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“By myself?” she asked.
Desdemona nodded, as she stroked the softness of her neck and focused on driving through the busy New Jersey traffic. When the silence was deafening and she had decided on her plan going forward, she turned on the satellite radio for the music to fill the air as she made her way back to Manhattan.
She pulled up in front of the hotel entrance of the building where she lived. She figured it was close enough for her to be near in case something went wrong, but she was still able to be in the comfort of her condo upstairs.
“I’m staying here?” Portia asked, peering out the window at the regal hotel with two uniformed doormen standing before the ornate double doors.
Desdemona put the crossover in park and glanced at her, seeing the amazement in her eyes. She looked at the front of the hotel again through the eyes of her sixteen-year-old self—homeless, desperate, never being close to anything akin to grandeur. She would have been just as stunned. “Yup. Home sweet home for a night or two,” she said, opening the door as the valet rushed over to her.
She handed him the key. “I’ll be back out in less than an hour,” she advised him.
“Yes, ma’am,” the portly blond man said.
Desdemona nodded at the doormen as one held the door open for them. She smiled at the wide-eyed way Portia took in the lavish surroundings. “Have a seat,” she instructed her before continuing to the check-in desk as she pulled out her fake ID from her wallet.
“Good evening. How may I help you?”
“Good evening. One room. King bed. Please,” she said. “Two-hundred-dollar daily limit on room service and pay-per-view. No outgoing phone calls at all.”
“Yes, ma’am . . . Ms. Smith,” the desk attendant said, reading her ID.
Desdemona glanced back over her shoulder to check on Portia. She nearly palmed her face to see the young woman and an elderly white man sharing a long look. “Excuse me,” she said, walking over to the sitting area to stand in between them, blocking the man’s line of vision.
His eyes met hers. “She’s a kid,” she said with an arched brow.
Portia laughed behind her.
The man’s eyes bugged in alarm before he rushed to rise from his seat and move away from them.
Desdemona turned and tilted her head to the side as she looked down at her young charge. “Not here,” she said, her voice low but stern.
The laughter stopped. “I just went into work mode. Sorry,” she said, as she looked down at her hands before biting at what was left of her fingernails.
“I’m not bailing you out of jail,” she said. “Ineverwill.”
Portia nodded in understanding.
“Come on.”
As she led the young woman back to the check-in counter, that doubt lingered.What am I doing?she thought for what had to be the dozenth time.
She finished checking in, and they made their way to the elevator. Desdemona handed Portia the key card. “This is the only key card. It’s your room, Portia. All yours. If I want to enter I will knock,” she said, just before the elevator doors closed.
That surprised Portia as well.
When they reached the door to the room, Desdemona held back, allowing Portia to unlock the door. She walked in slowly and looked around in wonder before rushing over to turn and fall back onto the bed.
“Tomorrow I’ll bring you a change of clothes, and then we’ll go shopping for all your necessities,” Desdemona said.
Cha-ching.
She reached into her tote for her phone. An emoji of the strong arm appeared on the screen. “Cancellation. Family emergency,” she mouthed as she read.
Denzin had a session at the mansion with Nicolette Lawson, a high-powered attorney with a proclivity for anal sex and verbal lashings while hogtied. Deposits were normally non-refundable, but she had been a steady and regular consort for the last five years.
“Portia, take a bath or shower while I make a few phone calls,” she said, setting her tote on the chair before the desk.
“I don’t have a change of clothes.”
