Knee Deep in Sugar Read online

  "You look like you could use a long shower and a hot meal," he mumbles at me in the elevator as he taps a card against a pad and keys in a code instead of a floor number.

  "Thanks," I snark, "I'm flattered."

  The man standing beside me chuckles.

  It's a pleasant sound.

  Suddenly I realize how close he's standing to me. How small the elevator carriage is, and how tall he really is.

  And how good he smells.

  I don't feel uncomfortable even though I'm trapped in an elevator with a strange man.

  It's been a long time since I felt safe.

  When the elevator doors open, the sign declares we're on the twelfth floor which strikes me as being slightly higher than I thought the lodge went.

  Following Mr. McGrumpy-pants around a corner and down the hallway, I realize that might because this floor doesn't stretch the full length of the lodge.

  There are only a few rooms on this floor and I wait sullenly while my escort uses a card key to open the door to one of them.

  "This floor isn't open to guests currently," he explains as he holds the door open for me to walk into the room, "so you don't have to worry about any neighbors keeping you up at night."

  He's joking.

  I like the sound of his voice when he's being lighthearted and not a bossy asshole. It's deep with a touch of coarseness to it that makes him sound more badlands and less boardroom-- which makes sense seeing as how he's managing a resort hotel in the middle of South Dakota instead of giving Power Point presentations in an office in Manhattan, I guess.

  The room is...

  Wow.

  Just...wow.

  "I can't stay here," I tell him in a panic, turning back toward the door to run for the safety of the hallway.

  It's a suite. Not the sort of suite that you get at one of those airport extended stay places where "suite" means there's a low wall partitioning the bed from the sofa-- but a real suite. The kind rich guys in movies stay in.

  I can't afford to leave a fingerprint on anything in here, let alone stay the night.

  "Of course you can," he tells me in a tone that's all business. "Like I said, the floor is unoccupied, you can stay as long as you need to and no one will bother you up here."

  I stand near the door, rooted to the spot, while he saunters by me and starts a tour of the place.

  "Full kitchen," his voice echoes from the full kitchen, "so you can make more than microwave oatmeal..."

  The thinly veiled reference to my breakfast plan stings a little and I feel my face burn from embarrassment.

  "Not that we're going to be able to get to a grocery store any time soon," he mentions, "but the general store stocks a few basics beyond 'just add water.' "

  I take a few hesitant steps toward the kitchen and find him standing behind a wrap-around, granite counter, looking thoughtfully toward the full-size refrigerator.

  "The cafeteria is fully stocked," he muses toward the appliance, "I guess we could raid their pantry."

  This guy must think I'm made of money.

  Or have a rich daddy somewhere who's going to wire funds to rescue his little princess from her poor decision making skills that landed her in the middle of nowhere in the middle of winter.

  Boy is this guy in for a let-down.

  I turn to take a look at the rest of the place.

  The kitchen is a big square on one side of the suite, with a full size dining table that seats-- I look back at the table and count the chairs silently-- 8.

  That seems like a lot of people to put into one hotel room, even if it is a suite.

  On the other side of the room is a large, open great room with extraordinarily high ceilings, a real fireplace in a stone wall set into a corner with floor to ceiling windows looking out over a balcony with nothing but starless night beyond the railing.

  McGrumpy-pants leaves the kitchen, crosses the room, and flips a switch beside the fireplace. It jumps to life.

  "You can run it on just the gas," he explains, "or we can bring up some wood for you."

  Both those options sound like up charges to me.

  There are 3 doors that open off the main living room, McGrumpy leads me toward one.

  Light floods the room and I see the master bedroom from my new position at the doorway.

  That's a very comfortable-looking king size bed taking center stage with another stone fireplace on the far wall and another wall of glass that opens onto a continuation of the balcony and--

  "Ohmygod," I'm immediately self-conscious at the sound of my own voice, "is that a hot tub?"

  He turns and looks at me, "Of course," he says with a smile, "Just let me check real quick--"

  The hot tub in question is not your standard, molded fiberglass box, it looks like it was custom-made to fit into the space between the stone wall where the fireplace is and the end of the wall of windows.

  It resembles a hot spring, like the corner of the room might have been built around a naturally occurring feature that the architect just happened to find 12 stories up.

  My tour guide lifts the cover and looks into the tub. He reaches his hand in and I hear water splash. He makes a face and then looks along the side of the structure till he finds a control panel and flips a switch.

  "I was afraid of that," he tells me, "we usually do keep it filled but the heat's been off for awhile so it'll take a few hours to get up to temp."

  He stands back up straight and looks at me apologetically, "Sorry," he tells me with a shrug.

  Sorry? Is this guy kidding me? Why does he think a girl who was going to sleep in her car has any chance of staying in a place like this? Haven't I mentioned that I can't afford to stay at the lodge? Let alone in a suite that's bigger than the house I grew up in?

  "Um," I don't know why I feel like I'm going to let this guy down but, "I think I mentioned I can't afford the rooms here?"

  He looks at me like he doesn't understand why I would bring it up.

  "I wasn't kidding when I said I need a sugar daddy," I try to smile when I say it, "I don't even know how I'm going to get the car fixed. This isn't just out of my budget, it's not an option."

  He looks confused-- and disappointed-- but I can't worry about what kind of minimum occupancy quota he's up against, or whatever his motive is for getting me to rent this room. He's shit outta luck.

  Heading back to the front door, I pick up my bag from where I left it and head back toward the elevator. If he really won't let me go back out to my car, there's probably a spot somewhere in the staff break room or something where I can camp out till I can get out of here.

  "Wait."

  His voice has a note of desperation in it as he catches up to me.

  "I don't expect you to pay for the room," he tells me. "It's not being used. Hell, this whole floor won't even be available to the public till May. It's not like we're going to be losing revenue if you're using it for a few days."

  Once again, he's standing too close to me. Close enough to be in my personal space. Close enough that I can smell the fading scent of his cologne. Close enough that I can see the crows feet at the corner of his eyes and the strands of silver running through his dark hair now that he's taken off his hat and coat.

  Close enough to realize that the faint current of electricity running through my body is something other than fear.

  Grant

  The car she left locked up in our parking lot-- the one she's obviously been living in for at least several days-- is a high end SUV. I mean, sure, it's a few years older than the current model, but it sure as fuck doesn't look like it belongs to a woman that can't afford a 60 dollar a night hotel room.

  Now that I've had a chance to get a look at her up close in good light, I can see she's not some clueless teenager on a road trip in her mom's car, either.

  If I had to guess, I'd put her in her late 20's or maybe early 30's.

  The fleece jacket she's wearing says "Patagonia" on it and the duffle bag that she's been clin
ging to like a lifeline has a logo that suggests it probably came from the same high end sporting goods store that the she bought the jacket at.

  The big picture shows a woman with her shit together, but the details say otherwise.

  She's made that sugar daddy joke a couple of times now and I wonder if maybe that's where she got the fancy car and clothes to begin with?

  Something about that doesn't feel right though and I'm starting to wonder what her story really is.

  There's a hint of paranoia about her; the way she checks over her shoulder, scans her surroundings constantly, tenses at the sound of my voice-- they're all like a bunch of little clues in a mystery I suddenly want to solve.

  "Grant Lawson." I realize I never introduced myself and I take a minute to backtrack now, extending my hand for a formal shake.

  She looks at my hand like she's sizing up my intentions.

  "Priscilla Presley," she offers sarcastically as she accepts my handshake.

  "You know, all I have to do is call in the plates on your car," I remind her, returning the sarcasm with a grin that I hope will convince her that I'm not the threat she seems to think I am.

  Her face twists as if my comment physically hurt her. It takes me back and I feel like a douche. There's obviously more to her fake name than just being a smart ass.

  "Cassidy," she tells me in a small voice that's completely different than the defiance she's shown me up till now.

  "Well, Cassidy," it's harder to force my fingers to release hers than I expected, "it's nice to meet you. Why don't you leave your bag up here while we go downstairs and get you a key to your room?"

  Her arm tightens over the duffle bag protectively and a vertical line appears between her eyes.

  "Why are you doing this?" She asks me suspiciously, "Why would you let me stay in a fancy suite for free? I mean, You might be the manager and all but I'm guessing you still have to justify comping something like this?"

  Reluctantly, she releases the bag when I slide it off her shoulder and set it down inside the door of the suite as I move her back into the hallway.

  I can tell letting go of her bag and leaving it in the room is a big step for her. She looks back nervously toward the room several times before we board the elevator.

  "Well yes, I am the manager," I confirm as I punch the button marked with an "L" and the carriage begins moving us to the lobby, "but I don't have to justify jack shit," I assure her as we reach the ground floor and the doors slide open, "I'm also the owner."

  Her eyes widen and her mouth moves in a soundless "oh" as she steps past me into the lobby.

  "Theresa?" I get the night auditor's attention as we close the distance to the front desk. Theresa looks up from her work at the sound of my voice and I watch her eyes dart to Cassidy and back to me with mild interest, "Can we get this young lady a key for P2?"

  At the mention of the suite number, Theresa's eyebrows lift in surprise before her gaze settles back on Cassidy with more scrutiny.

  "P2?" Theresa asks, "Twelve isn't open."

  "And that's exactly why P2 is available while our new guest waits out the weather with us." I point out to my employee-- hoping my tone makes it clear that she is my employee.

  "Whatever you say." Theresa shrugs, her eyes still glued to Cassidy, as she gets up and goes through the process of encoding two of our card keys for the suite.

  "So what's your name, Sweetie?" Theresa asks Cassidy directly as she prepares to enter the guest information into the system.

  "Don't worry about that," I tell her in a low voice, "I'll take care of it. Thank you, Theresa."

  Theresa has been with the lodge for several years. She's a good employee and her numbers are always spot on, but it's pretty obvious that she's got some opinions about our newest guest and her access to one of our penthouse suites that she's--wisely-- not sharing.

  She steps away from the computer screen, giving me a disapproving look before shooting another glance at Cassidy and returning to her work on the bookkeeping.

  "You wanna come over here and help me fill this out?" I keep my voice low and gesture toward the computer screen as I step aside to make room for Cassidy to enter her own guest info.

  She looks toward Theresa first but Theresa has gone back to her work and isn't paying attention to us anymore.

  When she's convinced that the older woman isn't going to say anything about it, Cassidy comes around to the back side of the counter and joins me in front of the computer.

  That's when she sees the form I need to fill in to record her stay. I've already filled in her name, "Priscilla Presley."

  Cassidy laughs lightly.

  "I just need this," I point at the required fields on the screen, "and this...you can make something up for this one," I tell her as I point to the phone number.

  Her head bobs twice in understanding and she enters a phone number that may or may not be real, and her driver's license number.

  "Does this get sent anywhere?" She asks quietly.

  "Like where?"

  "I dunno, like can law enforcement trace it and see that I'm here?" she whispers.

  "Is law enforcement going to be looking for you?" I ask.

  I'm teasing, expecting her to smile with me.

  Instead, she turns back to the screen and changes the ID number.

  "I mean, you don't have to have that if I don't have a credit card on file anyway, right?" She asks timidly.

  The worried look in her gray eyes is real and I wonder who she's hiding from...and why.

  Cassidy

  Thank God.

  Grant finally left me alone.

  I thought for sure he was going to follow me into the suite and start asking me a ton of questions after he watched me change my driver's license number in the hotel's system.

  Questions I don't really want to answer right now.

  It's been a long ass day.

  Outside, I can hear the wind picking up.

  A quick glance at the clock on my phone says 12:42 AM and the weather widget claims it's negative 1 out there.

  Carrying my bag into the master bedroom of the penthouse luxury suite, the fact that I'm warm and dry isn't lost on me.

  Nor is the fact that it's been three days since my last shower, or that it's been even longer than that since I got to sleep in a real bed.

  Suddenly, I'm very tired.

  So tired that I almost decide to wait till the morning to take the shower.

  But I can't bring myself to crawl in between the clean, flannel sheets while I'm only daily-sponge-baths-and-dry-shampoo clean.

  So I drag my weary body off the down comforter and into the bathroom.

  Holy shit! I might just sleep in here!

  The shower is every bit as nice as I'd expected-- it's one of those walk-in stalls with a block glass wall separating it from the rest of the bathroom and there 3 different shower heads. As wonderful as that looks though, it's the bathtub that calls to me.

  The thing is big enough for at least 2 grown adults, placed under a window with a small, gas fireplace beside it, and 2 steps leading up to it.

  I want to sleep in it.

  Which probably isn't the best idea.

  But neither is living in the car in South Dakota in February, and that hasn't killed me yet. So what do I have to lose?

  While I wait for the tub to fill up with steaming hot water, I fiddle with the little gas fireplace until I figure out how to turn it on and then how to turn it up, including how to turn on the fan that blows hot air into the cavernous bathroom. Which is good because the bathroom appears to be made out of marble or some equally pretty kind of rock that's really good at staying cold.

  Since I'm still waiting on the bathtub filling process, I head back to the main room in search of the thermostat.

  Grant said that this whole floor is closed to guests for the winter season, and now that I've had a chance to acclimate to being indoors again-- it's pretty obvious that means they don't keep the heat on either.<
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  It's cold as fuck in here.

  Tip toeing through the spacious suite in nothing but my socks and underwear, since I was getting ready to get into the bath and all, I double check the door to make sure it's locked from the inside.

  I don't want Grant to waltz back in here and walk in on me when I'm naked.

  Actually...I let that thought roll around in my head way longer than I'm willing to admit to myself.

  The guy is pretty hot.

  I might be on a break from men, but I'm not dead-- I skip past that thought way too quickly.

  After finding the thermostat for the suite, I turn the heat up from the barely-enough-to-keep-pipes-from-bursting setting it was on to a mammals-can-sustain-their-body-temperatures-at-this-level setting-- and then bump it up to 75. Then bump it down to 70 with my father's voice ringing in my head about how a 2 degree difference was the line between me still needing to wear a sweatshirt around the house or him going bankrupt.

  On my way back through the big master suite to my waiting bath, I spy my cell phone tossed haphazardly on the bed. It's creating a virtual crater in thick, down comforter that makes me momentarily reconsider my bath in favor of the promise of real sleep in a real bed.

  Remembering all those winters in my teens that I spent arguing with Dad over the thermostat hits me hard. It's been a few days since I was able to call my parents and let them know I'm OK.

  I fucking hate this, I think as I carefully slide into the hot bath water. I hate that this is has gone out of control, that I can't go home, that I can't go anywhere without putting people I love in danger now. I hate that Mom and Dad have to worry about me and I can't even let them know where I am.

  It's all so fucking stupid and I still haven't figured out how to fix it. All I can do is keep moving and wait it out.

  This tub is huge.

  Now that I'm used to the hot water, I let my body sag and then slide under the surface. My whole body fits without having to bend my knees.

  Even if I hadn't been perma-camping in the SUV for the last few weeks, this tub would be heaven. After nothing but wet wipes and camp-ground showers on timers, this is beyond heaven.