Morning in Vegas
Sunlight wakes me from dreams and I prop myself against the headboard, staring out the windows. The heat burns away the last of the storms and once again violent hot summer reigns in Sin City. No rain can last for long in this desert waste I call home. The brutal heat returns like an old friend, one you knew would not stay away for long.
Checking my phone, I realize it's still quite early and contemplate whether to get out of bed for morning writing. Shall I ring for coffee or just say screw it all and sleep until noon? No matter how many lazy fibers of my body scream for sleep, I know this novel will not write itself. I have to put my ass in that chair and pin myself to the writing desk until...
The sound of someone snoring startles me and I jump away from the moving form of a body under the comforter on the bed. Rising, I take a seat at my writing desk and send George a text message to begin coffee service. I do not know what or who happened last night and I don't have the heart to face the truth before I write out the images of my dream before it fades from memory.
"Can you tell us what happened last night? Start from the beginning. How did you get to the party?"
Cops stare at me, waiting for me to answer the questions, dozens of men surround me. I can't think or breathe or remember how I got to that damned frat house or how I got to be here in this sweltering room with so many men pressing in around me. What happened last night? I do not have any idea and know I need to calm my nerves if I have any hope to remember.
"I was at home watching television and a friend of mine called me..."
"What is the name of this 'friend'?" the cops asks, emphasis on the word friend as if he doesn't believe such a thing could exist for me.
I don't know a name to tell him. It's all a blur. I remember driving down Rt 95 towards Providence. My cell phone kept buzzing with text messages, a constant blinking reminder...
"What are you doing?"
The surprise of someone speaking makes me jump and I slam my laptop shut before facing the bed. Charles lounges lazily on his side smoking a cigarette and for a moment, before the shot of anger kicks in full throttle, I admire his young athletic body. There can be no doubt Charles is quite attractive and this fact blunts my anger at him smoking so casually as if he owned the place.
"You shouldn't be here." Approaching the bed, I take a cigarette from the pack and wait for Charles to extend the lighter towards me. I crawl into bed next to him, careful to hold the cigarette high above the bunches of comforters and pillows.
Charles begins to answer, but the bedroom door opens and George wheels the cart for coffee service into the room, stopping him from speaking. I don't know what to expect, but without a word George busies himself with morning tasks of putting fresh flowers on my writing desk and pouring coffee for two.
"Tell me when you are ready for breakfast, Ella. New songs have been added to your writing playlist and the writing samples you sent me in the night have been edited. Do tell me if you require anything else this morning."
George takes his leave and I hear Charles let out a low chuckle. "See that, he poured me a cup. Seems my being here is quite fine with him."
Sipping at my coffee, I close my eyes for a moment trying to re-capture the images of my dream. Scraps and fragments flutter in my mind, but the presence of this boy breaks my concentration and all the images disappear.
"You keep forgetting an important fact." Opening my eyes, I crush the cigarette in the ashtray. Swinging my leg over Charles, I grab his chin to force eye contact. "I am the master here."
"Yes, Master," he says.
I ease myself onto him and music begins to play. It's a song I have not heard in a long time and it allows me to drift once more into the memories of my dream.
in the bedroom