Page 77 of Play Dirty

“Second floor?”

I nodded. “Last room at the end.”

He and I both looked down the hallway. Almost on cue, the overhead fluorescents flickered, ominously.

“Lock your door,” he said.

I arched my brow.

“That sounds like advice you give someone right before something terrible happens.”

“Just giving you information.”

“Helpful.”

A beat of silence passed between us. Then—

“You’ll be fine,” he added.

His eyes lingered a second longer than they needed to. And his tone was different. None of the usual swarminess.

Maybe because we were so far from home.

“You trying to reassure me?” I asked, studying him.

“Don’t get used to it.”

We parted ways, and I walked the dirty, decades-old carpet all the way to the end. The key stuck for a second, before the door finally gave a dull click.

I stepped inside, and immediately wrinkled my nose. The room was… functional. That was being generous. A bed. A tiny table. A TV that looked more like a lost relic, than a piece of hardware.

“Zenith,” I said mockingly. “Nice.”

You’ve stayed in worse places, I tried to convince myself. Only I wasn’t all that convinced.

Making the best of a bad situation, I dropped my bag and began unpacking. It was late, and I was looking forward to sleep. Once everything was in its proper place, I dipped into the closet that doubled as a bathroom. I took a lukewarm, barely-there shower, got dressed, and slipped into my predictably uncomfortable bed.

For a good minute, I almost missed the frozen wasteland of my attic bedroom. Then warmth enveloped me, and I began drifting off.

I slept for a while, maybe. It was difficult to tell. My encounter with Ares still drifted through my head, among a thousand other things. It was no surprise then, when I thought I imagined the voices outside my door. They grew louder, though. Impossible to ignore.

Laughter, at first. Then shouting. A door slammed, somewhere down the hall. There was a sharp burst of yelling; male voices, that weren’t ours.

I nearly jumped out of my skin when someone — or some thing — banged loudly into my door.

My heart pounded as I sat up. The voices grew louder, angrier.

I stood slowly, crossing to the door without thinking about it. Moving quietly, I pressed my ear against it.

“—I thought I told you—”

“—don’t start that shit—”

Another slam. Closer.

Footsteps stopped. Right outside my door.

Then, to my horror… my door handle began moving.