Heartthrob Hotel Collection, page 65
If I’m truly honest with myself, I feel relief. From the moment her door latched, and I took my first steps away from Claire Daniels, I’ve felt a weight slip off my shoulders. Standing here, gazing down at this fluorescent kingdom, I realize why.
She wasn’t meant to be queen.
She was a pretty face, a decent conversationalist, but what we had lacked passion. There was no mystery to her. No layers to peel away and no excitement to be found once I had. I wish her well in finding a man who will look at her the way I wanted to. I truly do.
I balance a cigarette between my lips and raise my lighter, quickly blocking the desert wind with my other hand as I light it. As I take my first drag, I hear a subtle scoff in the corner on my right.
“You’re not going to leap to your death now, are you?”
I turn my head toward the voice. Fierce yet feminine.
My eyes wander the darkened nook and I wonder how I hadn’t noticed her sitting there before.
A girl at first glance, very much a woman at second. She sits casually along the bench with legs tightly crossed. The subtle lines of a toned calf peek out from the slit of her skirt and connect to tall, glittery high heels. Her dress appears black in the dark and hangs playfully off one porcelain shoulder. Her brunette hair is thick and long but held together in a tight ponytail on the back of her head.
And her eyes. I can’t see them, but I know they see right through me.
I exhale, breath and smoke abandoned to the wind. “Hadn’t planned on it,” I answer.
“Good,” she says. “I’d rather not spend the next several hours being questioned by the morons at the Vegas PD.”
“I can see how that’d ruin a perfectly good evening.”
I extend my cigarette in her direction and she stands, giving me a decent view of her shape as she steps in my direction.
She’s shorter than I thought she was. Her forehead hits just beneath my chin though her petiteness doesn’t diminish her demanding presence in the slightest. Her dress, which I falsely identified as black before, is a deep blue. The same color as her big eyes.
She pinches my cigarette with an experienced hand and our fingers barely graze as she takes it and brings it to her lips. The cherry burns as she sucks it in and silently studies me beneath her long eyelashes.
I swallow.
“I didn’t know anyone else was up here,” I say.
She passes the cigarette back to me. I notice the red imprint of lipstick residue along the filter as I raise it to my mouth.
“Only so many places to hide around here,” she says.
I nod. “You too, huh?”
She focuses on the streets below. “I honestly can’t see the appeal.”
“Of what?”
“This.”
“Vegas?”
“Botsford Plazas.”
I smirk. “Oh?”
“Golden boys clubs,” she says with rolling eyes. “Made by the rich, for the rich, and to hell with anyone else.”
“That dress doesn’t exactly scream department store chic,” I say, offering her the cigarette again to show I meant it as peaceful banter.
She pauses, big eyes bouncing between it and me. After a second, she takes it and puffs it quickly. “I like to look good,” she says, gently flicking the ashes away. “Appearances matter in places like this.”
“Appearances matter everywhere.”
“Sad but true.” Her head tilts. “Do you know where the staff comes from?”
“Comes from?” I repeat.
“Trust fund kids. Each one of them down to the doorman. I spoke with them myself.”
I turn to face her, genuinely interested in the thought of her wandering around down there interviewing my brother’s staff. “Did you?”
“Where’s the diversity?” she asks. “Where are the students from the local colleges? People who could actually benefit from the opportunities here?”
“I suppose they aren’t interested in working here,” I say.
She scoffs. “Or their applications just happened to find their way to the bottom of the wastebasket.”
I graciously accept the peace cigarette again and take another long drag as I study her closer. The annoyance in her eyes is truly palpable. The casual posture. The sharp tongue.
She has no idea she’s talking to the CEO’s son.
I smile. “That’s an interesting suggestion.”
“I’ve got plenty more.”
“Such as?”
“Well, they’ve certainly got a lot to learn on how to market toward women.”
“Women?”
“Yes, those lumps men step over on their way to the top only to wave their hands and proclaim they did it all themselves.”
“Ahh.” I hold my smirk as we once again trade the cigarette back and forth. “Yes, I’ve heard of them.”
“They’ve got the bar in the lobby with dim lights and dartboards,” she says. “And that pathetic attempt at a fitness center.”
“Not a fan of free weights, are you?” I ask.
“They serve their purpose but there’s a noticeable hole in the collection when the lightest weight on the rack is twenty-five pounds.”
I nod, seeing her point. “Anything else?”
“Oh, give me a minute,” she says. “I’m just getting warmed up.”
I laugh as she takes a puff, admiring the curve of her cheek in the silence. As she extends the cigarette in my direction again, I take it in one hand and hold out the other.
“I’m Kingston,” I say, introducing myself.
“Botsford, yes,” she says, ignoring my hand. “I know who you are.”
My ego flutters. “Is that so?”
Her brow piques. “Don’t get too excited. It’s not a compliment.”
“And what exactly have I done to offend you?”
“Nothing to me.”
“Then, who have you been talking to, Ms...?” I let it linger, hinting for her name.
“I don’t actually do much talking.”
“Could have fooled me.”
“I’m more of a listener,” she says. “You’d be surprised what a person can pick up at a place like this. Trade secrets. Office gossip.”
“Your name.”
“That, too.”
“What is it?” I ask.
She shows a sweet smile, but it doesn’t last. “I’m the least of your worries after tonight, Kingston. If I were you, I’d watch my back.”
I pause. “What do you mean?”
The door to the roof swings open and a woman pokes her head outside. She looks to be in her early thirties with bobbed hair and a dress that does say department store chic. After a few flustered breaths, she spots us by the edge and scolds the jezebel beside me.
“You’re not supposed to be up here.”
“Just getting some fresh air, Mildred.” She takes a step away from the railing. “Thanks for the smoke,” she says to me before walking away.
“Wait—”
She continues forward and my voice diminishes beneath the harsh clack of her high heels on the roof. The other woman glares at me for a second before turning and holding the door open for her. Her.
Who is this girl?
A scoff. “Smoking? Really?”
A wave of the hand. “Just the one.”
“Your father will lose it.”
“Let him.”
The door closes behind them, leaving me alone and blissfully whiplashed. I can’t recall the last time a conversation with a woman left me this breathless. I’m equally as stunned by her elegance and beauty as I am chilled by her words of warning.
If I were you, I’d watch my back.
I’ve no reason to believe it, nor reason to doubt. There’s always a reason to keep your cards close to the chest in the City of Sin.
I finish the last of my cigarette in silence, though it turned out to be far from the peaceful interlude it was meant to be.
Kingston. She said my name as if she’d said it a thousand times before. As if it were the most natural thing in the world. Would you believe that I feel guilty about it? Like I’d foolishly forgotten hers even though I’ve never seen her before in my life.
I look down at the flashing lights and speeding cars and crowded sidewalks. Could she be down there right now, gazing up at me as I think of her?
Or is she still here in the hotel, waiting for me to come find her?
Wouldn’t I like to find out?
I bound toward the stairs, quickly making my way off the roof onto the 30th floor. Another sprint to the elevator and I tap the call button to bring the car up to me. It might be faster to race down the stairs, but I’m already a bit winded from that cigarette.
I really should quit.
The elevator arrives. I step on, slapping the L button to take me down to the lobby. As the car falls steadily, I fix my hair and tweak the placement of my tie as I stare at myself in the golden walls.
10, 9, 8…
I take a breath to calm my nerves.
4, 3, 2…
The car settles at the bottom. I roll my shoulders back as the doors slide open.
A man stands outside the elevator blocking my path. He’s a full head taller than I am but carries the same brown hair, square jawline, and blue and gold tie as mine.
“Brother!” he says to me. “There you are.”
I look up at him and nod. “Drake,” I passively greet, fully intending to pass around him.
I do not have time for this.
I must find her.
Drake’s thick palm collides with my shoulder. “Hold on! I’ve been looking everywhere for you.”
“Here I am,” I say, pushing forward.
“Come to the roof with me for a smoke.”
“I’ve just had one.”
He grabs my arm this time. “Have another. We need to talk.”
I reluctantly fall back as he pushes me onto the elevator. He taps 30 on the wall and I use the last few seconds I have to scan the lobby for that blue dress…
The doors close. I exhale hard.
Dammit.
“Having a fun time?” my brother asks, his eyes on me in the mirrored walls.
I shrug a shoulder. “Not too bad.”
“I didn’t see that girl of yours out there tonight.”
“What girl?”
“You know, the one with the black hair,” he says with a laugh as he searches for his lighter.
I frown in confusion.
Oh, right. Claire.
I’ve already forgotten about her.
“She couldn’t make it,” I say, vague on the details.
“Bummer. So, listen…”
I flinch slightly, having heard that sudden change in pitch before. It’s always a bit of mundane small talk before my older brother throws down a So, listen… and ruins the casual chit-chat with a bit of bad news. He learned it from our father.
“Actually, Drake, I don’t really have time for—”
“Dad and I have discussed it with the board, and we all agree that you’re…” he wrinkles his nose, “a little too green for the Chicago market.”
My gut sinks. “What?” I ask.
“You’re graduating in the spring,” he says. “That’s great and we’re all very proud of you, but—”
“Dad promised me the Chicago location.”
“And you’ll get it someday, I’m sure, but for now we think someone more experienced would be better suited for it.”
“That’s bullshit.”
He smirks. “No, that’s business. Chicago’s a brand-new location in a surging neighborhood and we can’t risk a newcomer screwing that up, you know what I mean?”
“I’m not a newcomer,” I argue. “I’ve worked in this hotel as much as you have.”
“Which is why you were the first name I recommended when they asked who should take my place.”
I bite down. “You’re taking Chicago from me? And dumping me here?”
Drake laughs. “There’s no you or me here, Kingston. This isn’t personal. It’s all about the company.”
Bullshit.
I turn away from him, silently seething beneath the surface.
He pats my shoulder twice. “Come on now. Vegas isn’t all bad! Sure, it’s dated, but… nice, in its own way. Cut your teeth on somewhere more familiar and then we’ll revisit the idea in a few decades when I’m CEO.”
The elevator doors open on the 30th floor. Drake steps off, balances an unlit cigarette between his lips, and turns back to gawk at me.
“Chin up, little brother,” he says, still smirking. “It’s not the end of the world.”
I glare as I reach over to hit L.
“Not getting off?” he asks.
“No,” I say, letting the doors close.
It was my suggestion to build in Chicago. I found the up-and-coming neighborhood just waiting for a golden B in its skyline. It was my project, at least as much as I could claim it as a student on the outside, but Dad admired my initiative and promised me the reward. He said so himself.
But Drake couldn’t let me have this.
This one thing.
The elevator reaches the lobby again and my gut churns from the subtle change in momentum. As the doors slide open, a spark in my nerves wakes me up and I remember what I came down here for.
I scan the crowd of suit jackets and ballroom gowns, each one dripping with the kind of wealth that only a Beau Botsford party can attract. They aren’t drawn here for any other reason than to have secured an invite.
Perhaps golden boy’s club isn’t the worst descriptor imaginable.
I turn a corner toward the entrance and my heart skips twice.
She’s still here.
And even more beautiful beneath golden lights.
I wander through the crowd to get as close as I can. She stands between two people. The first I recognize as the woman who fetched her off the roof and the second…
I stop in my tracks.
Richard Garland.
The incumbent Senator of Nevada, a former General in the United States Marine Corps, and frequent pain in my family’s ass.
The old man throws an arm around her lithe shoulders as if to show her off to the others surrounding them — notably the men.
“And this is my baby girl, Fiona!” he announces, prompting a wave of swoons from the crowd that make her practically giggle with delight. “Get used to this face right now! You can expect to see her with me on the campaign trail next year and all the way to the White House in ‘92!”
They erupt in applause while she plants a kiss on his old, wrinkled cheek.
Fiona.
Fiona Garland?
I scoff and make my way toward the hotel bar instead.
Never mind.
2
Fiona
Smile.
Smile.
Smile some more.
When you think you’re done smiling, smile just a little bit longer.
No matter how much you hate it.
I could back in the Stanford library with my nose stuck in a book. I could be studying abroad in Italy and spending my Friday night lounging on the beach with some hunk named Raphael. I could be a lot of things but this.
But that wouldn’t secure a few more votes, now would it?
I scan the crowd in front of us. They’re always the same at each stop on the campaign trail but these blurred faces are important, or so my father says.
They’re the ones with deep pockets.
So, I smile. I wave. I wink when prompted. I knock a few more swing voters off the fence in Daddy’s direction like a good girl.
I wonder what Raphael would say.
When my father finally announces that it’s time to leave, we begin the slow trek through the crowd toward the golden doors. Mildred stays by my other side and I’m eternally grateful for the buffer between some random stranger’s pinching fingers and my rear end.
The night air is warm and inviting but its comfort doesn’t last as I’m shuffled into a town car waiting for us on the street outside.
Another smile. Another wink. I disappear into the depths of the backseat with Mildred and we wait for my father to stop shaking hands.
As soon as he does, he takes his seat, slams the door closed behind him, and groans.
“Contemptible people,” he grumbles, officially dropping his smile.
Botsfords, he means. Ever since I was a little girl, my father has hated them, though I’m not sure why. Their rivalry dates back to his and Beau’s time together at Pryce Academy, long before mine or my brothers’ existence.
But he plays nice. He attends their little parties and provides sizable donations when necessary, all in the name of a long con plan to become President and regulate their business into the ground.
Good luck, Daddy.
I get the feeling the Botsford boys aren’t as vulnerable as he thinks.
I glance up through my window, catching sight of the golden B at the top of the tower. It felt good to be up there, on top of this world, even if only for a little bit.
And the boy.
Kingston.
He was not what I expected.
“What’s that smell?”
My father glowers at me with his nose upturned. Mildred shifts beside me, pretending not to hear.
“What smell?” I ask.
He furrows his wrinkled brow. “Have you been smoking?”
“No,” I answer. “Must have just caught some cigar smoke in my hair, I guess.”
“Crack a window,” he says, sinking into his seat as the car pulls forward.
“Yes, Daddy,” I say.
I reach for the handle on the door and turn it counterclockwise until the window slides down a few inches.
“And wash it out as soon as we get back to the house.”
I nod. I smile.
Lather, rinse, repeat.
“Yes, Daddy.”
3
Kingston
One Year Later
Some things never change.
That’s what they say, right?
Old dogs, new tricks. Whatever cliche makes you feel better and helps you sleep at night rather than face your own inadequacy.
