Hotel Rooms (and Their Deleterious Effects) by Zoe X. Rider

Author:Zoe X. Rider [Rider, Zoe X.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Hela Press
Published: 2014-03-05T05:00:00+00:00

2

Voices woke him, much later. He didn’t feel like opening his eyes, so he didn’t bother. The voices hardly made sense, and then he wasn’t hearing them at all.

Something jolted him out of his sleep—either the sound of a door closing in the room, or the sound of one closing in his dream. His bladder took the opportunity to do a little “Hey, it’s been a while” dance on his kidneys. He pushed up, squinting and fighting a yawn, and peeled his stomach off the bottom sheet.

The room was silent.

The other bed was rumpled but empty.

Sitting back, he let a full yawn come on. Ahhh awesome. Everyone was gone.

In the bathroom, he didn’t feel different. He leaned on a hand propped against the wall and pissed like he did any other morning. He might have been dreaming last night. He didn’t even have proof that one of the chicks had slipped into his bed, unless the sheets smelled like girly-ness.

No doubt they smelled like spunk, at least on his side of the bed.

He flushed and yawned and, smelling very much not like girly-ness, or anything else pleasant, he cranked on the shower.

When he emerged from the steaming bathroom a half hour later, wrapped in one of the hotel’s white towels, he had that ‘I’m all wiped out from the shower; I just want to sprawl on the bed’ feeling. He swept open the blackout drapes, wincing at the first sting of sunlight in his eyes, but it did brighten the room.

The bed—the rumpled bed with its white sheets and white pillowcases—beckoned him. Shower + sunlight + bed = no contest. He climbed in and pulled the sheet to his hips. He closed his eyes. He got good and comfortable.

He hoped that maybe if he put himself where sleep could find him again it would.

Time ticked by, measured by the clicking on and off of the AC.

Eventually another click came, from around the corner—followed by the sound of the door handle turning. He rolled onto his stomach and stretched his arms out to his sides. Today was a day off. He could lie in bed through all of it if that’s what he felt like doing.

It was, pretty much, what he felt like doing.

“You’re still not up?” Alex asked.

“Go ‘way,” Keith said with his eye closed.

“Hey, you seen my phone?”

“It’s not behind my eyelids, brah.”

He listened to him move around the room, picking stuff up, dropping it, shifting it around. From near the bed, near the floor, he heard, “Hey, found this.” The mattress dipped. There was a small, short puh sound—a familiar puh sound….

“The fuck are you doing?” Keith said into the pillow as something cool touched his left shoulder blade and began to slide slowly downward. Lipstick. “Brah, you better not be drawing anything you’re going to regret later.”

Lines.

Alex was drawing…letters—just great—across his back.

“Dude, I just took a fucking shower.”

“Did you?” He drew a line down, across, down, across, across, down.

Keith felt no pressing need to move—it felt good; he felt good.

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