Read Checking Inn Online

Authors: Emily Harper

Checking Inn (15 page)

“Why don’t we take this napkin to your house and find a clipboard for it?” Ben puts money on the counter.

I nod sadly and put my napkin carefully against my chest before getting off the stool.  I take one step and the whole room goes round me like a merry-go-round.  Except there are no horses.  And no candy– just Mr. Phelp’s peanuts.  This carnival sucks.

I square my shoulders and make my way to the door, finding the cold air refreshing once I am outside.

It feels just like I am at the beach, with the breeze blowing on my face.  And those hedges are kind of like sand dunes in the dark.  I love the beach; I could spend hours there just sitting and relaxing or taking a nice nap.

A nap sounds good right now.  I might just lie down a bit on the sand dunes and let the ocean sweep over me.

“Kate, you’re lying on a shrub,” Ben says as he exits the bar behind me.

“Shhh, I’m listening for seagulls,” I say and put my finger to my mouth to indicate the importance of it being quiet.

I feel so light, like I am floating over the ground.

Except, I actually am floating over the ground.

I open one eye to see Ben’s face.  He has me braced against his chest, his one arm under my legs to carry me home.

“I can walk,” I say.

“No you can’t,” he argues.

“You’re right,” I say, smiling and leaning my head against his chest.  “This is better anyways.”

Ben carries me the two blocks to my house and Maggie greets us at the door.

“Sit Maggie,” I say in a sing song voice, and I open one eye to see her sitting by the door, her head tilted to the side studying me.  “Oh, good doggy!  Ben, isn’t Maggie such a good doggy?”

“The best,” he says and carries me through the hallway, pausing by the living room door.  “Where’s your bedroom?”

“Maggie, show Ben where our room is,” I say and watch as she gets up and runs down the hallway to my bedroom.  “Good doggy!” I say gleefully and look up at Ben.  “She’s a purebred.”

We follow Maggie into my bedroom and he sets me down, putting my head on my yellow, patchwork pillows.

I watch him look around the room, taking it all in and I beam.  “I designed the whole thing myself.”

His eyes travel from my rose bud patterned curtains, to my daisy painted dresser I have had since I was born, and finally settles on my bright yellow rocking chair.  “My mom used to rock me to sleep in that,” I say, looking at it lovingly.

“You picked out all this stuff?” he asks.

“Most of it is from my bedroom when I was a little girl; my mom wanted to throw it out a few years ago when she turned my old room into her zen place.  But how could I let her throw this stuff out?  It’s gorgeous!”

Ben goes over to the rocker and runs his hand over the innate carving on the arm rests before looking at me. “So, this is the girl who used to slide down the banister.”

I frown as I look at him and shrug before grabbing my daisy pillow and hugging it to my chest.  “I like flowers.”

“I figured,” he says, coming over to stand beside my bed.  He bends down and moves my legs over to make room to sit before he lowers himself onto the edge.

“Greg was sleeping with Samantha,” I say and don’t take my eyes off of the edge of the pillow that my fingers are playing with.

“I know,” he says.

“What? How did you know?” I ask, searching his face.

“I knew you took something from her apartment, and then when I went to get your inhaler the other day I saw the card on top of your desk,” he says.

“That could have been my card,” I argue.

He shakes his head.  “The corners were all crinkled and there was a bend in the middle like it had been folded in half.  If it was yours it would have looked perfect.”

I open my mouth to protest, but then close it.  He’s right.  I was even considering ironing it because the crinkles were driving me nuts when I was staring at it all day.  “Are you going to arrest him?”

“I don’t know.  Just because they were sleeping together doesn’t prove he murdered her.  We need more evidence than that in order to get a warrant.”

“She could have been pregnant,” I say, looking at him below my lowered eyelids.  “I found a test in her place too.”

“She wasn’t,” he says, shaking his head.  “It’s one of the first things we look for in an autopsy.”

“I just don’t understand men,” I say, and fresh tears come to my eyes.  “There’s this box of pictures of the two of them in his apartment, and they looked so… happy together.  We never looked like that.”

Ben puts his hand on mine for support.

“And I should have known.  We haven’t had sex in months because he says every time he touches me I get all twitchy.  I’m not twitchy, am I?” I ask, looking at Ben as though he holds all the answers.

“No, you’re not twitchy,” he says.

“He was probably just too busy having sex with Samantha.  How was I ever going to compete with that?” I say, furrowing my brow in desperation for answers.  “I mean, why did he waste all that time on me when he knew he could do better anyways?”

“He’s an idiot,” Ben says, looking at his hands.

“I’m an idiot,” I say.  “My father left me for a bunch of beautiful women, so it’s only right my boyfriend did too.”

Ben moves his hands to his sides and looks up at the flowers on my bedroom wall.

“You are the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen,” he says.

It takes a moment for his voice to register in my slow working brain.

I look at him, not looking at me. 

I don’t know what to say to that.

His sandy hair is curling at his collar, probably because he hasn’t had a haircut in months.  His jacket is undone, and the t-shirt’s color is bringing out the caramel in his brown eyes.

I slowly sit up and reach out my hand to touch his.  The tips of my fingers feel cold as they touch his warm skin.

He takes me in out of the corner of his eye, barely moving his head before my hand reaches up to his face to trail my fingers along his jawline.  Leaning forward I stop when my lips are just a few inches from his face, my eyes never leaving his– waiting for him to resist.  When my lips finally meet his, I feel a tingling from my head to my toes.  His lips are soft and full, his skin smelling of fresh soap.  He frowns as my lips seek encouragement from his, and as I run my hand through his messy, unkempt hair, I feel something inside of him give and his reserved response is gone.

His exploring mouth encourages mine, and even though I’ve never been a great kisser, Ben seems to be enjoying it. He parts my lips with his tongue and my toes curl as I pull my feet underneath me to make my body closer to his.

I’m not sure if it’s the alcohol or Ben’s unpredictable thoroughness, but whatever it is, it causes me to lose all sense and reason.

I’ve never been kissed like this before in my life.  With Greg it was always so perfect, so planned and precise. He also knew exactly what to do to get a pleasurable result.

But Ben’s not like that at all.  He’s all over the place, his one hand grabbing my cheek, his other on my hip.  I don’t know what he is going to do next, which is terrifying.  But it’s also extremely sexy.

I reach for the front of his shirt the same time he reaches for mine, and our hands end up getting tangled trying to get around each other.  I let him go first, his fingers working on the buttons of my blouse.  My hands grab onto his shoulder and pull him towards me as I lean backwards.  He finally finishes with my shirt and I reach down to pull the tails of his shirt out of his pants, my mouth never leaving his.

“Wait–” he says, putting his hand over top of mine.

“What, was I twitching?” I ask, my forehead wrinkling.

“No,” he says, shaking his head.  “You’re perfect.”

“I read a lot of books for sex advice,” I say, with my lips trying to reach his again.

“Kate, you’re drunk,” he says, rubbing his thumb on my cheek.

“It will be better,” I say, waving away his concerns.  Greg always said I was better when I’d been drinking.

“We can’t do this.  You would just hate yourself tomorrow,” he says, slowly sitting back up.

I push myself up onto my elbows.  “I won’t, pinky swear,” I say, crossing my heart with my finger.

He looks at me with his skeptical look.  “Okay, well I would hate myself tomorrow.”

My eyes widen and I quickly close my blouse.  “Well I am sorry I would be so disturbing to you tomorrow.”

“Not because of 
that,
” he says, shaking his head.  “Kate, I’m not going to take advantage of you.”

“Why? I want you to!” I argue.

He stays quiet and I take a deep breath.

Okay, I know I have never been that good at these sorts of things, but I thought I was doing pretty well. 

And if he thought tomorrow morning would be awful, it would have been nothing compared to what I’m feeling right now.

“I– umm– I’m kind of tired,” I say and try to tamper down the hurt flickering in my eyes.

He studies me for a minute before nodding his head.

“Get some sleep, Kate,” he says, leaning over me to get to the lamp on my bedside table. The next thing I know the room is completely black.

And I do sleep.

 

Thirteen

I awake to a distant ringing in my ears.  I slowly open my eyes and look around to find Ben, but the spot beside me is empty.  My heart sinks, but then I tell myself it’s for the best.  I have so many things to deal with this morning that a “what does this mean?” conversation probably is best to leave for another time.

I slowly raise my body from the pillows to test the severity of the pounding in my head, and at once recognize that last night’s “teqweela” was a terrible mistake.

I hear loud noises coming from the kitchen, and I force myself to sit upright.

Looking around, I spy my dressing gown on the yellow rocking chair. After brushing my hair I look in the mirror and wince.  Maggie has her head on her paws and when she sees me looking, she puts one paw over her eye. 

I get it– definitely not a good hair day.

Slowly making my way towards the kitchen, I brace myself for the awkward moment I am about to walk into. I mean, what do you say to a guy when he has told you he can’t have sex with you because you’re too drunk?  I should probably say thank you, except… I’m not so sure that I was that drunk last night.  I remember most of it, so how drunk could I have possibly been?  But at the same time, it’s nicer to my self-esteem to be rejected because of my blood alcohol level than any other reason.  You know– the sexually awkward, twitching reason.

But when I finally get through the kitchen doorway, it isn’t Ben who is making all the noise.

“Mom?” I ask as I walk into the kitchen. “What’s all the commotion?” 

“I’m making you breakfast.  I can’t find the salt.”  Mom leans inside the bottom cupboard and frantically tries to move around the pots and pans, and they all come crashing out and onto the floor. 

“Right, and you’re looking in the pots and pans cupboard because…?”  I question.

“Because,” Mom’s mumbled voice comes from inside, “I’ve looked through all the other cupboards and can’t find it anywhere.” 

Mom emerges from the cupboard, bright red in the face, with her auburn hair tossed every which way.  She looks so fresh and natural, and definitely not close to sixty-five.  I hope I get a grey streak like her one day.

How could any man not be grateful to have my mother’s love?

Maybe the same way I’ve taken it for granted all this time.

“I just don’t understand what happened to it, I could have sworn I saw it on your counter a minute ago.” She scans the kitchen counter again. 

Frankly, I don’t know how she can find anything in here.  She seems to have turned the whole kitchen upside down and now everything is just in heaps everywhere.   I can see some jelly from a jar slowly inching its way out and getting closer to my new clipboard, and I quickly rescue it before the jelly makes even more of a mess.

“Did you check the kitchen table?”  I say in a helpful tone, and look over my shoulder at the salt and pepper shakers sitting neatly in the middle of the small round table.

“There it is!” she says as though she has discovered the greatest mystery.  She picks them up and shakes her head.  “I’ve looked everywhere for you.”

I scan the room and mentally make a plan to get everything back in its place as quickly as possible, but my thoughts are interrupted by the shrill ring of the phone on the kitchen wall.

“Who keeps calling?” I ask, putting my hand to my temple.

“Greg the Great,” Mom says, walking back to the stove and sprinkling salt on the cooking eggs.

At first I take a step back.  I’m really not in the right mindset to have it out with Greg right now.  For one, I haven’t made a list of all the things I am going to say to him.

My mother is singing by the stove, adding a bunch of different herbs to the eggs, and though they look disgusting I’m sure they will taste excellent.  Mom’s always been a great cook.

She’s actually always been good at anything she sets her mind to.  She usually does it in a very unconventional way, but she puts her heart and soul into everything she does, and I never appreciate that.

She’s spent her life trying to make my dreams come true, sheltering me from the truth about my father, all at her own cost.

If she can deal with all that, I’m sure I can handle a phone call from Greg the Great.

I square my shoulders and charge over to the phone, but my throbbing head reminds me that perhaps charging isn’t the best idea today.

“Hello?” I say into the phone.

“Kate?  What the fuck is going on?  Did you take the last page out of my Tom Clancy novel?” his angry voice yells into the phone.

“Oh, did you need that?” I ask innocently.

“This is exactly why I didn’t want to give you a key.  I know you’re mad that I had to skip out on dinner the other night–”

“Oh, I’m not mad about that,” I say, my fingers playing with the phone cord.  “I know you’ll make it up to me, right?”

Greg stays quiet on the other side of the phone and my resolve to play it cool breaks.  I’ve never been good at playing anything cool.

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