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Damn.
We’re in a two-bedroom penthouse suite that’s at least five times larger than my garage studio in Staten Island. Also, it turns out we didn’t need to argue over who will shower first because there are two full bathrooms.
Our stay must be costing a fortune.
I yell about the state of the bathrooms to Art, but I’m not sure if he hears me—and I don’t care if he does.
I brush my teeth with the provided disposable toothbrush, then luxuriate in the shower for what feels like an hour. By the time I’m done, my headache has shifted from zombie Armageddon mode down to electricity blackout. Locating a fancy lotion that doesn’t stink too badly, I slather it over my tattoo and make a mental note to research how to get it removed.
Next, I sniff my dress.
Nope.
The fluffy robe hanging on a hook is a lot more inviting, so I put that on and feel almost like a person. Then I shove my feet into a pair of hotel slippers. Grabbing the dress, I step out of the bathroom—and nearly bump into Art, who is also wearing a robe.
“Here.” He hands me a water bottle and a packet of Tylenol. “This should help.”
It will take a lot more than this to make me forget the shower rejection, but it’s a start.
Just as I finish washing the pill down, there’s a knock at the door.
“Housekeeping,” Art says. “I asked them to clean our clothes.”
Wow. He must’ve showered much quicker than I did.
We open the door and hand the guy my dress and Art’s suit.
“Now what?” I ask when we’re alone.
Art waves his phone. “We go to the living room and investigate.”
Thankfully, the living room is mostly dessert-free. I follow Art to a comfy couch, where he sets up his phone so that its screen shows up on the giant TV in front of us.
“There are a lot of pictures and videos,” he says. “Let’s have a look.”
An image of me holding dice shows up on the screen.
“This, I remember,” he says.
Interesting. I’m already wearing the new dress.
I point at myself on the screen. “Did we shop before this?”
Art swipes at his phone a few times, and a picture of me in lingerie shows up. Some salesperson must’ve taken it because Art is in the frame, looking at me with the drooling expression of a cartoon wolf.
I guess with vodka goggles on, he wanted me. My soreness is proof of that.
“You wanted to put on a whole show,” he says without meeting my gaze. “That’s why I bought you that one and dragged you to another store to get a dress.”
He then shows me a few images of me in different dresses—all of which could’ve been from the set of Sex and the City, and none of which I could ever afford.
I flush crimson. “Please tell me these aren’t on social media.”
Art looks sheepish. “I seem to have posted everything last night. Want me to take down the one with you wearing underwear?”
“Is vodka a bad idea?”
He removes the pic from his feed, along with a few more of me in more revealing dresses. Then he brings up the next image on the screen. “This, I don’t recall.”
