The Woman in 3B - Eliza Lentzski Page 0,27

Why shouldn’t I let myself have some fun? If only impersonal trysts actually sounded appealing to me.

I rolled up the sleeves of my button-up blouse and splashed some cool water against my face. I inspected myself in the mirror above the sink. My mascara and eyeliner had all but smudged off, but at least I didn’t look like an exhausted racoon. I pulled my hair free from the elastic band that had held it back in a low ponytail. Releasing my hair from its prison relieved some of the tension that had been pulling at my temples, but I could still feel the phantom beginnings of a headache. I needed to go to sleep or at least shut off my brain.

I exited the bathroom to find Anissa making herself at home. In my short absence, she had started to tear the comforter off one of the double beds, stripping it down to the white sheets beneath.

“What are you doing?” I asked.

Anissa didn’t pause to consider my question. She continued to tear the bed apart, undeterred. “Have you ever used a blacklight in a hotel room?”

I wrinkled my nose, knowing exactly to what she was referring. “No, thanks. I prefer to be ignorant about the amount of body fluids in the places I stay.”

I noticed the outfit she’d been wearing earlier had been folded into a neat pile and sat on the bureau upon which the television also rested. My throat tightened when I spotted a flash of pale yellow lace that belonged to either her bra or underwear. I blamed my brain’s obsession with her undergarments on my exhaustion from the long day.

“Are you a bourbon drinker?” she asked. She’d completed her dismantling of my bed and transitioned next to the drinks I had been promised. She turned over two clear glasses that sat on a serving tray by the complimentary ice bucket. Her back was to me, but I could hear the sound of liquid filling glass.

“Not really,” I admitted. “Hard liquor isn’t my first choice.”

She turned back toward me with a short, clear glass filled about halfway. “It is tonight,” she grinned with a playful wink. She offered me the glass and I felt like I had no other option but to accept it.

She poured herself a drink as well, her glass filled a little more than the one she’d given me.

“What should we toast to?” she asked. She raised her glass in the air.

I shrugged in indecision; I wasn’t feeling particularly clever.

“How about—to the kindness of strangers?” she suggested. Her nose crinkled when she smiled; actually, her smile reached her whole face. Deep dimples in either cheek. Elevated cheekbones. Squinted eyes. Even her eyebrows seemed to get in on the action.

I was too caught up in admiring her beautiful features to notice her traveling glass. Our drinks lightly collided, but I clenched my fingers around my glass just in time to avoid it slipping from my hand. I couldn’t imagine the kind of klutz she’d think of me if I had managed to spill another drink.

Anissa lifted her glass to her mouth. Her lipstick was gone, but her lips remained a pleasant dusky rose color. I watched her lips part ever slightly and the tip of her tongue press against the edge of the heavy glass. The muscles in her throat undulated as she took an aggressive first sip.

I continued to regard the woman in my hotel room while I took a more tentative sip. The alcohol burned nearly the moment it passed my lips and hit my tongue. I at least was able to suppress a choking cough, however, so I didn’t appear to be a total amateur.

Anissa topped off her drink before taking residency in the bed she had so recently stripped. Her braless breasts gently moved beneath her borrowed t-shirt as she positioned herself at the head of the bed. She sat with her legs folded, which caused the cotton sleep shorts to ride up her tan thighs.

She patted at the empty space beside her. “Take a load off, Alice,” she coaxed. “You’re not on the clock anymore.”

Technically I was still in my uniform and still representing my airline until I returned to Detroit. But there was no harm in having one drink, I reasoned, even if it was with a Business Class passenger, and even if she was wearing my pajamas. Too bad there wasn’t a bingo card square for that.

She’d offered the space beside her, but this wasn’t a sleepover party—or at