been decimated by an errant blonde breeze named Amber . . . seriously, her freaking name was Amber. Wasn’t that the quintessential stripper name? Now, anytime I heard the name “Amber,” I became irrationally angry, as though it were my trigger word. For a moment I thought of that scene in the movie Zoolander where Ben Stiller’s character was brainwashed into killing a Prime Minister by the song Relax. Hah! If only. . . .
I pulled into a space in the parking deck of the Ritz and checked in. Whoever had made the reservation spelled my name correctly. Pretty shocking. I walked into my room and took the requisite look around before calling Tom’s cell phone. He told me that Melissa would be downstairs in ten minutes to bring me to his suite, so I took the time to brush my teeth and run a comb through my hair.
I had decided not to spend an inordinate amount of time obsessing over what to wear. This wasn’t a date, and I wasn’t interested in having him walk away with any impression about my appearance other than boring normalcy. If it looked like I tried too hard, it wouldn’t serve me well on that account. I opted to wear some of my comfortable jeans and a long-sleeved, fitted black top. It was my favorite shirt because a multi-colored, Warhol-esque depiction of Che Guevara was emblazoned on the front. It was a screaming shout-out to my heritage, and my father had loved to see me in it. I wore simple black flats even though heels would have better served to hide the fact that I was a vertically challenged five-foot-two. My people were not celebrated for their height. Instead of growing upwards, God blessed us with the burgeoning backsides that gave rise to Jennifer Lopez’s infamous insurance policy. No matter how much I worked out, I could never hide that part of my genetic inheritance. My hair was slightly wavy in spite of all the torturous attempts to flatten it, and I wore a bit of powder and mascara. Clean and neat . . . nothing that appeared to have taken any extra effort.
A knock at the door startled me from the studious glance of my appearance in the bathroom mirror. I walked to the door and slowly pulled it open. The woman in front of me appeared to be around forty, and her dark blonde hair was pulled back into a severe ponytail that looked like it might be giving her a tension headache. She was pale, and her visage appeared to be utterly no-nonsense. Her clothes were perfectly pressed and tailored to her extremely thin frame.
In ten words or less: this lady did not take shit from anybody.
“My name is Melissa Nash. I’m Thomas’s agent. He asked me to bring you upstairs to the suite.”
She didn’t blink or look me in the eyes once. In fact, it appeared as though she had chosen to introduce herself to a spot on the wall behind me. If I had to venture a guess, she was not a member of my fan club.
“Hi Melissa. I’m Cris,” I said as cheerfully as possible. I threw her a sunny smile in an attempt to defrost her icy demeanor. I failed.
She raised her eyebrows at me as she stared at my face for the first time. She probably thought the same thing I did: Why does he want to spend time with her?
“Follow me.” She turned. I had to quickly grab my purse and jacket from the bed in order to keep up with her.
Following her down the hall reminded me of being in grammar school in Puerto Rico. I had always been an innately curious child and easily distracted by things around me. As a result, I usually fought to catch up with the person in front of me. We walked down the hall in linear formation because I could barely keep up with Melissa Nash. I felt utterly ridiculous running behind her to match her long strides—the preying mantis and the tiny ant.
When we stepped into the elevator, she turned to look at me again with her frosty grey eyes. “Thomas wouldn’t want me to say this to you, but I feel that it’s incumbent upon me to state that discretion is key when socializing with him. If you attempt
I pulled into a space in the parking deck of the Ritz and checked in. Whoever had made the reservation spelled my name correctly. Pretty shocking. I walked into my room and took the requisite look around before calling Tom’s cell phone. He told me that Melissa would be downstairs in ten minutes to bring me to his suite, so I took the time to brush my teeth and run a comb through my hair.
I had decided not to spend an inordinate amount of time obsessing over what to wear. This wasn’t a date, and I wasn’t interested in having him walk away with any impression about my appearance other than boring normalcy. If it looked like I tried too hard, it wouldn’t serve me well on that account. I opted to wear some of my comfortable jeans and a long-sleeved, fitted black top. It was my favorite shirt because a multi-colored, Warhol-esque depiction of Che Guevara was emblazoned on the front. It was a screaming shout-out to my heritage, and my father had loved to see me in it. I wore simple black flats even though heels would have better served to hide the fact that I was a vertically challenged five-foot-two. My people were not celebrated for their height. Instead of growing upwards, God blessed us with the burgeoning backsides that gave rise to Jennifer Lopez’s infamous insurance policy. No matter how much I worked out, I could never hide that part of my genetic inheritance. My hair was slightly wavy in spite of all the torturous attempts to flatten it, and I wore a bit of powder and mascara. Clean and neat . . . nothing that appeared to have taken any extra effort.
A knock at the door startled me from the studious glance of my appearance in the bathroom mirror. I walked to the door and slowly pulled it open. The woman in front of me appeared to be around forty, and her dark blonde hair was pulled back into a severe ponytail that looked like it might be giving her a tension headache. She was pale, and her visage appeared to be utterly no-nonsense. Her clothes were perfectly pressed and tailored to her extremely thin frame.
In ten words or less: this lady did not take shit from anybody.
“My name is Melissa Nash. I’m Thomas’s agent. He asked me to bring you upstairs to the suite.”
She didn’t blink or look me in the eyes once. In fact, it appeared as though she had chosen to introduce herself to a spot on the wall behind me. If I had to venture a guess, she was not a member of my fan club.
“Hi Melissa. I’m Cris,” I said as cheerfully as possible. I threw her a sunny smile in an attempt to defrost her icy demeanor. I failed.
She raised her eyebrows at me as she stared at my face for the first time. She probably thought the same thing I did: Why does he want to spend time with her?
“Follow me.” She turned. I had to quickly grab my purse and jacket from the bed in order to keep up with her.
Following her down the hall reminded me of being in grammar school in Puerto Rico. I had always been an innately curious child and easily distracted by things around me. As a result, I usually fought to catch up with the person in front of me. We walked down the hall in linear formation because I could barely keep up with Melissa Nash. I felt utterly ridiculous running behind her to match her long strides—the preying mantis and the tiny ant.
When we stepped into the elevator, she turned to look at me again with her frosty grey eyes. “Thomas wouldn’t want me to say this to you, but I feel that it’s incumbent upon me to state that discretion is key when socializing with him. If you attempt
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