Page 19 of Her Irish Savage
“Where are we?” I ask, peering through the windows.
“A hotel.”
“Which one?”
“A Hilton. A Hyatt. What the fuck do you care? It’s somewhere not connected with you in any way. Your uncle won’t have any reason to look for us here.”
A uniformed attendant hovers by my door. I shove my shoes into my backpack and try not to argue with Moran. I’m barely successful, especially when he looks like he wants to de-nut the man who helps me out of the car.
Moran wrestles both of my suitcases out of the back and slings his own duffel over one shoulder. I see what it costs him when the valet asks for his car key. Moran doesn’t like giving control to anyone.
Once we’re in the lobby, he orders me to stay close to his side. There’s no one waiting to check in. The one clerk at reception is carrying on an animated conversation with a bellhop.
“And then—” says the clerk. His name tag readsNelson. I don’t know if that’s a first name or a last.
“Excuse me,” Moran interrupts.
“Andthen,” Nelson tries again. The bellhop has the grace to look uncomfortable.
Moran taps the corner of his credit card against the counter. It’s an American Express platinum.
Da carried a black card. I wonder if I can access his account. How long will it be before I get my own black card?
The clerk doesn’t take the hint. Instead, he angles his shoulders, as if he’s sharing a secret with his uneasy coworker. “Itoldher?—”
“Cut the crap,” Moran warns, his voice dangerously low.
Nelson isn’t quite as stupid as he looks. He raises his eyebrows in fake surprise. “I’m sorry, sir,” he says in a voice that is anything but. “I didn’t realize you were waiting.”
Negotiations for a room go about as well as I expect. There’s nothing on the highest floor. All the suites are taken. They don’t have anything with two queen beds. If we have special requirements like that, we should have made a reservation.
Moran finally settles on a fourth-floor room with a single king-size bed. Nelson eyes his computer screen with a spark of malevolence. “Are you eligible for any of our discounts?” he asks, flicking a dismissive glance at Moran’s disheveled gray-shot hair. “Senior citizen?”
Moran is Braiden’s chief enforcer. The Glock in his shoulder holster can’t be the only weapon he’s carrying. But he takes the insult, only gritting through set teeth: “No discounts.”
The clerk nods and types and blinks like he’s innocent as a newborn lamb. “And will your daughter need a key too?”
My laugh comes out as a sharp bark. Moran glares like he’s trying to incinerate the entire front desk. “We both need keys.”
“Very well, sir,” Nelson says. He puts two plastic cards in a paper sleeve. “Have a wonderful evening. Don’t hesitate to let me know if I can do anything to make your stay more pleasant.”
Moran growls as he snatches up the keys. I need to jog to keep up on our way to the elevator.
The room door closes noisily behind us. The bed fills almost every inch of the stained beige carpet. A quick glance out the window confirms we’re facing an air shaft.
Moran throws his duffel into the only free corner. “Where do you want your bags?” he asks.
I snort. “The bathroom? Or maybe we should use them as pillows.”
This time, he swears in English.
Before I can tweak him again, he edges past my suitcases and stomps into the bathroom. I’m pretty sure he’s practicing deep breathing and maybe counting to ten. The door is thin enough I’d hear anything else.
I take advantage of his absence to wiggle out of his sweats. The only problem with this catsuit is that the zipper catches if I take too deep a breath. And I’ve done plenty of deep breathing since I left the rest-area bathroom.
Twisting my arm, I try to grip the zipper’s tiny tab. It moves less than an inch before it snags in the middle of my back. “Motherfucker!” I say, because that’s the wayIlearned to swear.
Moran throws open the bathroom door as if I’m being attacked. Feeling a little foolish, I look at him from under my arm. “Hey, Daddy,” I say, channeling the asshole clerk who put us here. “A little help?”
