Roger, Houston
—
AfterThe Mystery of the Bones
POV: Sebastian Snow
—
We were going to Los Angeles for our honeymoon.
Granted, we’d tied the knot in December and it was now May, but I’ve never enjoyed being rushed into things. I also don’t enjoy long-distance travel or any location that boasts a UV index higher than five on the average, but I was a married man now, and the secret to a happy partner was compromise.
Compromise, red-tinted contacts, sunglasses, and SPF 100.
To be honest, as much as I grumbled about leaving the Emporium, Max’s capable care beside the point, about spending serious cash on airfare and hotels, or about packing, which was its own particular torture and probably a circle Dante left out of his account of his travels through Hell, I was actually looking forward to a week-long vacation with Calvin. If Durango had taught me anything, it was that having nothing to do but eat, fuck, and visit historical locations was the true dream of every hedonist and I needed to embrace that.
But there’d been a delay leaving La Guardia—something about fueling, which Calvin insisted happened from time-to-time, and then there’d been turbulence, which, for a guy only flying for the second time in his life, was still terrifying, so when we got to Dallas/Fort Worth for our connection, we were late and stuck in air traffic. Needless to say, by the time we’d landed, we’d wildly missed our plane to LA and were informed there were no connecting flights with seat availability until the next morning.
I was a little grumpy about the whole situation, but that was mostly hunger, I’d surmised. I was technically on vacation, so I was doing my best to go with the flow of life—and the airline was providing vouchers for a nearby hotel, which seemed just fine. At least, that’s what was offered to the first dozen customers in line at the gate counter being manned by a lone and frazzled attendant. The woman before us was now throwing a literal fit when it came to be known that the attendant had run out of vouchers and had nothing else to offer stranded travelers.
“Great,” Calvin muttered under his breath. He pulled his phone from his pocket, did a quick bit of typing one-handed, then passed it to me. “Give this hotel a call, baby. Book us a room for the night.”
“What’s a few hundred more bucks between friends?” I tapped the number Calvin had brought up on the reservation page and put the cell to my ear.
“I recently turned forty-four. I’m not sleeping in a chair at the gate,” he answered before approaching the counter when Soccer Mom stormed off in disgust, still waving her hands and shouting obscenities over her shoulder. Calvin was much more polite with the agent as he went about rebooking us on flights for tomorrow.
A young man, way too perky for nine at night, answered my call. “Valley Resort and Convention Center. My name is Derek, how may I assist you?”
As a native New Yorker, I was immediately on edge by Derek’s “Everything Is Bigger in Texas” manners. “Er, yeah, hi. I wanted to get a room for the night.”
“Oh!” I could practically hear the wince in his tone. “We are completely sold out of our standard, two queen beds—”
“What about a king bed?” I interrupted.
I could hear tapping on a keyboard before Derek said, “I’m very sorry. Our resort is completely sold out. We have two conferences in town, and it’s just beencrazy.”
“I see.”
“Hm-mm. The International Clown Convention—”
“That must be a sight.”
“—And the Kiss a Ginger Conference,” Derek finished.
I glanced at Calvin as he made small talk with the attendant. “I’m married to a ginger. Will that get me a room?”
Derek laughed politely, automatically. “I’m afraid not. These rooms have been booked for months.”
“Well, damn.”
More tapping on a keyboard. “Actually….” And he drew the word out. “I do have one deluxe suite still available.”
“That sounds expensive, Derek.”
“Six hundred for the night. But it has a view of the atrium, a marble bathroom, private Jacuzzi, champagne service—”
“That sounds amazing, and maybe the clown industry makes that kind of money, but I’ll have to pass.”
