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We find Xave and Blare by the banquet table, each holding a glass of champagne.
Xave spits something into a napkin and says in a muffled voice, “It’s disgusting.”
Blare laughs, but grows serious as soon as she sees us. Her eyes snap to James’s arm around my waist as he offers me his support.
“Let’s go upstairs,” James says.
Blare takes Xave’s glass and sets it on the table. “Help your girlfriend,” she orders him.
James and Xave switch places.
“Time to do that bit of acting,” Blare says.
As we head for the staircase, James leans toward us and whispers, “Don’t drink anything up there.” He turns his attention to Blare. His large hand runs down the length of her back and he whispers something in her ear. She laughs and looks into his eyes with something like hunger, then kisses him on the mouth with exaggerated, soap-opera passion.
I blush and look away.
Mid-stairway, a warm caress travels down my neck. The tender touch startles me. Xave plants a kiss on my bare shoulder and pulls me close to him.
“You look beautiful tonight,” he says in a deep voice. His hazel eyes twinkle with mischief.
He’s acting. At least that’s what I tell myself. I’m supposed to do the same.
“You really think so?” I flirt.
At the top of the stairs, James takes Blare’s hand and leads her down a hall as wide as my house. Both smile and chatter, as if on a real date.
I try to act as if I know what I’m doing, but I have no clue. I’ve never been on a date. Not when every time I get close to a boy, the nervous fear sends the shadows over the edge.
We’re behind James, walking down the carpeted hall. The padding under my feet is so soft it feels like walking on pillows. Huge flower arrangements decorate the way, filling the air with nauseating sweetness. The road to hell couldn’t be more deceiving. I’m sure of it.
There are many doors at every side of the corridor. I get the impression I’m in a grand hotel and expect to see numbers on the doors and card readers to allow entry. Of course there aren’t any, but my idea, it turns out, isn’t ludicrous, because there are “do not disturb” signs hanging from several door knobs.
A couple walks behind us. The woman giggles, unaware that this place is all wrong and she should be running, getting as far away as possible from whatever is behind those closed doors. But she doesn’t suspect a thing. How could she?
She’s not one of them.
Not one of me.
If I die in the next few minutes, I deserve it. I know better than that poor woman and I’m still here. Every nerve in my body urges me to flee. My feet are restless, the back of my head tolls like a bell, and my heart thunders. Yet, I press forward, and I allow Xave to keep walking into the gaping jaws of this unknown beast.
We walk deeper into the hall, as James surveys each door. To our left a man with gray hair steps out of one of the rooms. He has an arm around a young woman, whose legs seem unable to hold her full weight.
He gives us a rueful smile. “One too many cherry martinis,” he says, leading her forward, supporting her limp, scarecrow body.
“What kind of place is this?” Xave whispers in my ear. “I’m pretty sure whatever’s going on here ain’t legal.”
He’s on to something, but I doubt they even have a law for what’s really happening.
James comes to a stop in front of a door without a “do not disturb” sign.
“Have fun,” he says, directing his pointed gaze toward another vacant room next to theirs. The couple behind us picks the room past James’s.
Xave gets the hint. “You too.” He wraps an arm around my shoulder and ushers me into the room.
An admiring whistle leaves his lips as we walk in. “Look at this place.”
I don’t know what I was expecting. Torture devices? A wormhole? But the room is just normal. Well, not normal. It is ... exquisite.
I don’t think I’ve ever used that word to describe anything before, but that’s the only adjective that comes to mind. The place is exquisite, and I feel like I’m going to vomit. The ambiance is subtle, with warm lamps glowing in each corner. At the far end, sheer curtains cover a large set of floor-to-ceiling windows. Heavier drapes made out of something that looks like golden velvet hang at each end. Luxurious, yet comfortable and utilitarian furniture is placed strategically throughout. Museum-worthy art hangs from the walls. A massive bed commands the eye to the middle of the room, its duvet silken and embroidered in golden thread.
The door is still open behind me. I know I need to close it, but I’m afraid the room will swallow us whole. With a deep inhale, I find the little “do not disturb” sign and hang it outside. I push the door with one finger and watch the open gap get thinner and thinner, closing in on my unwitting past. After this, there’ll be no turning back. After this, I’ll know things I’ll want to forget. But even with this certainty, I brace myself and turn the deadbolt.
It clicks with finality.