Total pages in book: 79
Estimated words: 77354 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 387(@200wpm)___ 309(@250wpm)___ 258(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 77354 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 387(@200wpm)___ 309(@250wpm)___ 258(@300wpm)
He’s so intense in everything he does. The way he picked me up at the bar. The way he fucks. The way he talks. The way he argues. He’s annoying but fascinating. I can’t help but be interested.
The bins provide no further clue about who Bennett is or what he’s doing at the hotel. Is he in town for a conference? Where does he live? His surname must be around here somewhere. I can Google him when I find it.
I straighten the cushions and find a computer mouse between the seats. I set it on the coffee table in front of the sofa. There’s a charger plugged in by the floor lamp, so I pull it out and wind the cord around my hand, while taking a surreptitious look at what’s been left on the table. There’s a receipt for four hundred and something dollars from a restaurant. Wow. That must have been a great meal. And one for Duane Reade. I look more closely. For condoms.
My stomach swoops and I check the date. It’s for yesterday. The time is just after he left my apartment. Was he restocking? Did he have a date yesterday evening?
“Is it bad in there?” Marcella calls from the bathroom. I drop the receipt and straighten the magazines laid out on the table.
“Not really. Just tying up some cables and straightening the cushions. In there?”
“No, this guy is OCD. All his toiletries are in a straight line. He might actually be a serial killer. Did you see how good-looking he was? And the body on him? Nothing good can come from that.”
Oh, Marcella, how wrong you are.
“I’m going to dust,” I call out.
“Okay, do the bedroom as well.”
I look for clues about Bennett on every surface I shine. But other than those two receipts, I find nothing. There are no papers lying about. No loose change by the bed or nighttime reading.
I pull open a drawer to find neatly organized socks and boxer briefs. I can’t resist, pulling out a pair of his pants and holding them up. They’re roomy. Which is necessary for him. That guy has a lot to contain. But there’s nothing else hiding amongst the underwear.
The next drawer is equally unhelpful, with neat stacks of dark-colored gym gear and nothing else. What am I expecting to find? His diary, complete with a small gold lock keeping the pages secure?
Next up is the wardrobe. I open the door and am hit with the familiar smell of him again. I drink it in, and I feel it on my body like his hands gliding over my skin, down my throat and down, down, down.
I flick through the jackets, surreptitiously dipping my fingers into pockets, but there’s nothing here to tell me anything other than the size he wears. And I already knew that.
Is it normal to leave no clues about who you are in a hotel room?
Is he hiding something?
Or everything? I really don’t know anything about him other than his first name.
I pop my head into the bathroom, looking for clues. “Do you need help in here?” I ask.
“No, I’m nearly done. Can you strip the bed and start on the pillowcases? I’ll come in when I can.”
I glance around while Marcella’s talking. As she said, there are limited toiletries on the vanity unit, all neatly set out in a row. There’s a brown leather bag on the corner of the bath, and although there’s probably nothing in it, I wonder if there’s a way I could check. Maybe Marcella will ask me to do the mirrors again and I’ll get a chance to see if Bennett is a man or a robot.
“No problem,” I reply and head out to the trolley. I swap my duster for pillowcases and sheets and move through to the bedroom. I start with the pillowcases. They smell like him. Not that I’m a weirdo, deliberately sniffing an almost-stranger’s pillowcase—I just can’t help but notice. I didn’t see any aftershave in the bathroom, so I’m left wondering what gives him that unique scent. It doesn’t smell like it came out of a bottle. It smells like his skin, when he was over me, pushing into me, straining like he was struggling to hold back.
“How you doing?” Marcella asks from behind me. I jump at her being there, like I’m guilty of something—fantasizing about my one-night stand.
“Yeah, just stripping off the old sheets.”
The sound of the door to the suite opening catches our attention and we both freeze, looking at each other.
There’s definitely someone in the living room, but I’m not about to investigate. “You wait here, I’ll go and get… something.”
Before I can try to convince her not to go anywhere, Marcella has headed out.
“Good morning, sir,” she says. “We’re almost done.”
I stay as still as possible, waiting for him to respond.