Page 32

I roll on to my back. Where am I… ?

Oh.

Daniel’s bed. Light is angling through the centre of the mostly drawn curtains. So, I spent the night here. And the sensation of the sheets against my bare skin tells me I’m not wearing any clothes.

I stretch a little in bed, then draw the sheet around me as memories of last night crash through me.

The way we didn’t even speak as we rode the elevator down from the Sunset, but his finger kept stroking the sensitive skin on my palm, then my wrist. The way he studied me while he touched, the way his lip curled when my breaths shortened.

The way that, as soon as we were in the privacy of his room, he turned me against the wall and slid his hand under the miniskirt, pulling aside the thin fabric of my damp, lacy thong and touching me with relentlessly even strokes until I was arching back, palms on the wall, gasping his name as his fingers drew up wave after wave of unbearable heat.

And that was just the first ten minutes.

I move on to my side, expecting to see Daniel next to me, but his side of the bed is empty.

Pushing up slowly, I spot him across the room, sitting at the hotel desk in sweatpants with his broad– and remarkably shirtless– back to me.

He’s tapping away quietly on his laptop with a steaming paper cup of coffee next to him.

My clothes are still cast about the room– the lavender lacy thong, the miniskirt, the top.

I rub life into my face. Shit. I didn’t mean to stay until morning. I was trying to wait until he was asleep so that I could quietly search the safe again… but I must have fallen asleep.

I guess I was too exhausted after letting him pleasure me again and again.

I kept thinking after he brought me to climax that it was his turn, but no.

He’d just start on me again, in a new position.

I lost count somewhere around six before he finally rolled a condom on and put me out of my delicious misery.

That memory brings a shiver down my spine… and a little further down too.

‘Sleep well?’ Daniel swivels in his chair. He’s adorable this morning, hair askew, five o’clock shadow bristly– and he’s wearing reading glasses. Unbelievably, nerdy Wolverine is even hotter than regular Wolverine. Kill me now.

‘A little too well.’ I check the clock. Eight twenty already? ‘I have a shift in forty minutes.’

Still enough time to do some searching…

‘You snore,’ he says, a sparkle of mirth in his dark eyes.

‘You kick,’ I retort.

‘Mea culpa,’ he says, and don’t ask me why it’s hot that he’s speaking Latin, but not all of these things can be explained with logic.

In any case, time is ticking– again– and I need to get him to leave.

‘You wouldn’t by chance want to go get me some coffee?’ I make a cute pout, gathering the sheet tight at my chest and definitely aware of the plump rise of my cleavage.

He takes off his glasses and grins. ‘I’ll brew you some right here.’

I twist my lips. ‘Room coffee?’

‘It’s actually excellent. Trust me.’ He rises from his chair and makes for the mini coffee pot.

‘Or you could be a gentleman and pick us up some breakfast…’ That would take him at least twenty minutes, right?

‘I ordered room service. Should be here any minute.’

Fuck. Has he thought of everything?

I crawl out of bed, helping myself to Daniel’s shirt from last night and securing it with a couple of buttons. It hits just below my hips. I pad over to nerdy, coffee-making Wolverine and wrap my arms around his bare back from behind as he tears open the packet of coffee grounds.

Damn, he feels good. Warm, solid. I can feel his muscles moving in his back as he continues to set the coffee.

‘Ew, you stink,’ I murmur. He doesn’t. This is a lie.

‘Really?’ He lifts an arm and gives himself an inhale.

‘You need a shower, Mr Stinky Man. Now.’

He pushes the coffee maker’s on button and swivels in my arms so he’s facing me, before issuing a growly invitation. ‘Join me?’

I smirk. ‘If you’re lucky, smelly-head. Go.’ I smack his ass, noting the surprised flicker in his eyes followed by a very sexy little smirk. ‘Go get clean.’

He locks his arms around me. ‘Are you sure you don’t want to get dirty again first?’

‘Not before breakfast,’ I say, with another firm smack on his very toned rear end.

‘OK,’ he says, gripping my hips like he’s trying to cement me in place. ‘I’ll shower, but don’t disappear on me.’

‘I’m not going anywhere,’ I whisper, and lean up for a peck, morning breath be damned.

At the bathroom door, he turns. ‘If room service comes while I’m in the shower, there’s cash on the dresser for a tip.’

‘Take your time!’ I shout as he disappears. The shower turns on. I make a beeline for his laptop, which is miraculously still unlocked. I take a hasty seat. The chair is still warm from Daniel, the Word doc he was typing in just there for the taking.

OK, Mr Lukiewicz. You gotta give me something…

I read quickly. The Riovan cuts an impressive picture on the beautiful coast of remote Saint Lisieux…

the water on sunny days is a crystalline blue…

Blah blah blah… The document is just notes about the hotel.

This is actually very good: he is a writer of some kind.

If he was Interpol, or FBI, I’m guessing he wouldn’t be spending his precious time writing atmospheric copy about the resort.

I minimize the Word doc and start scrolling through his folders. Playlists… Article Proposals… Travel Receipts… Photos…

Episodes?

I click on that one. Inside are ten numbered folders– for Episodes one through ten, I assume. I open the first.

There’s a Word document entitled Carlos Dulatre. Blood starts rushing through me like a spring flood as I double click.

The memories are immediate, flying at me like a spray of gravel to the face.

It was four years ago. Carlos was my first true target, a Riovan fitness instructor, and he deserved it.

It was my first year as a lifeguard. That year, the Riovan was filming promo videos of real customer testimonials for their new-and-improved website, and I happened to walk in on Carlos encouraging a young woman to vomit before her recorded weigh-in.

I made an elaborate plan to kill Carlos.

First, I’d flirt my ass off and get him to promise me a one-on-one late-night workout session.

I’d ask him to demonstrate a bench press, and while I was ‘spotting’ him, I’d make sure he had an accident.

The barbell would ‘fall’ on to his neck.

They’d find him the next morning and everyone would assume he’d misjudged his strength– and been stupid enough to think he didn’t need a spotter.

Unfortunately, the flirting didn’t work. Turns out Carlos was not only gay, but had it out for seasonal employees like me. ‘Private training is for paying guests,’ he said when I proposed a private session. His lip curled, like I disgusted him. ‘Sometimes you people forget that you work here.’

Later, as I headed to the basement pool for some relaxation of my own, there was Carlos ahead of me on the stairs, a towel slung around his neck, AirPods in, moving his head to the music.

We were alone. I didn’t think twice. I jumped down a few stairs, and before he had time to turn around, I shoved him.

The stairs were slippery. It was a long way to the bottom. And he landed head first. The Riovan installed a dehumidifier and anti-slip strips on the stairs the next season.

Daniel’s notes are surprisingly thorough, spanning from Carlos’s childhood all the way to his death. My name is nowhere in the file– but the Episode One folder contains a hell of a lot more than this single document.

I open an audio file, the first of many. Maybe it’s risky to play audio with Daniel so close, but he’s singing ‘Ring of Fire’, loudly. Should be safe.

A female voice, tinny in the computer speakers, says, ‘Yes, I loved Carlos. He had so much positive, go-getter energy. He made me feel like I could do anything. I was devastated when I heard about his accident.’

‘You appeared in a promotional video for the Riovan,’ says Daniel’s voice. Deep, self-assured, and somehow soothing to listen to, in spite of the dark subject matter. ‘Can you tell us about the experience of working with Carlos while filming that promo material?’

‘Sure. He’d been working with me for two weeks already. I had this weight goal, for my wedding. And the whole video was supposed to showcase my last weigh-in, and like, that moment of me hitting my goal.’ There’s a weepy pause. ‘I couldn’t have done it without Carlos.’

I hit stop. Oh. My. God. Daniel tracked down the woman who vomited. And… she’s speaking fondly of Carlos. My stomach turns.

I open the next audio file. Daniel’s voice, again.

‘So Carlos was in his third season at the Riovan when he died.’

‘He was very dedicated to our customers.’ I’d recognize that voice anywhere.

Vic. ‘No one cared more than Carlos. Their goals were his goals. Frankly, sometimes guests do come here with stretch-goals. Some might have written them off as unrealistic, but Carlos always had the mindset that anything was possible. I think he really inspired people to give their all.’

‘Is there any reason you think someone might have wanted to kill Carlos?’

‘Kill him? No! It was an accident.’

‘I have in my notes that the Riovan installed anti-slip treads on the stairway where he died. Would you say that conditions were unsafe, prior to that update?’

‘No. Our liability insurance carrier did ask that we make updates after the accident, but that’s standard. We were absolutely up to code. Accidents happen, sad but true.’

‘So you don’t suspect foul play?’

‘No. I’m sorry.’

‘OK, no problem. Let’s pivot. How well do you know Sean Williams? Expat? Runs Island Vibes?’

There’s a short silence, but I can hear Vic bristle anyway.

‘I thought this interview was about something different. Please turn off the recording.’

Good job, Vic.