“Got it.” I quickly grab the key from her pocket, touching the lock pad by the handle, and push open the door to her room.
It’s a nice room. Then again, the Four Seasons Milan doesn’t have a notnice room, so I guess I can’t expect anything less.
I place her clutch on the counter in her kitchen area and manage to get her onto the bed in her bedroom. Somehow, I was able to get her on her side under the blankets instead of on top of the blankets, and I’m not sure why I spent so much time tucking her in. Maybe I just feel bad for all the shit she is going through with her ex-boyfriend.
“Michel…” she mumbles. “Gonna be mad.”
No idea who she’s talking about, but it’s not my problem. She’s not my problem.
Staring at her, I watch as she tucks her face into the pillow and tilts her chin toward her chest. Her breathing slows, and I can tell she managed to find a comfortable position that will let her sleep off the vodka.
“You’re going to feel that in the morning.” My voice is almost a little too soft for my liking.
Giving myself a few more seconds to admire just how pretty Drunk Woman actually is, I head out of her bedroom. I don’t want to cross that line into creepy by watching her sleep.
I find the hotel notepad on the desk in the seating area and write a note explaining nobody touched her bag, and all her cards and money are tucked safely inside.
“Do I sign my name?” I whisper to myself. I’ve never exactly escorted a woman back to her hotel room without climbing into the bed with her. I almost feel like I’m walking out on her.
I decide against it and quietly leave her room, heading back up to the third floor, where I can hide safely from the public.
“This is what I get for staying in a hotel instead of the Olympic Village,” I say to myself as I strip out of my clothes and climb into my bed.
“Holy. Shit.” I groan, feeling the impossibly smooth fabric under my hands. The sheets are cool, but warm up quickly with my body heat as I sink into the supportive, yet cloud-like mattress. The pillows hug my head, and just as I’m feeling like I could fall asleep, I find my eyes moving toward the door, wondering if Drunk Woman will be all right.
“You’ve done everything you can to help her,” I tell myself, rolling onto my side, getting comfortable.
It’s not like I want to get involved with another woman. Alisha was the only girlfriend I ever took to meet Aunt Keisha, and now I regret that interaction with every fiber of my being. Now Keisha always asks about her because that’s what happens when you have dementia. I can’t be mad at Keisha for it; she can’t help her disease. But it’s like a knife to my chest every time she asks.
I got to the point where I just started replying with “she’s good, Keish. She’s still out trying to save the world.” Makes me want to vomit every time I say those words, but Keisha doesn’t need to be stressing over something that isn’t her problem. She has enough going on.
I adjust under my hotel blankets and take a few deep breaths to clear my head.
With one last peek toward the imaginary door to Drunk Woman’s hotel room, I let sleep take me away from the chaos that was my first night in Milan, Italy.
Chapter Five
Violet
“Fuck. A. Moose.” Those are the only words I can seem to form as I wake up the next morning. My head feels like an over-pumped balloon ready to burst, and the pressure between my ears is what I imagine swimming to the location of the Titanic would feel like.
I open one eye and gaze around the room, gauging whether or not it’s safe to open my other eye.
“Sucks, but not deadly,” I say to myself. Then, I slowly open the other eye. “Never mind. Abort mission.”
My vision swirls, and I race toward the bathroom, retching up everything I had consumed the night before.
I knew Theo had given me a bunch of problems on the plane, making sure everyone knew I was playing victim, but what I didn’t expect was for him to almost let it slip that I was Solace.
My agent, Ollie, is on speed dial, and I swear she would have his nuts on a platter if he did anything to sabotage my hidden identity. Not to mention Michel is staying somewhere in Milan and wouldn’t think twice about making Theo cry for his mom.
Fuck.
I gotta tell Michel about my time at the bar, that is, if I can remember what happened.
Another load of last night’s choices pours into the toilet, and the sounds coming from me belong on one of those music albums where the vocalists justgrowl into the mic. Maybe I could be a backup singer for them. I’m pretty much nailing it here.
“Never again,” I say to my reflection a few minutes later as I dab my face with cold water. If those tiny little Troll Dolls from when I was a kid had my hair color, I would be the perfect stock image for their marketing posters. “Alcohol is for the devil.”
