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“Ma’am, we cannot ask this couple to show us their room.”
“Yes. I remember the blonde woman. She hung out around our room a lot yesterday, lookin’ like trouble and sin,” the woman’s voice grew louder, bolder.
I turned around, giving her a frosty look.
“Well, the blonde woman happens to have a room here.”
“Hard to believe.” The woman swept a judgmental gaze over Tennessee, head-to-toe. “But she does, I guess, doesn’t she? What does it say about you?” She turned to look at me accusingly.
“That I have a good taste.” I grinned nonchalantly.
Her husband cackled, and she elbowed him.
“That’s very subjective,” she huffed. “But as it stands, she is my prime suspect. She looks like a crook, a common girl, and she’s been loitering around the hallway. Now show us your room. It’s already open.”
It was true. I’d pushed the door half-open at this point.
“No!” Tennessee cried, turning bright red.
She couldn’t look more suspicious if she tried, but I didn’t think she’d actually stolen anything. I’d been in the room briefly today after our conversation at the library, and everything seemed in perfect order.
She’d carried both our suitcases in, but there wasn’t a third one anywhere to be seen.
“You can’t go into our room,” Tennessee choked. “Just because I look suspicious to you doesn’t mean you can search me. This is America!”
One of the representatives—a black woman—gave Tennessee a really, dude? glare, winning ten points for sarcasm and another ten for timing.
Problem was, I was growing agitated with people giving Tennessee the wrong kind of attention everywhere we went.
True, she was over-the-top with the makeup, skimpy clothes, and hair inspired by sixties’ vixens. But that was her prerogative, and she didn’t deserve to get shit for it.
I didn’t know what made her want to ruin her good looks with war paint and lace, but that didn’t mean people had the right to call her a hooker to her face.
In other news, my hard-on became a half-mast at best. Good news for my bladder, which was currently the home to about a gallon of piss.
“We have nothing to hide.” I flashed her a good-natured smile.
“Great!” The woman flung her arms in the air. “In that case, show us your room.”
“No!” Tennessee insisted.
“Actually,” one of the representatives interrupted, “it is perfectly possible that management would ask us to knock on the doors of the rooms nearby and ask to double-check, so if we could have a look now, that would be great.”
“No problem.” I pushed the door open all the way, jerking my head to indicate they could come in.
We had nothing to hide. We were innocent, and I wanted to see that woman’s face when she delivered a humble apology to Tennessee.
Speaking of Tennessee, she bolted after me, heaving. The sobbing/rude woman trailed behind us, waltzing right inside.
“There it is.” The woman pointed at my suitcase, crowing. Her face was sweaty and red, and she launched herself at my navy luggage as if it was her long-lost twin, bending down and hugging it. “That’s my suitcase. I knew she stole it. I knew it. What’d I tell you, Fred? I have a sense for these things.”
“Lady,” I growled, “the only thing I sense is that you need to get your eyes checked. That’s my suitcase, and I’d appreciate it if you stop rubbing yourself against it.”
“Don’t try to cover up for her.”
The woman not only bared her teeth at me, she was also wheeling my still-zipped suitcase out of my room.
I stepped in front of her, blocking the way. Meanwhile, Tennessee was rocking in a corner, enjoying a nice, leisurely mental breakdown for one. I didn’t know her to be so sensitive. Or a sucker for a con.
