Hotel Ruby (12 page)

Lourdes looks over her shoulder at me, biting down on her lip like she's trying to hold back a smile. “Of course.”

“What's the deal with Catherine?” I try to keep the annoyance out of my voice.

“I was wondering when you were going to ask about her,” she says, resting her shoulder against the wall. “I noticed you flinched every time her name was mentioned.”

“I did?” I'm mortified that I'm so easy to read.

“You don't have to worry about Eli,” she says simply. “They've been over for a long time.” Despite her reassurance, the comment has the opposite effect. I suspected they'd had a relationship, but I kind of liked avoiding thinking about it. My stomach sinks, and I wonder what Lourdes's idea of “a long time” is.

“And Joshua?” I ask, worried for Daniel. “Is she dating him now?”

“Catherine never dates anybody,” Lourdes says. “At least not long-term. Not since Eli.”

Oh, this keeps getting better and better. Rather than ask Lourdes for the details, I decide to wait to ask Elias himself. No sense dragging Lourdes into this and furthering my humiliation. If I had any sense at all, I'd walk away from this summer-camp romance with Elias. But having any emotion beyond grief is too enticing. I checked my logic at the door of the Ruby. The elevator shudders to a stop.

“My brother's been hooking up with Catherine,” I say simply. “I'm guessing he should stop that?”

“Definitely.” Lourdes pulls the gate to the side with a
clang
. I don't ask anything else about Catherine because the fact that my brother is kissing the ex-girlfriend of the guy I'm almost kissing is gross enough for me to tell Daniel to knock it off.

“Sorry to bring you here again,” Lourdes says. “I've recently been relocated to the basement.” Beyond her the hallway is dimly lit, depressing and lonely.

“Why were you moved? Was it part of your suspension?” I ask. I can't believe she has to live in the basement. It's cold and there aren't even any windows.

“Pretty much. I suck at following the house rules,” she says with a smile. Lourdes walks out of the elevator, and I have to jog to keep pace. The gray hallway ends, splitting off in two directions. She takes a right, and the tiles are replaced by dark carpet, red walls.

“So what do you think of the Ruby so far?” Lourdes asks, and stops to motion around us. “It's beautiful, right?”

“Sure,” I say. “And your creepy story aside, I think it's kind of fun. My dad seems better. Dinner ended with me in tears, but that's not exactly news.” I slow as a sense of guilt wraps around me. Can I really blame my dad for his comment about my reckless behavior? Isn't it my fault that we're here in the first place?

Lourdes turns, her eyebrows pulled together. I wave off her concern. “It's fine,” I say. “He hasn't really been himself the last couple of months. I don't think any of us have.”

“What happened?” She shifts uncomfortably. “If you don't mind me asking.”

“My mother died three months ago.” The words come out automatically and I hate them. I hate how easy they've become to say. “My father couldn't handle the grief—none of us could.” Lourdes makes a sympathetic sound and puts her hand on my arm. Her fingers are cold; the touch reminds me of my mother. Sets me at ease.

“This hotel is a nice vacation from life,” Lourdes says quietly. “It can be great—you'll see.” She starts down the hallway again. “Just keep off Kenneth's radar,” she adds. “Make sure your brother does too. He likes to keep things in order. And if they're not . . .” She trails off, and I'm confused how a concierge can have so much power over an entire establishment.

“You can report him if he's harassing you,” I say, thinking of stories where employees banded together to sue big
corporations. “You can report him to management—”

“He is the management,” Lourdes says, spinning to face me. “Kenneth is the authority at the Ruby, and he can do as he wishes. I've tried everything possible, Audrey. I'm only telling you this now because I like you. And if you stay here, I want you to be prepared.”

“Prepared?” I ask. My arm continues to hurt, and I rub at it absently, wondering if the concierge means to hurt me. “Wait,” I say. “If I stay? Like . . . beyond my reservation? As a job? I don't think my father would go for it either way. He has other plans for my summer.” My heart sinks as I think about my grandmother's attic.

Lourdes's shoulders sag, as if she can read my thoughts. “See,” she says, “this is why we never talk about life outside the hotel. Good or bad, it affects us.” She turns to point down the hallway toward a room. “That's me,” she says. “I'll grab the bottle and be right out.”

I nod, rubbing my forearm. Lourdes disappears inside the room, and I lean against the wall, alone. Above me there is a
clunk
, something heavy hitting the floor, and I look up. In the silence that follows, my thoughts turn to my brother.

I haven't seen Daniel in a while. He must be around because Catherine would be at the party. Unless he decided to go with her. Would Daniel go without telling me?

Lourdes's door opens and she walks out, a pill bottle in one hand and a glass of water in the other. As she approaches, I shrug apologetically.

“To be honest,” I say, “I don't think I need a muscle relaxer.”

“You look miserable,” she responds. “You don't have to put on a brave face for me. I know you're tough.” She rattles the bottle to entice me.

I hold up my uninjured arm, and Lourdes shakes a pill onto my palm. It's tiny, and I examine it for a moment, trying to figure out exactly what it is.

“Flexeril,” she says, reading the label. “But really, it's a mental thing. If you think it's helping, then it will. Here”—she hands me the entire bottle—“in case you need another dose.”

I examine the bottle myself, seeing it's over five years old. Still, I'm not sure how much fun I'll be later if this pain gets worse. I shove the bottle into my pocket. “Well,” I say. “Hope this doesn't kill me.” I toss the pill into my mouth, and Lourdes hands me the water to wash it down. The minute I pull the glass from my mouth, I feel slightly better. A placebo effect.

“Thank you,” I say, giving her back the glass. She sets it on the floor, off to the side, and then walks with me back down the hall. “I'll put you in the regular elevator this time,” she says with a smile. “I know you're not a fan of the other one.” She pushes the button when we get there, and while we wait, she laughs suddenly and leans against the wall.

“God,” she says. “I've had too much to drink. You must think I'm a crazy person, talking about ghosts and pills.
Please disregard everything I've said tonight. Wait,” she says, holding up her finger. “There was one other thing—is Daniel staying on the thirteenth floor with you?”

“No. Both he and my dad are on the sixth. Why?”

“Just curious,” she says. When I continue to stare at her questioningly, she lifts one shoulder. “I'm in housekeeping. I wanted to know where to send the best stuff. You ruined the surprise.”

“Hope I still get some chocolates.” The elevator doors open and I step inside. Lourdes touches her forehead like maybe she really did have too much to drink.

“I have an early day tomorrow,” she says. “But I'm glad you came out with me tonight. You forgive me for scaring you, right?” She scrunches up her nose, not sure of the answer.

“Totally,” I say sincerely. “It was fun. Even though I hate being scared.”

“We only did it because we like you.” She smiles, looking relieved. “Promise. And if you stay awake for Eli, the party in the ballroom can go on until three or four. I doubt he'll leave before then. He'll find you when he's done socializing.”

The doors start to close, but I put out my hand to stop them. “Does Elias like the parties?” I ask Lourdes. “He doesn't seem to.”

“Maybe once upon a time,” she says. “But nothing lasts forever. Except the Ruby.”

Lourdes turns to walk back to her room. I lower my arm and the elevator doors close, but rather than push the button for the thirteenth floor, I press for the lobby. If Elias used to enjoy the parties, what changed his mind? I can't help but think it has to do with Catherine. And again there's that spike of jealousy.

When the doors open to the lobby, it hits me how bizarre the night has been. I cross the expansive room toward the front desk, reflecting on my conversation with Lourdes. The story of the Ruby itself. The terror I felt at the fountain. A cold sensation drifts over me, and I lift my head to find Kenneth behind the desk, smiling as I approach.

“How may I help you this evening, Miss Casella?” he asks pleasantly. I look for a hint of the sinister man the staff described, but Kenneth is all business. His uniform is tidy, his eyes curious and helpful. I don't buy his bullshit, though.

“Good evening,” I say, trying to sound mature. In reality the muscle relaxer has slowed me slightly. “I was wondering if you could help me.” I lean my elbows on the counter, steadying myself. “How exactly does one get invited to the party in the ballroom?” I ask. “Is there a way I can go?”

Kenneth doesn't flinch, only stands there motionless, waiting to see if I'll go on. When I don't, he tilts his head apologetically. “I'm sorry,” he says. “The party is invite only.”

“I know,” I respond. “But I was wondering if I could have one of those invitations.”

The concierge turns to his computer, tapping quickly on the keys. He looks at me and smiles. “I'm very sorry, Miss Casella. You're not on the list.”

“But my father and brother have both gotten one.” My adrenaline starts to pump, and my politeness is beginning to fade away. “We came here together.”

“Very sorry,” he says again, folding his small hands in front of him.

That's all he's going to say? I'm starting to feel light headed, but I don't want to leave here without some answers. Why would both my father and Daniel get an invitation and not me? “Is there someone else I can talk to?” I ask the concierge. “Who makes the list?” My voice has taken on a hint of panic at the thought of being left out of my family.

Kenneth's face tightens with concern. “You don't look well, Miss Casella,” he says kindly. “Perhaps you should return to your room and get some rest.” He pulls a handkerchief from his breast pocket and holds it out. I don't take it, and he winces apologetically. “You have a little . . .” He motions to the side of his forehead and then stretches the cloth out to me again. Hesitantly, I press it to the side of my head where he indicated and feel a sudden sting.

“Ow.” When I pull away the handkerchief, I see a small splotch of blood on the cloth. My stomach lurches, and I press the fabric to my head once again. “What happened?” I ask, although I don't see how he would know the answer.

“You must have hit your head,” he says. “Nasty little gash. Get some rest, Miss Casella. If I see your brother or your father, I'll let them know you were here looking for them.”

I'm shaken by the blood, trying to remember when I could have hit my head. On the roof? At the fountain? Maybe I accidentally scratched myself while the concierge was refusing me an invite. My body suddenly sways, and I catch myself by grabbing on to the counter. I want to lie down, even as I toss a longing glance at the closed doors of the ballroom party.

Why can't I go? Without a word of thanks I keep the handkerchief to my forehead and start toward the elevator. Every step is like walking through deep sand—my legs are tired and heavy, my muscles burn with exertion. For a moment I entertain the thought that Lourdes inadvertently poisoned me, but when I get to the elevator, I'm slightly better.

The doors close, and once I'm alone, my heart calms and the ache fades. I turn toward the mirrored wall and slowly lower the handkerchief to inspect my wound. Only there is none. There is no gash, no blood. There is nothing there at all.

I fall back a step, confused and a bit scared. But I saw blood on the handkerchief—felt the sting of the cut. When I go to check the cloth, it's no longer in my hand. I spin, checking to see if I dropped it, but there is only the burgundy patterned carpet.

“What the hell?” I murmur, checking my reflection once more. I even turn around and look over my shoulder to make sure the handkerchief hasn't stuck to my shirt. It's gone.

The elevator doors suddenly open and I jump. I didn't hear the signal for the thirteenth floor. Wait, did I even push the button for my floor? My breathing quickens, and the emptiness of the elevator, the silence, sends a streak of fear through me. My throat clicks when I swallow, and I take a tentative step out of the elevator. I glance down the hall one way and then the other.

Empty. Quiet.

I sway on my feet and reach out to put my hand on the wall. The elevator leaves for another floor, and I decide that I'm being ridiculous. See—this is why I shouldn't drink. And why I shouldn't take a muscle relaxer after ingesting alcohol. What was I thinking? Oh, right. I wasn't.

Annoyed with myself, I head toward my room, my steps slow but steady. When I get to my door, I hear the faint sound of music. It's the song. The same one I can't place. I'm about to search it out when the music disappears entirely. “At least I'm not the only person on this floor,” I murmur with a bit of relief, and slide my key into the door.

I
'm jolted awake by the shrill ring of the phone. I sit up, and the room tilts one way and then the other. I'm still in my clothes, the lights on. I don't remember lying down. I vaguely remember talking to the concierge, asking for an invite, but everything goes blurry after that. The bottle of muscle relaxers is on my nightstand, and I groan at how stupid I was to take one. The phone rings again, and I move quickly to answer it.