Just a Crush Read online

  I smirk. Polite, yet firm.

  “Okay, look here, you stupid git.” Right Man leans forward over the counter. I turn my head to listen. “We’ve been on the road for two hours and we’re not moving from this spot until you get off your fat ass and give us a goddamn room key.”

  Marla leans back. Her professional smile is completely gone now.

  And I’ve heard enough.

  I slip around them while they spew a bit more hateful things her way and hop over the side entrance to the desk. I sidle over to Marla quickly and she instantly locks up in surprise.

  “Greetings, gentlemen!” I say, casually butting in. “Is there something I can help y’all with tonight?”

  They both stop with tough, furrowed brows, eyes jumping up and down from my beanie to my hoodie but I’m sure the fact that I have a penis instantly puts them at ease.

  “You work here?” Left Guy asks.

  “Sure,” I answer. “What can I do for you?”

  “You need to retrain your girl here,” he spits.

  “Oh?” I look into her pure white face. “What’s the problem?” I ask them.

  Right Man taps a stiff finger against a credit card lying between us. “We would like to book a room,” he says, “but she—”

  “Excellent!” I interject. “I’ll just need to see some ID and we’ll get you all taken care of.”

  He bites down hard and fishes around his pants pocket before slapping his drivers’ license on top of the credit card. I scoop up both of them and, sure enough, the names don’t match. A quick glance at Marla and she nods, silently confirming the obvious problem.

  “This isn’t your card, sir,” I say.

  “Right,” he says.

  I glance at Left Guy. “Is it yours?”

  “No,” he spits.

  Right Man exhales hard. “But as we were trying to explain to her, it’s our boss’ card.”

  “Oh, sure sure.” I nod. “That’s not a problem. Easy fix.”

  Left Guy glares at Marla. “Thank you,” he says toward me.

  “You’ll just need to contact your boss and have them fax over a credit card authorization form to give you permission to use the card,” I say.

  Their faces fall even further, anger lines cutting deep.

  “Are you shitting me?” Right Man asks.

  “Not to my knowledge, sir,” I answer.

  “Just swipe the damn card!”

  Left Guy slaps the counter again. “We wanna see a manager!”

  “Oh!” I throw up my hands. “Well, why didn’t you just say so? One moment please.”

  I grab the phone on the desk and balance it on my shoulder, not even bothering to pretend I dialed a thing. I put my hands on the keyboard in front of me and I type. Randomly. Doing absolutely nothing.

  I glance at Marla again, flashing her a smile only she can see as her brow slowly rises.

  “Yes, hello, manager. I have a situation in the lobby here. Okay...” I nod, speaking over the dial tone. “Yes. Uh-huh. Right away, sir.”

  The idiots lean forward. “What he’d say?” Left Guy asks.

  I drop the phone back onto its cradle and throw on the deepest, most fake smile I can. “The manager has just informed me that you’re an asshole.”

  Marla’s jaw drops.

  A vein pops out along Right Man’s forehead. “Excuse me?”

  I casually guide Marla a step back to keep her out of arm range just in case. “He would also like me to inform you that we have a very strict No Asshole Policy here at the Botsford Plaza. So, if I were you, I’d turn around and get the hell out before I call security and have them boot your asses back to the boonies where you belong.”

  “You can’t talk to us that way!” Left Guy shouts.

  “Yes, I can,” I say with a nod.

  Right Man scoffs. “Whatever, Jim, let’s take our business elsewhere.”

  He reaches out to pick up the cards but I quickly grab the credit card before he can.

  “Oh, we’ll be holding onto this,” I say. “I’m sure Mister...” I check the name, “Samuels won’t mind us giving his bank a courtesy call.”

  Left Guy begins to jut forward but Right Man grabs his arm and tugs him back. I throw on my smile again as the two of them begrudgingly stomp away from the desk and beeline toward the exit.

  “Have a good night!” I shout after them, briefly rolling my eyes as they disappear into the night. I hand the credit card to Marla. “Care to do the honors?” I ask.

  “I’d be happy to,” she says, her smile fully returning as she reaches for the phone.

  I plop down onto one of the stools a few feet away and lean back to scan the lobby again.

  “Hey, this is Marla at the Botsford Plaza Vegas...”

  My eyes drift back to Marla as she works. Her voice just barely touches the low hum of the lobby while she reads off the card number. Her head nods as she listens and when she turns to me and smiles, I know our instincts were correct.

  “We’ll destroy it then. Thanks a lot. Goodnight to you, too.” She hangs up and taps the card twice against her palm as she looks at me. “Reported stolen three days ago,” she says. “Good work.”

  “I couldn’t have done it without ya,” I say, raising my hands.

  She bends down to open a cabinet on the left side of the desk and drops the card into the large shredder hidden within. It grinds right through the card, leaving it in little, tiny pieces in the bottom of the can.

  “Are you okay?” I ask her. “Those guys were dicks.”

  “I’m fine,” she says after closing the cabinet and walking back over. “Honestly, I’m used to it. People being dicks to me has been a thing since puberty. If it’s not a ginger joke, it’s a chin joke or similar.”

  I cant my head. “A chin joke?”

  “Marla Gorchinsky,” she says her name and pats the underside of her thick jaw. “Get it? Gorchinsky.”

  I let out a rugged sigh. “Yeah, I get it now.”

  “So,” she shrugs, “I’m used to it.”

  “No one here has ever done that, right?” I ask. “In the staff, I mean. ‘Cuz I got some pull around here. I’ll ruin the lives of them and everyone they love.”

  She chuckles. “No. Everyone here has been very nice. I appreciate it, though.”

  “Just let me know. One phone call and they vanish without a trace.”

  Her head tilts downward, a failed attempt to hide her blushing cheeks. “Thanks,” she says. “And thanks for stepping in back there. I can usually handle guys like that but they were getting very aggressive.”

  “I’m happy I happened to be down here at the right time,” I say.

  “Why are you down here?” she asks timidly. “Got a hot date tonight?”

  “Nah. Just cooped up there all day. Figured I’d stretch my legs while I sought out some inspiration.”

  “Inspiration?”

  “For new stuff.”

  She shifts excitedly. “New stuff like... new music?”

  I chuckle. “You are a Criminal Records fan, aren’t you?”

  Her cheeks burn brighter and she nods once. “Uh-huh,” she says.

  “Have you seen us live?”

  Another single nod. “A few times... Eight, nine. Ten, eleven, twelve — you know, after a while you just kind of lose count.”

  “Wow.” I laugh and she laughs with me. “You’re a big Criminal Records fan.”

  “Okay, fine. Yes. I am.” Her head turns down, embarrassed for who knows what reason. “It’s my favorite band.”

  My smile grows. “Clearly.”

  “I mostly just go to your smaller shows, though. Like the ones you do at Sin and Sand. I have to shoot for a nosebleed seat otherwise but even sitting in the back, it’s still worth every moment.”

  “Well, I never get tired of hearing that,” I say. “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.” Her smile grows. “But the first time I saw you, I was front row center.”

  “Really?
”

  “Yeah, you guys played at my high school. This was like six years ago.” She waves a hand. “You may not remember it. It was before your first album even came out.”

  I think back. “No, I remember. We did a little mini-tour of schools across the state. You were there?”

  “It was... awesome. I remember sitting there and looking up at you — I mean, the collective band you,” she adds quickly. “Knox and Addison and everybody.”

  I nod. “Of course.”

  “From that first note, I was hooked. And at one point, I’ll never forget this, I remember closing my eyes...” she does it, closing them softly, “and right at that moment, the second verse of Hold On started and I heard you sing, ‘Don’t give up, little darling.’” She pauses, gently opening her eyes again. “My dad used to call me that. He died about a month before that show.”

  My chest clenches. “I’m sorry,” I say.

  She waves a hand, bobs a shoulder, and smiles. “Could have been coincidence but... it’s in my top three life moments. Definitely.”

  I stare as my heart breaks for her. Completely and utterly. What was meant to be a fun hour outside of school for her and her classmates ended up being salt in an already gaping wound. Somehow, that made her love our music more, not less.

  “Wow, Marla,” she says, mostly to herself. “You sure know how to kill a room.”

  I shake my head. “No, not at all. Honestly, this is by far one of the best conversations I’ve ever had with a fan.”

  “Why?”

  “It’s nice to hear about how music affects different people,” I say. “I’ve always believed it has a purpose beyond giving people something fun to dance to, so hearing that is...” I pause as my ego flutters and gut somersaults. “It’s more helpful than you know. So, thank you.”

  Marla smiles softly. “Thank you,” she says.

  “Also, at this point in the conversation most girls are usually asking me if the bulge is real or if I stuff my boxers on stage,” I say with a laugh. “This is a welcome change.”

  She chuckles. “Interesting...”

  I wait for her to ask. They always ask. But the seconds tick by and she doesn’t.

  “It’s real,” I say.

  “Good for you,” she says with an amused nod.

  Good for you,

  good for me.

  We’re long past due,

  little darling, let it be.

  It’s weak. Very weak. But I reach into my pocket for my notebook anyway and quickly scribble it down.

  “Hey, Marla, you mind if I stick around here for a little while?” I ask.

  Marla pauses, her adorable cheeks brightening all over again as baby dimples pop on her chin. “No,” she answers. “I don’t mind.”

  I shove my dying pen into the loose binding of my notebook and sit back.

  Three

  Jonah

  “Welcome to the Botsford Plaza,” Marla says as a woman wanders up to the counter. Her voice is rehearsed, yet sincere. A little stiffer than the way she speaks to me but that’s just a bit of that Botsford professionalism kicking in.

  As the night wears on, the lobby crowd dwindles more and more. The young folk who charged through the doors just a few hours before now saunter back in with loose ties or high heels dangling from their fingers. I used to see it a lot behind this counter myself; tourists who hit the Vegas Strip a little too hard too fast.

  My eyes shift from them to Marla as she takes care of her customer. The familiar interaction sparks more memories of my years under my father’s tutelage but also the random and seemingly unimportant times I stumbled in here over the last year and talked to her. Those soft, beady eyes. The way her voice pitches upward and the seamless way in which she gets shit done. It’s more than clear that she enjoys her job — the occasional asshole thief included.

  After a few minutes, Marla says, “Have a good night, ma’am,” and stands still with square shoulders and folded hands until the woman finally gathers her handbag and walks off.

  “Good job,” I say.

  “Eh, it’s what I do,” she says, relaxing back into the girl she was a few minutes ago. “Is it true your dad forced you and your brothers to work back here?”

  I nod with a groan. “Yes, it is. And not just the desk,” I add, giving it a soft kick. “Maintenance, housekeeping. All of it.”

  “Doesn’t sound too bad.”

  “In hindsight, no. It could have been worse but at the time, man... I just wanted to play my music. I counted down the minutes until I could get out of here, in fact...” I hop off my stool and stop at the counter, resting my palms against it like some old, priceless tomb. “I think I wrote the first lines of Down Down Baby right here.”

  Marla blinks. “You did?”

  “Yeah.” I pause and look out at the lobby, a place that’s barely changed in two decades of memory. “Yeah, I used to sit here with a piece of paper and a pencil just scribbling and dreaming...” I chuckle. “And watching the ladies, of course.”

  She nods. “I do that. Not the ladies part, specifically. The people who come through here are always so glamorous.”

  “Red lips and red dresses,” I say, wagging my eyebrows.

  Her laugh tickles my spine. “Exactly.” She looks out across the lobby as a solemn expression falls over her. “I love it here. I love this business. My major is in Hospitality Management but... I fought hard to get into Kingston’s work-study program just so I could stand here and be a part of this.”

  I feign offense. “You didn’t apply so you could meet me?”

  “Well...” she grins, “that might have been a motivating factor, too.”

  I drop the frown and laugh, filling the space between us while I try and remember the first time I met Marla, but I can’t. It would have been here, I suppose, a mere foot or two away from where we’re standing now. Most likely late at night. Me blitzed out of my mind on booze and whatnot on my way up to my usual suite in room 2508. She would have been just another body in a blue and gold blazer. They come and go around here as much as I do.

  A twinge takes over my gut. I can’t remember meeting Marla but she probably has the entire moment memorized down to the details.

  “Did I make a good first impression?” I ask.

  Thankfully, Marla smiles. “Yes,” She answers. “You’ve always been very kind.”

  I sigh, relieved. “Good.”

  A silence falls over us; one that can only be described as comfortable like an old friendship or even lovers who amicably split years ago.

  And just like that, I realize that I’ve barely thought about my little music problem since I sat down here. I’ve just been immersed in her. Marla Gorchinsky. My little, red-headed distraction.

  Marla bobs her head toward the sitting area across the lobby. “You see that guy over there? The one with the comb-over?”

  I follow her gesture and catch sight of a man in jet black suit lounging in the blue chair I sat in earlier. “Yeah,” I say.

  “He comes in here once a month and just sits there,” she says. “He doesn’t get a room or go to the bar or anything. He reads a magazine and then after a few hours... leaves.”

  I tilt my head as the wheels in my head start turning. “Maybe he’s lonely?”

  “Or a spy,” she whispers. “I think he’s a spy.”

  “For who?” I ask, intrigued.

  “Depends. Has your family done anything shady recently?”

  “Ms. Gorchinsky, are you accusing my family of nefarious activities?”

  “Not at all,” she says, half-smiling. “I volunteered to work the night desk because I knew I’d see things and hear things that no one else did. Made me feel a little special.”

  I study her expression as it shifts a bit solemn once more. “What else do you see?” I ask her.

  Her little eyes scan the lobby again, hopping from person-to-person before landing on a line of people leaving the bar. “Well, he’s a card shark,” she says, pointing t
o a man in bright red jacket. “I’ve spotted him sliding an ace into his sock more than once.”

  “No shit?” I ask.

  She nods and shifts her gaze to the couple behind him. “And they’re swingers, but she likes it more than he does.”

  “How can you tell?”

  Marla gives the slightest of shrugs. “Something in his eyes, I guess. Oh!” She turns and smiles at a young woman in a hot pink cocktail dress delicately walking in off the street. “She’s a prostitute.”

  I follow the thick, black line of the girl’s stockings tracing down the backs of her legs. “You don’t say?”

  “A con-artist, too.”

  My brow piques with interest. “How so?”

  Marla licks her lips, preparing for what I hope to be a long story. “She comes in here with a guy about every six weeks — always a different guy. Sometimes they head to the bar, sometimes not, but they always get a room, usually under a fake name like Oscar Wilde or Samuel Clemens, and he always foots the bill.”

  “Pretty standard call-girl-esque behavior so far,” I say.

  She raises a finger. “Until... about five in the morning when they come down and part ways. Earlier this summer, I overheard her with one of them and he said, and this is a direct quote, that her cherry was worth more than the five-figures he paid for it.”

  My jaw drops halfway. “She sold her virginity?”

  “Yup. To him... and to every other guy she comes in here with.”

  I let it drop completely. “You’re kidding.”

  Marla titters. “Depending on how high that five-figure number is, I estimate she’s swindled at least a quarter of a million dollars this year alone selling her v-card to gullible rich dudes.”

  I stare at the girl in the pink dress. She’s not alone now. A tall man stands before her in a sleek, pin-striped suit. She addresses him timidly with nervous giggles and blushing cheeks — perhaps exactly what I’d picture if I were here meeting an alleged virgin.

  The man shifts on his feet and angles toward the bar, giving me a full view of his face.

  I snort. “I know that guy.”

  Marla leans forward, primed for gossip. “You do?”

  “Yeah, he went to Pryce with me and my brothers.”