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“Yoo-hoo!!” she calls out hopefully.
“Are you looking for me?” I ask her, careful to keep my voice completely even and sober-sounding. So far, so good.
“Mr. Worth is expecting you?”
My hand drifts toward the elevators. “Yes, I was just going up to see him. Mr. Worth.”
She stops when she’s about three inches away from me, then averts her eyes the same way as the bartender. What is it with these people? Is this some kind of witness protection program? Like, they won’t be able to testify against me or something?
“Yes, certainly,” she continues conspiratorially. “May I show you to the private elevators? I’m afraid the guest elevators don’t access the West Penthouse.”
“Oh, certainly,” I smile, confused. “It’s a good thing you stopped me. I would’ve been riding elevators all afternoon!”
“Oh, we can’t have that!” she sighs, cupping my elbow gently and guiding me in a way that almost feels like I’m not being guided at all.
We hustle across the foyer and around the back of the reception desk to an ornate set of doors. She opens one of the doors, and behind it is an accordion-style metal grate that leads onto vast nothingness. Immediately, I hear a metallic whirring and watch as the metal bar descends, revealing first a pair of feet in shiny shoes, then some sharply pressed trousers. When the whole elevator car is even with this floor, the man jerks the old-fashioned lever to stop it and pries the gate open.
“Miss Bunny?” he asks me with a smile. “Shall we?”
The woman pushes me gently toward the elevator car and I climb into it, fascinated. I’ve never seen one of these except in the movies. It must be ancient.
The operator drags the security gate closed with a clang, then grabs the wooden handle of the control. It’s worn and shiny, looking sort of like the control of an old pirate ship or something. There are no buttons, just this man working this lever.
The elevator shoots up quickly, rocketing toward the top floor. I place a hand against the flocked wallpaper to steady myself, appreciating the carved wooden decorations that adorn the ceiling. I’m pretty sure that’s Art Deco. I saw a movie about it once or something.
“Here you are, Miss Bunny,” he says in a soothing voice as the elevator slows to a stop. He opens the gate for me and holds out a hand toward the vast room in front of me.
Biting my lips together, I hold my breath and force myself to walk in. This is not like anything I’ve ever seen before, except maybe in magazines or old films. It’s dark with wood paneling and tall velvet curtains. Light comes through the two-story windows and falls on the floor in golden trapezoids.
There are pedestals with statues and painted vases distributed artfully across the room, as well as tables of various sizes with chairs arranged around them. Along one wall, there is an oversized pool table with two red balls on top of it. And on top of the fireplace, the front half of a moose hangs, glaring hoarily out at the room.
“This is our father’s taste in decorating,” comes a voice.
“Yes it’s quite… impressive,” I blurt out, searching for the right word. “I feel like I’m in church, or in a movie about kings and queens of England or something.”
“That’s exactly what you’re supposed to think,” he informs me.
The light from the windows has me a little bit blinded, and I squint toward where his voice is coming from. As he approaches me, he seems quite familiar.
It’s Trey. The man from first class.
The man who… oh jeez.
I suddenly realize I’ve been sitting in the lobby of his hotel, getting day drunk on his tab after blowing his brother. Not a big deal, considering yesterday I made him get me off under a blanket at thirty thousand feet.
Sure. Why not.
But as he steps into the light, he doesn’t seem embarrassed, so why should I? He smiles, his cheeks dimpling just a little bit. Not a whole lot—not like a cheerleader’s dimple. More like a manly sign of approval.
“Can I get you something to drink?”
“I do enjoy a glass of champagne,” I smile, referring to the complimentary drink the airline attendant tried to offer me that I was too horny to accept.
He smiles back, his lips parting over perfect, white teeth.
“I like where your head is at,” he says approvingly. “Let’s do that.”
As he walks to the bar area, I notice that he seems a little bit different than he did at the airport. Airports stress everybody out, I guess. I thought that TSA lady was going to have him arrested.
