LJ Maas: Rebecca’s Cove

“Well, if you don’t know, let me be the first to tell you that you’re a natural,” BJ said as her body swayed back and forth.

“God in heaven, what am I doing?”

“Hey, it’s not that bad.” BJ was slurring her words more than before.

“Not that bad?” Hobie nearly shouted. “I’m making out with a complete stranger who’s so drunk she can barely stand!”

BJ furrowed her brow in confusion. “You mean I’m still standing?”

“Oh, God! I don’t believe this is happening!” Hobie freed herself from BJ’s embrace and whirled around. “I do not do this kind of thing. I never let my body think for me. I mean, that’s not me. I’m a hopeless romantic, not the kind of woman who sleeps around. I need time to get to know you, romance...maybe some flowers. I’m so sorry, BJ. You seem like an incredible woman, but I just can’t—”

Hobie turned and the sight caused her to freeze. It took a full five seconds before her brain could slip into gear and impel her body forward. “Oh, no! No, no, no, no, no!”

Hobie rushed to the bed and BJ, who lay sprawled across it. “Don’t you dare! BJ, wake up. Wake up, damn it!” Hobie sat on the bed and lightly slapped the unconscious woman’s cheek. “Oh, God, please don’t do this to me. I swear, I will never, ever do this again. If you help me out of this one, I promise to start going to Mass more, and I promise I will never again act like a slut.”

Hobie looked down at the prone woman and realized that help would not be coming from above, at least not anytime soon. “BJ, please, you cannot stay here.” Hobie shook the woman’s shoulders one more time.

BJ made a small sound and rolled over, hugging the pillow beside her. She wore a pleasant expression, the corners of her mouth turned up in a slight smile. Hobie gave up in exasperation, her arms falling to her sides and defeat in her eyes. “This is why I don’t do things like this,” she said quietly to the sleeping woman. “This could only happen to me.”

BJ couldn’t understand why there was a maid walking on the ceiling until she realized that her head hung over the end of the bed. The slim brown-skinned woman who approached BJ did so upside down. The sight made BJ dizzy, which caused her stomach to begin its protestation of the previous evening’s alcohol consumption.

“May I clean the room yet, ma’am?” the hotel maid asked. BJ swallowed and cautiously examined the inside of her mouth with her tongue. She had been sure she would find cotton stuffed there. Finding no such substance, she swallowed a few more times. “Time?” she finally rasped.

“Excuse me?” “What time is it?”

“It’s 2:00 p.m., ma’am. The other one said not to wake you until after noon. She said to bring up a meal if you weren’t awake by now. Are you hungry?” She lifted the silver-domed lid covering a white porcelain plate.

The aroma, which under ordinary circumstances would have been tantalizing, struck BJ like an unseen blow to the stomach. She could feel the small rumble begin. “I’ll give you a hundred dollars if you get that food as far away from this room as possible.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

By the time the maid wheeled the cart to the elevator and had a busboy return it to the kitchen, BJ was sitting up on the side of the bed.

“Bless you,” she mumbled. “Here you go.” She held out a hundred-dollar bill.

“Oh, no, ma’am, you don’t have to do that. Your friend gave me a big enough tip to make my day.”

“I don’t have any friends,” BJ said instinctively. She fought to remember who the woman was she had been with the night before. “Been with” would have to be used loosely since BJ had woken up in bed by herself and fully clothed. Who the hell was she?

“Well, this gal checked out and paid me to do what I done for you so far. She even paid for an extra day ’cause she said you would probably sleep late,” the maid explained.

It isn’t exactly the first time I’ve passed out, but not even remembering what in the hell I did, that’s new. BJ ran her fingers through her hair and massaged her scalp. Her head felt as heavy as a bowling ball. She couldn’t believe that a total stranger had gone to that much trouble, especially after she had passed out on her. She had an odd feeling about the encounter. She couldn’t remember any particulars, but there was something there. It was something unlike anything she had known before. Thinking back, she drew a blank on the evening after breaking up with... what was that girl’s name?

“I don’t believe this shit,” she said aloud. I can’t even remember the girl’s name that I’ve been screwing for the last two weeks. “You’re a case, Warren. This is why I don’t do things like this,” she said to the uncomprehending maid. “This could only happen to me.”

“Look, why don’t you just punch a couple of keys and look up the name of the woman who stayed in 8312 last night? I’m sure even someone as mentally challenged as you should be able to do that.”

BJ was in rare form as she sparred with the concierge. She had a hangover as big as Wyoming and half of Montana. She wanted to get a name and number, but the hotel staff had been less than cooperative.

“Like I have said, Ms. Warren, we have—”

“And like I have said, Sydney, I don’t give a rat’s ass for your fucking rules. How much trouble could it possibly be to give me this information?”

“Perhaps if you were family—”

“If she was a goddamn family member, would I need you to give me her phone number?” BJ shouted. The deskman’s unflappable demeanor infuriated her all the more. “Okay, here’s the deal, Sydney.” She started counting out bills from the slim wallet she removed from her inside jacket pocket. She put her billfold away, then leaned across the desk and tucked the wad of bills into the man’s front pocket. “Here is five hundred dollars. It’s all yours. All you have to do,” she enunciated each word slowly, “is push one little teensy button on your computer and give me the name of the fucking woman that stayed in that room!” By the time she finished the sentence, she was shouting again.

The man sighed and looked upward. The clerks and the bellhops were sure he was petitioning heaven for some intercessory assistance. Taking the money from his pocket, he placed it on the counter and moved toward his computer.

“Now we’re getting somewhere,” BJ said smugly.

Sydney turned the computer off.

“Okay, that wasn’t really the right button now, was it, Sydney?” BJ watched as the man waved goodbye and vacated the desk area through a back door. “You rat bastard,” she mumbled at his retreating figure.

BJ had the doorman hail her a cab. Once inside, she swallowed the aspirin that she’d purchased at the hotel gift shop. It took everything she had to get the pills down her dry throat. “Lake Shore Towers,” she told the cabbie and pulled out her cellular phone.

She flipped through the stored numbers and selected the one marked Jules. She listened to the series of tones that represented her agent’s work number and waited impatiently, absently staring out the window at Lake Michigan.

BJ had known Juliana Ross nearly all her life since they were in second grade together at parochial school. Juliana’s family moved to the U.S. from London, England—Essex, to be exact. Juliana had paid mightily for her place of birth once a thirteen-year-old BJ, vacationing in England, discovered what being an Essex girl meant. Essex girls had a reputation for being airheaded and free with their affections, much like stereotypical American blondes. BJ’s long-standing dig at her friend was to call her an “Essex girl,” even though Juliana was not only highly intelligent, but as ethically and morally upstanding as anyone BJ knew.