Little Ronnie

"Hi!" I perked, giving my assembly-line grin as he approached. Head cocked to one side, he sidled up to the counter and slapped his keycard before me. "Oh, sir, we don't need that. The cards get reprogrammed for every new guest."

"Okay," he sighed easily, his fingers drumming on the veneer. "Must have a million of them back there then, huh?"

I glanced over at Lucy, plowing gamely through the credit card of some octogenarian, and nodded. "Boxes full," I chuckled. "We have a whole pallet of blanks in the back." I made a face so that he'd know I was joking, the chuckle growing warmer when he joined in. "I'll get you out of here in a moment, sir."

He was looking more closely at me now, and I thought about last night, him just about naked, me looking down so that he wouldn't recognize he was getting a midnight emergency airdrop of condoms from a former student. His fingers stopped drumming for a moment, then picked back up. "You look familiar," he said at last. "Do I know you?"

There it was, the hanging fastball. The all-time classic line, unisex and unimpeachable, a come-on for the ages... but in this case, it was true. I nodded, still smiling my Back Bay Suites Checkout Smile. "I went to North Adams High. Good morning, Mr Bourne."

"Oh!" He showed no embarrassment, his chutzpah intact even after he knew I'd seen him in his boxers. "Hi there." He squinted at my nametag, lingering longer than it took to read it because, of course, my chest was there too. "Veronica?"

"Ronnie Silber? It's been awhile since I graduated," I explained.

"Oh. Oh!" He smiled brightly, his brain flicking through attendance sheets and transcripts and parent info forms. "Wait. You've still got siblings there..."

I nodded absently at him, my fingers flying across the keyboard to make a note for the maids. "My sister's a senior and my brother's a freshman." 303 would need a major scrubbing. "And your, uh, friend? Is she leaving as well?" I glanced quickly up at him. "I just need to know in case the maids want to get started; she doesn't have to go until ten."

"Yeah, she's gone." If I was looking for shame in his eyes, I was disappointed; he shrugged. "So you're the manager here? Good for you!"

"Thanks." I blinked at the screen. "Well. It appears you'll be our guest later this month, as well?" I scrolled down. "And later..."

"I've got a standing reservation every week or so," he shrugged, as though it was the most natural thing in the world. I felt my lips quirk into a slow smile as I realized what that meant.

"I'll just go ahead and confirm the next one then, Mr Bourne," I muttered. "The tenth? Double occupancy? King size?"

"Sounds right," he nodded, signing his bill. I licked my lips, curious.

"With Mrs Bourne, I'd imagine. Right?" He flipped his eyes straight to my saucy ones, and once he saw the smile playing at the corners of my mouth he had the dignity to blush slightly. "Nice romantic weekend with her?" I found I was enjoying his fidgeting. His fingers were drumming again.

"Maybe not, as a matter of fact," he admitted, and when I just went on staring he finally rewarded me with a rueful smile. "We can only hope."

"Oh, I'm sure it will," I ventured smugly, "and if there's anything the Back Bay Suites By Petrotel can do to make your stay more enjoyable, please don't hesitate to bring it to our attention." I hesitated, wondering why he showed no signs of leaving even after I'd stapled his paperwork together and slid it across. "Was there something else?"

He glanced over to make sure Lucy was busy. "Just thanks," he said quietly. "For your... your professionalism? Last night." He found my eyes again. "Must have been a shock to see me like that."

I got a weird greasy feeling in my belly, source unknown, and felt my face go red. My caffeinated morning-brain shuffled through its choices; what do you say to that? His face was open, curious, clearly expecting a reply and, I thought, not minding an informal one. "Well," I ventured, "we pride ourselves on our service." I let my lips twitch into a new smile, a clever little one. "And I haven't been in the hotel biz all that long, but I've seen a thing or two already. The only shock was your choice of underwear, Mr Bourne."

He paused, thinking back to what he'd been wearing, then laughed loudly. "Yeah," he managed, "Mickey Mouse was probably an interesting choice. What can I say? It's laundry day."

I joined in his laugh, keeping mine polite, my eye on the clock. I was off in fifteen minutes. "Have a nice day, Mr Bourne. It was good seeing you again, and we look forward to having you back."

"Oh, the pleasure was all mine, Ronnie," he smiled back, his eyes once more meandering south. Again, the curse of boobs. But I was too tired to care.

* * *

I came in almost-late a couple weeks later, rushing from Aaron's parent-teacher conference. I tried not to wince as I moved slowly toward Becca, hoping I was concealing my slight limp. "Hi Ronnie," she smiled, looking worried. "What's wrong? You hurt?"

So much for my acting skills. "Just..." I flapped a dismissive hand. "You know. A little ache in the nether regions." Girl talk.

She nodded sagely. "Cramps?"

"No." I sighed, hiking myself gingerly up onto the stool behind Reception. Tony was deep in talk with Jules. "DeVaunte," I sighed.

"Ah." She patted my shoulder. "DeVaunte."

We'd bonded about my boyfriend when we'd first come to work here, during the standard Petrotel leadership seminar, as she'd told me why she didn't have kids. My husband, she'd chuckled, has like a four-inch dick. Her theory was that it didn't get in far enough to do the job. So, naturally, I'd made a joke about DeVaunte; girl talk, you know. Only then, it had turned into a whole big conversation, and now Bec thought of herself as my confessor for all things phallic.

My friend Jenna had set me up with DeVaunte a couple months before. "He's so nice! Built, too," she'd insisted, but they'd only gone out on two dates. Crucially, she'd never fucked him. "He ate me out so good, Ronnie, I swear," she'd confided over brunch. "You'd be perfect for him. He loves sassy, chesty bitches with some meat on their butts." She'd broken it off because she had a nagging feeling that her body wasn't right for him, and besides, her other guy Craig had closed the deal with her first. "He's sweet."

"I don't want sweet," I'd snapped. Mom had been deployed for four months at that point, and I'd been dickless that whole time. "I want to be fucked."

"Oh, honey," she'd snickered, "I put my hand down there. Trust me, he's a great size. A show-er, not a grow-er."

"Oooh!" We'd cackled, I'd called him up, and a few nights later he'd been sucking on my neck with my hands down the back of his pants, gripping the granite globes of his ass. Well, basalt; the guy was black as night, which I found terrifically sexy. He'd made his interest in me quite obvious, grinding his muscled body against mine through our clothes, and I'd suggested it might be an opportune time to disrobe. I think it sounded something like, "Get your fucking clothes off right now, dammit!" He was the first black guy I'd ever seen naked, and I'd gushed both verbally and vaginally. "Fuck, you're huge!" I'd marveled.

And it was then that I understood Jenna had miscalculated. DeVaunte was both a show-er and a grow-er.

In the months since, he'd managed to get most of himself inside me; it even felt good, at first. Sometimes, he even made me cum. But whenever I got him hard he was as thick as my fist, a brutal thug-dick jutting miles out from his tightly coiled pubes like an oil drill. I'd gotten a condom onto him that first night, after three attempts left the floor beside his bed littered with crumbled latex, and almost as soon as he'd gotten halfway in we'd both looked down to see his veiny dark shaft reaching inside me, that fourth cumbag a torn rubber band around his root.

I'd gone back on the Pill after that, but it was no use: he was never able to give me the hard, eager fucking I needed. DeVaunte was a great guy and a very considerate lover, aware that he was a freak of nature and careful not to damage me, and when all was said and done that's why I kept him around; he treated me like gold, helped Aaron with his math homework, and ate pussy with real skill. But I could tell it wouldn't last. I usually ended up taking his cum on my tits, and let's face it: that's no way to live.

So that's why I was limpy that day, my whole groin still achy from the night before. Bec squeezed my shoulder. "Jeff's on with you tonight. Just make him do everything."

"Fuck that. I'd fall asleep at the concierge desk." I sniffled. Winter was never good for my congestion. "I need to be up. Moving and grooving. Dancing and prancing. I'll be okay."

"Aw." She gave me a quick half-hug. "I know you say he's a nice guy and all, but please promise me you won't let him talk you into butt stuff?"

"What?" I blinked at her. I hadn't been aware we had that kind of friendship. She was nodding soberly.

"I had a guy I knew in college. Big dick. I let him do me up the ass once, and I wasn't shitting right for days."

"Becca," I said slowly, "that is way more information than I ever really needed to know about you."

"Just saying." She smiled brightly. "You're still young. Don't be stupid." She gathered her keycard and her purse. "See ya."

"Later."

* * *

"Sorry, ma'am," Jeff was saying into the phone, "I'm afraid I can't." I was just coming back from another bruising trip to the bathroom when I heard it, and my radar picked up at once; Tony didn't like us telling people we couldn't do things. Jeff rolled his eyes gratefully at me when he caught sight of me. "Here, let me get the manager," he wheedled, nearly dropping the phone in his haste to get rid of the caller. "It's this woman," he hissed, the hold button blinking. "She called last month, too."

"Who?" I examined the phone: it was one of the outside lines.

"She called looking for her husband? I told her I couldn't give out any information about the guests, but..."

"Give it here," I ordered, my fingers already reaching. "Now shoo. Get us some coffees, would you?" I made sure he was safely gone and then took a deep breath before I snapped the phone off hold. "Good evening! This is Veronica speaking; tell me what I can do for you."

The lady on the other end of the line was... not pleased. She was also not certain, I could tell at once, even if her message was as old as time: she was calling lower-priced hotels late at night, seeking her husband. Her voice came in hushed and contrite, sorry for waking me or whatever; if she'd known he was here, I told myself, she'd have sounded much more... bitter, maybe? "I'm sorry, ma'am, but I can't release details on who our guests are."

Yes; that's what my receptionist had said, and she was hoping there was something I could do. "No, I'm afraid not. We take guest privacy very seriously."

But, she countered, what if it was some sort of emergency? I smiled thinly to myself, remembering my employee manual. "Obviously, ma'am, we'd respond more fully to a request from local law enforcement? If they showed up as part of some sort of missing-persons investigation, we'd cooperate to a greater degree. I'd suggest, if this it an emergency, that you file a police report." I paused then, curious. "Who were you looking for? Did you tell Jeff?"

Her reply made me start, my fingers fumbling at the keyboard, scrolling down until the name leapt out at me like a fart in a synagogue: Brett Bourne, room 311. Must enjoy the third floor, I pondered. "Here's what I can tell you, ma'am," I lied. "That's not a name I've ever heard before. Does that help?"

It did, and when the winter morning sunlight came pouring in the windows the next morning as that last shuttle loaded up for the airport, I found myself smiling up at my old vice-principal once again. "Hi there, Mr Bourne." I arched an eyebrow. "Did you enjoy your stay?"

"Oh yes." He smiled back with a certain confidence as I brought up his data, so I decided to go off-script with my small talk.

"I'm, uh, relieved? That I didn't have to run anything up to your room last night?" I cocked my head at him until he caught the reference, his lip curling roguishly.

"I remembered to bring my own supply this time," he nodded, the two of us sharing one of those meaningless little giggles that Tony was always encouraging us to provoke. "Thanks for thinking of me, though," he added, and I nodded thoughtfully as his information went toward the printer.

"To be honest," I told him slowly, "I was thinking of you. Around midnight?" His eyebrows shot skyward. I wasn't sure why I was telling him, but I was. "I got a phone call last night, Mr Bourne."

"Oh?" His smile had long since frozen. Maybe he'd heard something in my tone; who could say? "Uh, a boyfriend?"

I burst out laughing. The guy had always been quick. "No. He knows better than to call me here." I found his eyes, looking a little bit worried now, and quite unexpectedly I felt a little bit of power fluttering through my belly. My brain was busy again. "This... was someone else's significant other," I went on slowly. "It was actually Mrs Bourne."

The breath left him in a long, deflating sigh, but I was obscurely pleased to see him rally quickly, his voice still firm. "You talked to my wife?" I nodded silently, the printer creaking. He licked his lips. "Why?"

"She called here, Mr Bourne. We certainly didn't call her." I watched his eyes dart from side to side, feeling an odd urge to let him dangle a bit. "Don't worry," I added after a long moment. "I told her I'd never heard of you."

"Oh." I watched the relief bloom in his face, and that little flutter in my belly became a tingle, a sense that I might be onto something here. He'd been desperately worried, I could tell. I glanced over to make sure Jeff was busy.

"I bet she was calling a bunch of hotels. But you should maybe be more careful?"

"Maybe." He reached a shaky hand out to take his receipt. "Well. Thanks, Ronnie. I owe you."

The fluttery tingle became a sudden urgency, hammering at my brain. The plan put itself together quickly, shocking and a little crude in its blatant unprofessionalism, but before I knew it I was already pushing out the words. "Funny you should say that," I said softly, amazed at myself. "I was just at the school yesterday," I went on, his eyebrows rising slowly. "A conference with Ms Silva."

"Math department," he nodded, looking wary.

"My brother is in her algebra class. I'm... I'm in charge of the house right now because my mom's in the National Guard? And he seems to be failing the class." He licked his lips again, those worried eyes narrowing. I had no clue where I was going with this... or rather, part of me knew. The rest of me hadn't quite caught up. I felt like my words were running ahead of me toward a cliff, that I had better find the right ones before they fell over the edge and left me standing here like an idiot. "It'd be great if he could pass," I blurted faintly, rescuing the situation with a smirk.

He was nodding now, though still looking worried. "How bad's his grade?" he asked quietly, and that tingly fluttering urgency blossomed into a vague glow of satisfaction.

"56%."

He shook his head. "If I'm hearing you right," he went on, "the semester is over in a week. I'm not sure he could pull his grade up to an A by then." His adam's apple bobbed, his nervousness giving me confidence that this might work out. I felt giddy.

"Oh no. He certainly wouldn't ever expect an A. But, you know, his GPA matters even as a freshman. He'll never be an engineer or anything, but it'd be great if he could wind up with something like a C..."

His sudden smile came out fast enough that I cursed myself for not mentioning a B. Fast enough that it made me wonder how often he'd heard this kind of thing before, and under what circumstances. "I think," he purred, "you're right. It really would be great, wouldn't it? If he ended up with a C?"

My head buzzed. "For the year, Mr Bourne. Not just the semester." I could feel my heart race. "Ms Silva felt he could definitely do that, if he really tried."

"Well. She's an excellent teacher. I'm sure he'll improve." I could see it in his eyes now, that he didn't give two shits about some freshman's math grade. Not at all. "Anyway, Ronnie, thanks again. And, uhhh..." He picked up his bag, gnawing at his lip. "If she calls again? Can I rely on you to keep telling her the same thing?"

I shrugged. "I don't work on Thursdays and Fridays. But any of us should refuse to discuss guests." Someone else was in line behind him now. "Take care, Mr Bourne. I'll see you on your next visit."

He looked at me another instant, then whirled toward the door.

* * *

"I really, really wish we had a different name." I was flipping through my inbox at three in the morning while Lucy complained. "People mock me for working here."

"Yeah?" I tried to show interest, but I'd heard her out on this subject before, many times. This was always the most boring part of the night, snow or no snow: the bar long closed, the guests all asleep, the coffee wearing out. "How so?"

"My girlfriend made a Pixboox reply yesterday. To my post about the Valentine's promotion?" I nodded; Tony was offering breaks on the rooms that weekend. "Here." I leaned the concierge chair dangerously far back so I could crane my neck at her phone. Back Bay Suites! The post was a mockup of Tony's flyer; we'd all put it on our feeds. Come in for a Suite Fuck In the Back[door]! I chortled. "What?"

"Nothing. It's kinda funny." I sighed and went back to my work. "You should boot her from your feed if you can't take a buttsex joke. Me, I'm just glad she understood how to use brackets."

I felt her eyes appraise me. "You know, Ronnie? You're kinda gross." I was trying to figure out a witty way to agree when the phone jarred me upright. "Want me to get that?"

"Nah." I glanced at the readout; 312 was calling. "Hello?" I listened, my eyes straying toward the elevators before they rolled. "Okay, sir, which room is being loud?" The man was being a little too vivid in his description. "Excuse me, I'm sorry, the voice said 'take that thick meat in the' what?" I listened to a longer answer than needed. "Okay. So, I mean, which side of your room are they on? The bed side or the TV side?" Motherfucker had no idea which room he was even complaining about. "TV side? Great, sir. I'll make sure to take care of it right away. You have a good night, okay?" Lucy arched an eyebrow as I hung up.

"Noise?"

"Noise." I consulted the floor diagram on my desk. 312, TV side... "Check on who's in 314."

She brought up the names, scrolling down with practiced flicks of her short-nailed fingers. I was always telling her she'd get a lot more cock if she stopped biting her nails. "Couple. Under the name Bourne. Want me to go?"

Of course. I rolled my chair back. "I'll do it." I smoothed myself on the way to the elevator; I'd gone with that short-skirted uniform dress in Petrotel blue tonight, mostly because it was laundry day. It didn't fit me well unless I was standing, which I never really was during most of my shift. Although, when it did fit me well? It fit me very well. I surprised myself with a smile as I remembered what 312 had told me about what atrocities he'd heard from next door, and I was still smiling as I pressed the doorbell.

They'd stopped by that time, on their own, which is always the way: I'd responded to a pathetic number of noise complaints over the past few months, and I couldn't recall a single one that had still been loud when I'd arrived. The early ones, just after the Grand Opening, I'd been all full of piss and vinegar, bounding upstairs like Wonder Woman only to be greeted, more often than not, by elderly guests dragged out of sleep by my imperious arrival.