I examine every square millimeter on both sides, in case she wrote a phone number. But no, there’s nothing. And I’m quite certain this isn’t a tip for housekeeping. Nobody tips fifty bucks. We didn’t mess the room up that bad.
What the hell?
I stare at it, and could swear Ulysses S. Grant is smirking at me.
Suddenly the peace and happiness I’ve been feeling dissipate. My stomach is rumbling with something that feels like a volcano ready to erupt.
What that fuck is this? I deserve better than this bullshit.
I’m going to find her and kick her ass—well, not actually kick her ass, because she’s a girl. But I’m going to yell at her. Set her straight.
But first things first.
I hop into the shower. Might as well be fresh and clean before I track her down. Then I’ll shake her until her bones rattle and whatever gear that came loose in her brain goes back into place.
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But as the soap sluices down my body, my outrage starts to build. She didn’t drop that money by mistake. She meant to leave it.
Is this some kind of a cheap shot? Some sort of payment? Even if I were only charging ten dollars an orgasm, she’d owe me more than fifty bucks!
This is what happens when you sleep with a woman who can’t do math. But then, not a lot of people can after a fabulous night full of hot sex and very little sleep.
It doesn’t soothe the hot, jagged edge of my temper much. I yank on my clothes and go to the front desk to check out. A clerk in a crisp black uniform smiles at me.
“Good morning, Mr. Blackwood. Did you enjoy your stay?”
I’m this close to telling her that it was anything but enjoyable. But it isn’t her fault that Skittles insulted me and skipped out. I force a smile of my own. “The room was great. Thank you.”
I give her my credit card, and she swipes it. While she deals with the payment system, I glance around, impatience nipping at me. A smiling concierge hands an envelope to a guest.
Oooh. Why didn’t I think of that before? We don’t have to leave a note in the room now, do we?
“Are there any messages for me?” I ask.
“I don’t see anything on the screen here, sir.”
“No, I mean like a real note. On paper. Like in one of those old movies, where two people are staying in the same hotel, but one of them—”
“Let me check, sir.” She disappears into the back then returns within a few moments. “I’m sorry, there doesn’t seem to be anything.”
“Okay.” What miniscule hope I’ve been nurturing is dashed. Just like that. “Thank you.”
Now the volcano isn’t just rumbling. It’s shaking. And fiery steam is hissing out of the top. I’m not taking this gross indignity. Skittles will pay.
My whole body tense, I start toward the sitting area in the lobby, ready to call for a car.
My phone buzzes. A text from Tony.
Hey, you coming over?
Oh shit. I totally forgot. I told him I’d be at his place. He’s getting Ivy’s gift delivered today. I’m supposed to get her out of the house and distract her. Ugh. Guilt and annoyance tug at me.
I’m coming, I text back. While I’m there, maybe I can get Tony to let me borrow TJ to help me track down my girl.
Chapter Six
Pascal