite woman swathed in a long black gown shuffles over to make room for me. Only her eyes are visible in the slit of her niqab, and they are bright and inquisitive. I’m not familiar with the customs of Islam, such as if she can talk to me, but it’s my nature to engage with everyone.
“Having a good night?” I ask.
She shakes her head, the universal sign of I don’t speak your language. But women, regardless of provenance or upbringing, speak a universal language of fashion. Her enthusiastic thumbs-up at my ensemble brings a much-needed smile to my face. My dress is flirty and fun—sandy beige organza with tiny pink rosebuds circling a hem that shows enough leg to get Morgan’s mind off Khaled.
I hope.
When the elevator reaches the lobby, I hold the doors open, allowing my new friend to exit first. But she doesn’t move. She’s statue-like in her stillness, completely unnatural. The wrongness of it sends a jolt up my spine.
“Are you okay?” I ask.
From out of the folds of her gown, a hand gnarled as a piece of ginger reaches for me. A muffled cry spills out her mouth, head banging against the mirrored wall.
A dead, black sensation blooms in my chest. “Oh my god. Do you feel faint? Are you—”
Her eyes lose vibrancy, glass over, and she collapses at my feet.
* * *
For a handful of seconds, time stands still. Distant elevator Muzak unfurls in my ears while a still-warm body lies motionless on my satin Manolos. The shock of it runs ice-cold in my blood, my entire body humming with a faint tremor. I recall some long-ago advice of not moving someone who’s collapsed, but someone needs to move her, or she might not move again. I maneuver my feet out from under her with a horrible taste in my mouth. Heart racing, I peer into the lobby. The front desk is just visible, manned by a lone, male clerk deep in an administrative stupor.
“Help!” I shout. “We need an ambulance.” With the sound of my piercing voice, his head snaps up. “Yes, you! Call an ambulance! Now!”
I point at the elevator and pantomime the hand gesture of a phone call. Instead of making a call, he dashes over only to stagger backwards at the sight of the crumpled body. His name tag reads FABIAN, although Babian is more like it. Unprepared for any emergency beyond a paper cut, his eyes blink non-stop behind thick glasses.
“Uh … Un moment, madam,” he says. “I need to get my supervisor.”
And he takes off, me yelling in his dust. “We don’t have a moment!”
Jesus Christ, what is wrong with him?
The elevator doors bump against me, trying to close, and I won't let them because it feels too final. The woman isn’t moving. I can’t tell if she’s breathing. It feels like I have a rock in my stomach. Screw these idiots. I pull out my phone, fingers trembling to punch in 911. Argh. Of course that’s not the emergency number here. As with their electrical outlets, Europe just has to be different.
God, Morgan, I curse under my breath. Of all the times to be unavailable.
I’m about to Google the Monaco version of 911 when the clerk reappears with his supervisor. Heavy-set and long past fitting in his suit, his cold eyes seem locked in permanent disapproval. He speaks with a voice reserved for panicking children.
