Thrill Me. Isabel Sharpe

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      Except as she moved closer—and no, she wasn’t going to have to wait for hours, duh farm girl—the adrenaline kept coming, but the thrill turned more to fear. The woman in front of her lit another cigarette. The sun kept shining on May’s too-heavy jacket. A cab farther back in line tried to take on a fare before his turn and the man with the whistle blew shrilly and kept blowing, then held up the line for five eternal sweaty smoky minutes by having a…well, animated shall we say, conversation with the driver.

      People around her muttered. A drunk passed, yelling randomly about Jesus and video games and roast pork sandwiches.

      Then it was May’s turn. The cab pulled up. She lugged her suitcase in and sat, registering disappointment at the non-air-conditioned interior.

      The driver glanced in his rearview mirror with dark tired eyes. “Where to?”

      She gave him her haughtiest movie star stare while her entire body begged her to tell him to drive her back to Wisconsin, damn the cost.

      “Hush Hotel.”

      His brows shot up, he turned fully around and—oh joy—leered at her, then winked and pulled out into heavy-but-moving traffic. And for the next fifteen minutes, while the meter ticked higher at a speed faster than his, he proceeded to try as hard as he could to get them into a fatal accident.

      My God, the city was immense, impossibly crowded, a hodgepodge of neat and slovenly storefronts and neat and slovenly people. How could anyone stand having to navigate all this every day? No wonder New Yorkers were considered tough. You needed a thick protective coating just to cross the street.

      Finally, the driver executed another of his who-needs-lanes moves, pulled under the overhang in front of the hotel and came to a stop that made the whole car bounce. “Here you go.”

      May fumbled shakily in her wallet. How much was too much to tip? How much wasn’t enough? She erred on the side of too much. After all, he’d done his best to teach her how precious her life was.

      He accepted the bills with a nod. May took a deep breath. Three, two, one—

      The door to the cab opened, and an attractive man in a black uniform with silver buttons and HUSH stitched in pink letters on the left breast of his jacket extended a white-gloved hand to help her out.

      She took it reluctantly and emerged into the exhaust-smelling air to a hot breeze that threatened her careful French twist. Her head started to throb.

      “Good afternoon, ma’am. Welcome to Hush Hotel.”

      A sudden burst of jackhammering in the street made him have to shout.

      She nodded cool thanks, not wanting to have to shout back, and nodded again to the other attractive black-uniformed man who whisked her bag out of the cab behind her. Should she tip all these people? How much? God she was out of her depth.

      The jackhammer clattered again. Another young hunky hotel employee blew his whistle for another cab. Someone shouted behind her. An ambulance siren grew louder; horns honked frantically as cars tried to get out of its way. May did manage to resist the urge to launch herself into the hotel through the ornate leaded-glass doors, but probably walked a bit quicker toward them than was perfectly haute-whatever of her.

      A massive-shouldered doorman whooshed open the door just as she reached it and was about to put out her hand. She stepped inside and immediately wished she was somebody Terribly Important, and that she had a Terribly Chic faux-fur wrap to slip from her shoulders into the waiting arms of an attendant. Then she’d burst into a sultry song and the uniformed men around her would be her dancing chorus.

      What a place.

      Cool air wafted through the midsized lobby, deliciously scented with something vaguely herbal she couldn’t identify. A few people milled about, a few checking in or out, a few in consultation with the pink-haired concierge. A few sitting in deep comfortable-looking black-and-grey or seafoam green chairs. Few being the operative word.

      Best of all? Quiet. Who put the hush in HUSH Hotel? Whoever did, May’s head was extremely grateful. And her nerves even more so. The tension started ebbing out of her. She half expected to leave a visible stress trail as she walked over the lush carpet—black, gray, pink and touches of that lovely green—following the bellhop up to the registration desk, a chest-high shiny black lacquer rectangle. Behind it on the wall in pink neon, the word HUSH, in art deco lettering.

      Oh, this was soooo cool.

      May gave her name, affecting bored disinterest, while willing her cheeks not to flush as she did so. Hi, I’m May Hope Ellison, I’m here to have sex for an entire week with someone I barely know.

      Of course she needn’t have worried. The registration was speedy and pleasant. The lovely woman behind the counter couldn’t have been more professionally cordial. Did anyone ugly work in this hotel?

      With a nod of her perfectly coiffed head toward the elevator and a genuine smile along with the key card, the-lovely-woman-behind-the-counter sent May off to her den of iniquity, hunky bellhop in tow, past more chairs, a mirror and a black cat with a pink collar, which no one but her seemed surprised to see sauntering about the lobby.

      Waiting for the elevator, May kept her face impassive, legs practically quivering from suppressed anxiety. As the doors closed in front of her face, and the bellhop lit the fourteenth-floor button pink, her panic rose. She needed a time-out. A moment for a deep breath. Or twenty. But how could she tell this lovely, patient, suitcase-bearing Adonis that she was completely freaking out?

      She couldn’t.

      Ten…eleven…twelve…fourteen, and here they were. She stepped out of the elevator and stared blindly at the room number directions painted on the wall. Her room was number 1457. Which direction did that mean? Her brain was gone. Liquefied. Soon it would seep out of her ears and that would be that.

      Adonis cleared his throat, gestured to the left. May smiled and thanked him, grateful when her tight voice didn’t crack. She really didn’t want him there if she opened the door to Trevor. Didn’t want anyone to bear witness to her nervous meltdown. But what choice did she have? She didn’t have Dan and his calm, protective, take-charge strength to go back to. She was on her own.

      Sally forth. She reached 1457, thrust the key card into the lock. Green light went on. Door opened. May went in.

      Empty.

      She took a few more steps in; the bathroom door was open.

      Empty, too.

      Oh, thank God.

      A rush of delighted relief made her bestow a giant smile of gratitude on Adonis and give him five dollars, which in her estimation was a ridiculously enormous tip but for him probably branded her as Cowpoke Cathy.

      He accepted the cash, gave a slight bow and exited the room.

      So.

      Panic over, she turned to survey her home for the next week. In a word: exquisite. A king-size bed with an arched headboard of two-toned wood, cherry and maple, dominated the room. She sank onto the thick down comforter in geometric patterns of black, white and burgundy. Bliss. She lay flat, her no-longer-aching head relishing the soft pillows, then stretched her right arm over the empty side, imagining Trevor lying there.

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