Harley & Rose(4)

By: Carmen Jenner

Inwardly, I cringe, but on the outside I just smile and say, “Pan, by the time we’re done with this pseudo-moon, you’ll have forgotten all about the woman who left you at the altar. I’ll make sure of it.”

With another warning about him falling asleep, I fix my dress, smooth my hair, and leave the room. I practically bowl over the bell boy who’s wheeling a cart with champagne, strawberries, and what looks like a pound of chocolate fudge towards room 317. “Oh, shit. No one cancelled that order, huh?”

“I’m sorry?” Bell boy asks. He has a baby face and strawberry blond hair, and he’s cute in that boy-next-door sort of way. Well, maybe not in my boy-next-door way, because the boy who lived next door to me was, and still is—thank you, Jesus—a complete fucking knockout.

“You’re taking that to 317, right?”

“Yes, Mr. Hamilton asked that it be promptly delivered to the room at eight p.m.”

“Yeah, here’s the thing,” I say. “When Mr. Hamilton ordered that, he was unaware his bride-to-be was a lying, cheating skank who would leave him at the altar. So at the risk of him losing his shit and trashing his hotel room, it’s probably best if you just turn around and take that back to the kitchen.”

The boy stares at me like I just kicked him in the shin. “But it’s already been paid for …”

I pluck the pearly white “congratulations” card off the tray and fish out a pen from my clutch. “I tell you what—why don’t you take this to room 313? Her parents are staying just down the hall.” I make a lazy hand gesture in the direction of their suite, though for all I know I could have been pointing towards the service elevator because the man-child in the monkey suit is staring down the hall, looking confused. “Maybe they could use a drink after their daughter ran out on her fifty-thousand-dollar wedding.”

“I don’t think I can do that ...”

“Of course you can.” I place the newly edited card back on the tray and remove a couple of bills, shoving them in his shirt pocket. He balks when he reads my scrawled handwriting defacing the pristine card.


Your daughter’s a whore.

“I can’t give them that.” The man-child shakes his head, and I lower my own to be able to read his name tag. Is it possible to suddenly become dyslexic? Because I think this might be a thing. Bran. That’s a weird-ass name, and in a city full of hipsters, you hear a lot of weird-ass names.

“Bran,” I slur, and throw an arm around his shoulder as if we’re buddies from way back.

“It’s Brian, actually.”

“Bra-in,” I correct and screw my face up, wondering why his parents would choose such a difficult name for their child. “I’ll give you all the money in my purse if you take that card and that cart to room 313.”


I gasp loudly. The sound echoes down the empty hall. “You did not just call me ma’am. So not cool, dude. I’m young-ish. I’m hip, and I have totally great tits.” I grab the boobs in question and jiggle them to prove my point.

He licks his lips in what looks like a nervous gesture, his gaze darting to my cleavage and back to my face as if he’s afraid I might slap him for his efforts. “You … you do. You have totally great tits.”

“Right?” I agree. “You can’t call a woman who has great tits ‘ma’am’. It’s soul destroying.”

“Sorry,” he says, but Bran doesn’t sound sorry at all.

I pluck a strawberry from the tray and dip it in chocolate, shoving the whole thing in my mouth while making the universal sign with raised brows and a bobbing head for this shit is good. “Come on, man. Just take the cart to 312, pleeease?”

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