I wake up with a shudder to a crashing sound. I look over at the bed and she’s not there. I spring up and see her body tangled on the floor and it looks like she’s trembling. I hope she’s not drunk or high. I need her capable of answering questions. I take a few steps towards her with my heart lodged in my throat.
“Please don’t hurt me!” she cries out. “Just take what you want, just take it all and go,” she cries as I kneel down beside her, confused, and try to help her up. She’s rocking and sobbing. I take hold of her arms to help lift her back into bed and our eyes connect. Hers are so expressive; I register fear, shock, relief, and then anger in them.
“Get your filthy hands off of me. It’s you! You! From…from the bar? What the fuck are you doing in my room? Who let you in here?” She’s getting herself all worked up as she covers her breasts by pulling her dress back on and struggling to get as far away from me as possible, situating herself on the other side of the massive, four-poster bed. I still have not uttered a word. I just look at her and aim to work out how to handle her.
“I’m Jeffery Rossi,” I say as her eyes enlarge in shock and her hand flies to her open mouth.
“You’re Will Knight?” she asks and once again, I’m as baffled as ever.
I nod my head. “Yeah, that would be me. So, who does that make you? You’re surely not Emily.”
She closes her eyes and falls face first on the bed before erupting into uncontrollable laughter, which I know from experience will only end in more tears. I fold my arms over my chest and wait for this nutty girl to simmer down and tell me how she knows my name and what in the bloody hell makes this situation a rib-tickler. It takes her a full ten minutes to stop laughing and snorting like a farm animal, which, as I predicted, turned into crying. Now she’s at the hiccup stage. I can see her brain working as she laughs and then starts to cry. Something is off with this bird. Did Louis put her up to this? Maybe he’s using his whore to keep me away from Emily. He does like to share women.
I walk over to a small beverage fridge and fish out a bottle of water. I set it on the bedside table and go into the en suite bathroom to fetch her a paper napkin or a wet cloth to help get herself together so that she can illuminate me with her knowledge. I come back as she sits up against the headboard in the middle of the big, stark bed. I hand over the warm cloth and the water bottle. She takes both and just looks at me. I’m a gentleman; therefore, I make the first move.
“Tell me who you are, since you already seem to know who I am,” I say as seriously as I can. She wipes her face and takes a few sips of water before answering.
“I’m Sara, Sara Klein,” she says and then looks at me with amazement, waiting to hear what I want to know next.
Her name resonates in my head like déjà vu, making this feel familiar, which is peculiar since I’ve only seen her last night at the pub and hadn’t gotten her name. “Sara, why are you here? Where is Emily? Was it you who sent me those texts yesterday?” We’re still staring one another down. My heart breaks for this poor girl with her sad-looking eyes trying to read me. She was pleasing yesterday at the pub, but today, I don’t proper fancy her one bit. Never would I think her to be American and my first thought last night at the pub—that she’s a prostitute—starts to make more sense.
She nods and finally replies, “Yes, I sent those texts…with Emily, at first, but she doesn’t know I made arrangements to meet you.” With that, she breaks our stare and looks down at her hands.
When she mentions Emily’s name, my heart literally clenches as a hundred more questions materialize and beg to come out. This bird Sara then covers her bare legs with a blanket, which I think is odd—her trying to fake modesty. I bloody saw her get