having sex: that Alex closed his eyes because he was a kind of performance artist auditioning for the lead role in his own private movie about himself. The thought still haunted her, but like his tendency to tell his friends and relatives, “I’m getting married,” not “ We’re getting married,” it was just one of these quirks she’d eventually grind out of him.
She’d almost fallen asleep waiting. It had been over an hour since she’d slid her extra key under the door of his room so he’d find it when he came in. She’d gone to bed without taking out her contacts, without removing her makeup. Waiting. Her eyes burned but she knew he didn’t like her in glasses.
The key card slipped into the lock, was withdrawn, and there was a dull click indicating it was unlocked, but he was too slow grasping the handle— wasn’t he always? —and she rolled her eyes in the semi-dark while he fumbled with the latch. She breathed in deeply while he did it again. Fumbling, trying to fit the key into the slot. Wasn’t he always?
Then she heard a deep male voice, not Alex’s, say: “Step aside. Let me do it.”
She shot up in bed, eyes wide, thinking the front desk had given someone a key to her room.
The door opened and there was Alex’s profile. Tall, square shouldered, bad posture, spiked hair. Wearing, as always, an untucked oversized Brooks Brothers shirt so starched it crackled like a wind-filled sail when he moved.
“Alex, is there someone with you?” she asked, making her voice rise toward the end.
Then she saw the profile of the other man in the second it took for the two of them to enter her room and shut the door behind them. The man with Alex was tall as well, but beefy, rounded, thicker, older. His face, illuminated briefly by the hall lights, was jowly. Deep-set eyes, mustache—he looked like that famous writer she never liked. What was that guy’s name?
“I’m sorry,” Alex said. “This is Stenko.”
She dug her heels into the mattress and rocketed back in the bed until her back thumped the headboard. She pulled the comforter up, clutching it under her chin.
Stenko said, “If you scream, you’ll both die.”
His voice was deep, harsh, but somehow apologetic. It took her a moment to believe what she’d heard.
She said, “Alex, how could you bring someone with you? What in the hell are you thinking?”
“I’m sorry,” he said again. The second word was slurred, shorry.
“You’re drunk,” she said. To Stenko: “Get out now. Whatever he told you is not a possibility.”
“Patty . . .” Alex said, stumbling forward in the dark as if pushed, “it’s not like that.”
“Sit down on the bed, Alex,” Stenko said. To her: “I have a gun.”
“He has a gun,” Alex repeated, bumping into her bed clumsily, then turning and sitting down hard. She barely moved her leg in time to avoid the weight of him.
“What’s this about?” she asked Alex. “I can’t believe you brought a man in here with you.”
“Keep your voice down, please,” Stenko said. “I don’t want either one of you to get hurt.”
“Hurt?” she asked. “What does he want, Alex?”
“He’ll tell you,” Alex said.
She wanted Alex to stand up and protect her, to charge Stenko, to knock him down to the floor. But Alex just sat there, heavy, his head down and his shoulders slumped more than usual and his hands between his knees.
There was so little light from the bathroom that she could barely make out Stenko as he grabbed a chair from the desk, turned it backward, and sat down with his legs spread. Stenko rested his arms on the back of the chair and leaned forward, putting his chin on his forearms. He held a long-barreled pistol in a big fist, but it was pointed away from them.
“What do you want?” she asked Stenko directly.
“You’re not going to believe it,” Alex said, slowly shaking his head from side to side. He smelled of alcohol and cigar smoke. “We met in the
She’d almost fallen asleep waiting. It had been over an hour since she’d slid her extra key under the door of his room so he’d find it when he came in. She’d gone to bed without taking out her contacts, without removing her makeup. Waiting. Her eyes burned but she knew he didn’t like her in glasses.
The key card slipped into the lock, was withdrawn, and there was a dull click indicating it was unlocked, but he was too slow grasping the handle— wasn’t he always? —and she rolled her eyes in the semi-dark while he fumbled with the latch. She breathed in deeply while he did it again. Fumbling, trying to fit the key into the slot. Wasn’t he always?
Then she heard a deep male voice, not Alex’s, say: “Step aside. Let me do it.”
She shot up in bed, eyes wide, thinking the front desk had given someone a key to her room.
The door opened and there was Alex’s profile. Tall, square shouldered, bad posture, spiked hair. Wearing, as always, an untucked oversized Brooks Brothers shirt so starched it crackled like a wind-filled sail when he moved.
“Alex, is there someone with you?” she asked, making her voice rise toward the end.
Then she saw the profile of the other man in the second it took for the two of them to enter her room and shut the door behind them. The man with Alex was tall as well, but beefy, rounded, thicker, older. His face, illuminated briefly by the hall lights, was jowly. Deep-set eyes, mustache—he looked like that famous writer she never liked. What was that guy’s name?
“I’m sorry,” Alex said. “This is Stenko.”
She dug her heels into the mattress and rocketed back in the bed until her back thumped the headboard. She pulled the comforter up, clutching it under her chin.
Stenko said, “If you scream, you’ll both die.”
His voice was deep, harsh, but somehow apologetic. It took her a moment to believe what she’d heard.
She said, “Alex, how could you bring someone with you? What in the hell are you thinking?”
“I’m sorry,” he said again. The second word was slurred, shorry.
“You’re drunk,” she said. To Stenko: “Get out now. Whatever he told you is not a possibility.”
“Patty . . .” Alex said, stumbling forward in the dark as if pushed, “it’s not like that.”
“Sit down on the bed, Alex,” Stenko said. To her: “I have a gun.”
“He has a gun,” Alex repeated, bumping into her bed clumsily, then turning and sitting down hard. She barely moved her leg in time to avoid the weight of him.
“What’s this about?” she asked Alex. “I can’t believe you brought a man in here with you.”
“Keep your voice down, please,” Stenko said. “I don’t want either one of you to get hurt.”
“Hurt?” she asked. “What does he want, Alex?”
“He’ll tell you,” Alex said.
She wanted Alex to stand up and protect her, to charge Stenko, to knock him down to the floor. But Alex just sat there, heavy, his head down and his shoulders slumped more than usual and his hands between his knees.
There was so little light from the bathroom that she could barely make out Stenko as he grabbed a chair from the desk, turned it backward, and sat down with his legs spread. Stenko rested his arms on the back of the chair and leaned forward, putting his chin on his forearms. He held a long-barreled pistol in a big fist, but it was pointed away from them.
“What do you want?” she asked Stenko directly.
“You’re not going to believe it,” Alex said, slowly shaking his head from side to side. He smelled of alcohol and cigar smoke. “We met in the
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