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I curse myself for forgetting to turn the damn thing off in the first place and barely resist the urge to act like the typical crazy rock star and whip it across the room.
The satisfaction of watching the bothersome piece of tech smash against the nearest wall pales in comparison to the hassle it would be having to set up a new one.
Shower it is, then.
* * *
I killthe water jets and step out of the large, rectangular glass shower stall, a huge yawn on my lips and my hands reaching for a towel to wrap around my hips.
Water is dripping in my eyes, and I feel marginally better, but I’m still tired as fuck, and my head is spinning a bit. I swear I fucking fell asleep with my face against the marble wall in the shower. I don't even know for how long exactly. The constant pelting of the hot water on the back of my head managed to rouse me before I fell like a log, but just barely.
I leave the bathroom and walk to the bed as I am, moving like a lumbering zombie. No time to dry up or put on anything. If I don’t feel a pillow under my cheek in the next thirty seconds, I’m gonna collapse on the fucking floor.
Visions of lying flat on my stomach on the large comfortable bed fill my head to the point it gets me a sec to see there’s some chick giving her back to me, standing near the glass doors of the small balcony off one side of the room.
What the fuck?
Am I seeing things, or is she real?
She can’t be in here.
I feel a bolt of rage souring my stomach and scorching up my throat at the thought that she could be some fucking ruthless reporter from one of those damn tabloids that are always hounding us to get candid pics of us in compromising positions.
Hell fucking no.
Not after the day I’ve had. Not after theweekI’ve had.
Was she already hiding here somewhere, snooping through my stuff when I got in, or did she simply disregard thedo-not-disturbsign hanging on the door that I made sure to flip on the right side before I came in?
I take a deep breath when I see she’s wearing some kind of black uniform and seems focused on wiping at the glass.
Someone from housekeeping, then?
But didn’t I tell these people that I didn’t want anyone to step foot in my suite after my stuff was delivered?
Maybe no one told this one.
Or maybe she’s justdressedas someone that’s part of the hotel staff.
I wish I could call myself paranoid, but I’ve seen newshawks doing the craziest shit to get the most demeaning shots of unsuspecting celebrities. Fuck, I’ve been one of those unsuspecting fucks more than once.
And it’s not even just the pictures they print, no… it’s the fucking ridiculous headlines they put up and the even more ridiculous stories they make up to go with them.
I can’t deal with this bullshit right now.
Whoever the fuck she is, I want her out of here.
I frown to myself, my brain is probably half-fried, but I could swear I’ve done my share of ruckus since I walked in here, so how come she’s just standing there?
Definitely someone from the cleaning crew, then. Those quack reporters that follow my band around would have had the cunning to either leave or hide somewhere by now.
This one is still focused on cleaning the glass door, not a clue that I’m dripping water all over the floor of the goddamned suite.
I take another breath –a slower one– my body swaying a bit. Fuck, I need to sleep.
I call out to the chick. “Hey you, lady! You shouldn’t be in here!”
No reaction.
