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So far, nothing glaring has jumped out at me. The hotel is clean, with plenty of staff, and filled with guests. The amenities are on point, and I’m struggling to find out why the owner is requesting a buyout. He claims that he can barely keep the place in the red. That just doesn’t make sense.
Not interested in being holed up in my suite staring at the four walls, I head down to the lobby. The hotel has a nightclub, and by the brochure provided in my suite, last call is not until two in the morning. That gives me two hours to take in the atmosphere, something I’ve yet to do during my stay this past week.
The elevator doors slide open, and I step out, taking a look around. There are guests milling around, and again there should be no reason that this place is losing money. My eyes scan again, and that’s when I see her.
Layla.
Stunning.
Long blonde hair, tight little body, and striking blue eyes. She’s a tiny thing, several inches shorter than my six foot three. She’s sitting alone on a bench, her elbows resting on her knees, and her hands buried in her hair. I can’t see her face, but I know it’s her. It’s the golden blonde hair. I can almost guarantee that it’s her by her hair alone. I could easily pick her out of a crowd.
“Layla,” I say when I reach her. She sucks in a breath and looks up at me. Her eyes are red, and her cheeks wet from tears. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.” She hastily wipes her eyes. Standing, she reaches into her purse and pulls out some cash and holds it out for me. “Thank you for your generosity, but it’s too much.”
I stare at her hand. “It’s yours.”
“I can’t keep accepting these kinds of tips, Owen,” her sweet lips say my name.
“You can.” The tips I’ve given her are nothing for a man like me.
“I-I’m not for sale.” She glances at her feet, and I want those blue eyes on me.
“Layla.” My voice is strong, causing her head to slowly rise, and those blue eyes to go wide. “I’m not trying to buy you.”
“I don’t understand.” She looks at her hand that’s now clutching the cash as if it were her lifeline.
“You provided a service, and I tipped you. End of story.”
Her eyes well with more tears. “Thank you,” she whispers.
“Now, tell me what’s wrong. Who hurt you?”
She shakes her head. “No one. My car won’t start, and I couldn’t get ahold of Ronnie, and the tow truck said it’s going to be a hundred dollars to tow it two miles to the repair shop. My feet hurt, and I’m dreading walking the eight blocks to my apartment, but I don’t want to spend the money on an Uber, and I’m tired,” she adds. “So, damn tired.”
“Who’s Ronnie?” Sounds like a real prick for not picking up for her. He’s obviously not concerned for her safety. It pisses me off. If you’re going to be in a relationship, then you need to be in it. You make the choice. He needs to man the fuck up.
“He works with me. He and his wife, Linda. They helped me when I got to town, and now they’re family.”
I feel my shoulders relax. “Come with me.” I hold my hand out for her. No way can I leave her here like this.
Surprisingly, she doesn’t question me. Instead, she places her small hand in my larger one and allows me to guide her to stand from the bench. With her hand in mine, I lead us to the front of the hotel, and motion for a car. That’s another perk this place offers, a car service. Sure, they bill it to your room, but it beats having a rental and to pay for parking. Layla is still and quiet beside me. “Climb in,” I say when the car pulls up. She bites down on her bottom lip, a few seconds of hesitation before she pulls her hand from mine and slides into the back seat.
“Address?” I ask her.
She rattles it off to the driver. “Thank you, Owen,” she says softly.
Giving her a nod, I turn to look out the window, pretending that seeing her upset doesn’t affect me. I watch as each block passes, the more rundown the homes look. When we pull up to a rundown apartment complex, I stare at the thugs that are hanging around. “You live here?”
“Yeah, I was lucky to find this place when I moved here seven years ago. It’s not much, but it’s home.”
“Where is your family?”
“Ronnie and Linda,” she starts, but I hold my hand up, stopping her.
“Your blood family.”
She shrugs. “It’s really not that interesting,” she tells me.
“Try me.”
Taking a deep breath, she slowly exhales. “I never knew my father. Anytime I asked about him, my mom would tell me that he didn’t want me and left us. My mom, well, she’s only a mom in name. I was cooking and cleaning up after her when I was a kid. My earliest memory is when I was about five. It’s fuzzy, but I can remember the bus dropping me off at our apartment of whatever rundown dump we were living in. She’d be passed out on the couch; alcohol, drugs, not really sure. Anyway, I made a peanut butter sandwich, she woke up and swiped it off the counter, stumbling back to the couch. That started our routine. I took care of her.”
