I didn’t want to have Lily’s problem.
These new possibilities sound better than my current situation. So I give Ian my cell number. I also didn’t want anyone to know my hotel room, but I don’t think it’ll hurt to just tell Ian.
I feel like there’s no perfect choice here. There are a lot of negatives, a few positives, and so I just have to pick.
“Know where I can find these tree people?” he asks, waving an empty granola wrapper.
I smile. He’s not too bad.
I think I just made my decision.
< 13 >
DAISY CALLOWAY
By the time I enter my room, the clock strikes 2 a.m., and I only have enough time to wash my face and run a brush through my hair before Ian knocks on the door.
I peek through the peephole, ensuring that it’s just him. I can smell his strong cologne through the door, but he looks casual, wearing jeans and a blue tee. I keep staring, hesitating for so many reasons. He knocks again. I flinch at the violent noise. You can do this.
I turn the knob, and when Ian appraises my jean shorts and baggy sweater, he smiles. “Nice,” he says, motioning to the words across my chest: Bulimia’s so ’87.
He even understands a Heathers reference. Maybe he is perfect for me. “Welcome to my abode.” I wave him inside. I haven’t unpacked, so I had no time to be messy. My rolling suitcase rests by the television hutch, all zipped up. The hotel room has gold walls and red bedspreads, looking cleaner and more harmonious with the colors than any part of my apartment in Philly.
“Nice room too,” he says.
“Yeah, it’s pretty cool.”
He heads deeper inside, going to the balcony door that I’ve spent a great deal of time locking and shrouding with the gold curtains. He pulls them back, and my pulse speeds. I hear the click of the single lock, and then he slides open the glass door, stepping outside to see the view of the city.
“Holy shit,” he says, his voice louder so I can hear. “My room overlooks a parking garage. This is…”
I tune him out as I shut the front door, using every lock to ensure my safety and his. I even look through the peephole one extra time. The hallway is empty. Good.
And then I walk to the bed, waiting for him to come back inside. I don’t want to attract any paparazzi, if they’re here. On the chance that they spot me from the balcony, they’ll count the floor I’m on and figure out which room I’m in.
“Yeah, the view is really pretty,” I say.
Ian slips back inside, but he leaves the sliding door all the way open.
“Can you close it?” I ask, trying not to seem paranoid. I give him a small smile. “It’s kinda cold tonight.”
“Sure.” He shuts the door and then closes the curtains back. No lock. But I’ll just have to do that after he leaves. What if he doesn’t leave? What if you have sex with him? Then I’ll lock it when he falls asleep. No worries.
I sit on the foot of the bed and cross my legs, wondering where his head is at, what he wants to do right now. He eyes me a little more hungrily than before. His gaze travels across my legs, stopping at the place between my thighs.
He stuffs his hand into his pocket. Condom, I think. But he pulls out a baggy of white powder. “I thought you looked tired this morning. Want a boost?” He heads over to my dresser and begins to separate the powder into two lines.
“No,” I say. “I’ve been chugging Lightning Bolts! and taking Ripped Fuel. I don’t think coke will mix well with them.”
I uncross my legs and then stand up, pacing anxiously before I reach his side.
“Yeah, I could tell you were on something,” he says. “You were fidgeting all morning.”
“Ripped Fuel only makes me fidgety when I drink caffeine with it. Otherwise they’re just normal diet pills.” But they’re like a shot of endorphins, possibly the biggest boost I can get without heading towards cocaine and other illegal substances.
“Well, I’ll help calm you down,” he says, one of his hands reaching out and rubbing my shoulders. That’s exactly what I wanted. Despite the coke, maybe my choices in men are improving.
With his free hand, he takes his rolled dollar bill and snorts both lines. He wipes his nose, and then when he turns to me, his glazed eyes trace my lips. He guides me to the bed, the back of my legs hitting the mattress, and my heart races.
“You’re really beautiful, Daisy,” he says. And then he plants his lips right on mine, waiting not even two seconds before his tongue chokes me. It’s not that bad. I try not to gag for air, but his mouth overtakes my face, slobbering on my chin.