That’s why I’m working at a shitty motel on the Southside of Chicago instead of going to college. Well, that and the fact that I didn’t have Uncle Sam’s help or the assistance of some rich dude who, for some reason, was all about creating an inner ring of tough-as-shit guys he trusted, and providing them with the skills, including education, to achieve world domination.
Okay, that’s my assessment based solely on what little Mason has told me.
“Hurry up, Pierce,” Anna said from the desk in the employee locker room. “That puke won’t clean itself.”
Gritting my teeth, I closed my locker and checked the supplies on my cart. Pushing it through the steamy laundry area, I made my way to room 211. The one elevator reeked of old fast food. The bag in the corner was no doubt the culprit. Donning a pair of gloves, I lifted it.
I let out a shriek as a mouse dashed out the closing doors. “Shit,” I muttered, throwing the bag into the trash bin attached to my cart.
Shaking off the chills left by the sensation of millions of scurrying mice, I stepped from the elevator on the second floor. The concrete corridor lined by a four-foot railing looked down upon the scenic parking lot. Today, there was a rusted-out AMC Pacer to view.
This Motel 7 was the type of motel where most people checked in by the hour. The customers didn’t care that the carpets were threadbare. Or that the rubber backing on the drapes to keep the rooms dark was cracked or that the material was saturated with cigarette smoke.
At least the sheets and towels were cleaned daily in large washing machines with gallons of bleach. However, the bedspreads only warranted changing if a visible stain was present. Blood was the easiest to decipher. Other stains were a mystery, one where using my imagination made them ten times worse.
“Lorna,” my friend and coworker Jane called from down the sidewalk. Her light hair was piled high in a messy bun and her baby belly was beginning to show.
“Are you in 211?” I asked, pushing my cart closer.
“Yeah.” Her nose wrinkled. “The puke was pink. I have no idea what she drank, but damn.”
“You cleaned it?”
“Girl, you’ve had my back. I wasn’t letting Anna be that bitch.”
“Is it possible to stop that?”
Jane laughed as she placed her bucket and mop back on her cart. “No. I think that’s chronic.”
I smiled down at Jane’s midsection. “You shouldn’t have cleaned that. I’d have gotten it.”
“I wore my gloves and a mask. A bottle of Febreze later and it smells like a rainforest in there.”
“Do you think they’re lying about the rainforest thing? I mean, I’ve never smelled one.”
“If it smells like that” —she tilted her chin toward the door— “I ain’t booking a trip anytime soon.”
With the door to 211 still ajar, I peered inside the room. “I owe you. Is it all done?”
“Yeah.” Jane winked. “Let me show you something.”
Like two children about to embark on a secret mission, Jane and I each turned our heads both directions. With no sign of guests or Anna Maples, we entered room 211. Jane walked to the armoire—a fancy name for a cabinet that was also a closet—and opened the door.
“Holy shit,” I exclaimed.
“I know.” Jane reached for the high-heeled shoes a previous guest must have left.
The pumps weren’t just high, they were stilts tall.
While I wasn’t well versed in expensive clothes, I recognized the name written on the inside: Louboutin Paris. “I’ve never seen a pair of these in person,” I said, reaching for one.
“Look, the bottom is red, just like they describe in books.”
I smiled at my friend. “What books do you read?”
“The kind where some hot guy kidnaps the girl and gives her a closet full of expensive shit.”
I shook my head. “That isn’t real.”
“That’s why they call it fiction.” She nodded at the shoe in my hand. “That isn’t fiction. It’s real. Try them on.”
I stared down at the shoe. The heel had to be four inches high or higher. The sole was red, but the shoe itself was made out of a taupe mesh with hundreds of embellishing crystals. “It’s like a glass slipper.”
Jane hurried to the door and, peering out, looked both ways. Shutting the door, she turned to me. “Try them on.”
“What am I going to do with shoes like this?”
“Wear them. Hell, walk around your apartment in them. Put them in some display case.” She looked down at her feet. “I can barely wear these Crocs, and I still have months to go. My sausages won’t fit in those.” She grinned. “Really, I couldn’t have worn them before the baby. They’re a size five. Come on, before Anna sees them.”
“We should turn them in.”
“Right, because the chick who stayed in this dump and threw up her guts all over the bed and bathroom is going to remember where she left her expensive shoes.”
I held one by the slender heel. The sun light coming through the murky window reflected on the crystals. A smile came to my lips. “They’re so pretty.”
“Try them on. Hurry up before the wicked stepsister finds us.”
With a shake of my head, I sat on the edge of the cracked vinyl chair and removed my shoes and socks. I didn’t even think about the filthy carpeting as I stood and slipped one foot and then the other into the shoes. “Whoa,” I said with a laugh as my arms waved at my sides.
“Don’t fall.”
“I’m pretty sure I’ll never be able to walk in these.”
“But they fit. Take them home.” When I hesitated, Jane continued, “If you don’t, you know Anna will.”
“She’d never fit her boat-sized feet into these.”
“Then they belong to you.”
My nerves kicked up while excitement did too. “I’ve never owned anything this nice.”
“Now you do. Besides, we deserve some perks with this job. If they’d fit me, I wouldn’t have shown them to you.”
I reached over and gave Jane a quick hug. “Thank you. Not only for the shoes. But I owe you for cleaning this room.” I sat back down and put on my socks and shoes. When I looked up, Jane was smiling. “Do you have something in mind?”
“I do. Can you cover for me Sunday?”
Today was Monday and the upcoming weekend was my first full weekend off in a month. I had from clock-out on Friday to clock-in on Monday free to do whatever I wanted. However, as I looked at my friend, I was well aware that my engagement schedule wasn’t exactly full. “Sure. What time on Sunday?”
“I’m scheduled at seven.”
I internally groaned. The seven to three was my least favorite shift. I remembered the shoes. “I’ll be here.”
“Thank you, Lorna, you’re the best.”
As we were about to leave the room, my phone rang.
“Hey, if that’s some gorgeous guy wanting to take you away this weekend, tell him you got to be back Sunday morning.”
“Right.” I looked at the screen. “It’s just my brother.”
She wiggled her eyebrows. “I’ve seen him. He’s fine.”