Little Ronnie

"Fucking bullshit!" She was literally spitting mad when I caught sight of her, her little frame quivering with anger. She'd stopped and whirled in front of Reception, her chin thrust back toward the elevator doors, a gun waiting for a target while Jeff just blinked at her. I promptly fell out of my chair and onto my ass. "Goddamn motherfucking bullshit!"

"Uh, ma'am?" Jeff was brave to even open his mouth; I gave him that as I picked myself gracelessly up off the floor. "Can I help you?" The corner of my eye showed the second elevator dropping slowly down with Brett Bourne's face pressed to the glass; I wasn't exactly surprised once my wary brain had understood who the woman was.

Even without her shouting and her seething anger, her distress would have been obvious. Her clothes looked like they'd been thrown on at warp-speed, all wrinkled and dusty and with no sign of any underwear other than an incongruous bra clutched in her trembling left hand. I frowned as I stepped over. "Relax, ma'am," I told her in what I prayed was a soothing voice.

So much for prayers.

"Blow it out your ass," she snarled at me. "I'll relax when you call the fucking police, you dumb bitch."

"Hey!" Jeff called; his chivalry was touching, but I didn't need it. I was more than capable of handling this little skank, even if I wasn't already feeling pissy.

"Watch your mouth," I snapped, my voice even; I'm not the biggest girl in the world, but this chick was about ninety pounds soaking wet. I drew myself up as I reached her, Bourne's elevator nearly at the bottom. "There's no need to talk like that."

"Fuck off," she spat, and even I was surprised at how quickly I slapped her, my hand making ringing contact with her reddened face.

"Relax, ma'am." I said it nice and loud this time, straight into her face as Bourne's elevator pinged. "Now."

"You hit me!" she blurted.

"Yes." The implications only then floated into my head: my job, a 911 call maybe. Assault and battery. LaFratta groping my ass as he cuffed me, most likely. Probably shouldn't have smacked her... "And I'm sorry. But you needed to calm down."

"Gina!" Enter Mr Bourne, the stream of oil squirted squarely onto the raging fire, and the woman surged toward him as if none of the rest of us even mattered.

"I'll fucking kill you!" she raged, her arm raised to strike, and Bourne blocked her clumsily as I shouted at Jeff.

"Call a cab! Now!"

"A what?" The kid was young, buzzed, scared, and kind of stupid. He was also trying to stare at where Gina's trashed clothes had left all kinds of skin on display, some still sex-flushed.

"An Uber. Lyft. Whatever the fuck." I jerked my head meaningfully at the woman, wracked now with hysterical sobs, slapping ineffectively at Mr Bourne's chest. He was in a Lynyrd Skynyrd shirt and some boxers, his sockless feet jammed into a pair of dress shoes.

He looked at me, and then he rolled his eyes. And I found myself doing the same.

"Sir," I began carefully, not sure whether touching Gina would help; she was doing no damage, her hands flapping harmlessly against his shirt. I risked it, laying a gentle hand on her shoulder. "Why don't you go on back upstairs. We'll take care of her."

"Shut the fuck up," she spat at me, her teeth bared. "You're not doing shit with me."

"Go on, sir," I told Bourne again. Jeff stood off to the side, useless, his Adam's apple bouncing. The vice-principal nodded vaguely, his eyes flickering one more time along Gina's tiny body, then shrugged and retreated to slap the elevator button. "We'll call you a ride, ma'am."

She went limp, suddenly, her head lolling sideways to glare at me. "I've got my own fucking car," she muttered, and in a flashing blur of movement her own hand came up to my face, even faster than mine had been, the sound of the slap fading against the muffled clump of the elevator doors closing. My cheek was fire amid the sudden ringing in my ear. "There, bitch. We're even." Her mouth curled in a smirk. "Keep your fucking ride."

"Um." She left me, rubbing dumbly at my face, the song still smashing against my eardrums; I hadn't even noticed it was still going, all this time. "Thank you for staying at the Back Bay Suites by Petrotel," I rapped out, the training grabbing hold of my stinging tongue. "We look forward to having you back."

Her reply was two middle fingers in my face. "Go jam it up your ass," she advised, twirling on her heel so that she could flounce off toward the back parking lot. And, predictably, Jeff's eyes followed her the whole way.

And that's how Bourne's phone call found us, sharing Jeff's bottle a few minutes later while we waited wide-eyed to make sure the woman wouldn't come back in out of the snowy February night. The hotel hummed quietly around us as the desk phone bleated. "Front desk?" Jeff listened carefully, then nodded. "Hold on." He offered to trade the phone for his Jaeger, and I agreed with a shudder; I hated that shit, but it worked. "Wants the manager."

"They always do," I sighed, grimacing. I lifted the receiver. "This is the manager speaking, I'm Veronica." Jeff's eyes were riveted on my mouth, which curved into a grin when I heard the voice on the other end give its long, rambling explanation. "Of course, sir. Which room was that? Okay. I'll be right up." I arched an eyebrow at Jeff. "Seems Mr Lynyrd Skynyrd locked himself out of his room."

"Oh." Jeff showed no sign of moving, other than to lift the bottle in a twitchy little toast. "Good thing for me he asked for the manager. Not the desk clerk."

I scowled. "Give me another swallow, then," I demanded, the liquor burning all the way down as I strode for the elevator. Gina's handprint smudged the shiny brass doors, and I made a mental note to get that swabbed off before Tony arrived in the morning. I always enjoyed elevator rides in the Suites. It felt like I was in my own little glass closet rising smoothly while the lobby panorama opened wide before me. I smoothed my stiff hotel-approved skirt as I hit the third floor, the doors slithering open with their usual soft rattle.

I wasn't expecting Brett Bourne to be standing before the elevator bank, leaning casually against the far wall with its pretentiously framed Monet poster, but his eyes glinted as he saw me step off. I smiled. "That was fun," I told him flatly, my mouth curling superciliously. "You sure can pick 'em, Mr Bourne." My face was still red from her slap.

"Yeah, well." He showed no shame at all, standing there insolent in his polka-dot boxers having just been publicly rejected in an incredibly humiliating way, but then by that time we both knew what kinds of shenanigans he'd been up to over the past month or so in this very hotel. "So embarrassing."

"You don't exactly seem all that shaken," I sighed, glancing up at him as he fell in beside me. "You'd think you were used to having batshit crazy ladies loudly cuss you out in hotel lobbies in the middle of the night."

"What can I say?" He chuckled as we passed along the silent room doors. "At my age, I guess I've seen it all."

I laughed. "Like you're that old." We were nearing his room, my hand reaching for the master cardkey I'd grabbed from Jeff's desk. "What are you, fifty?"

"I'm offended, Ronnie. I'm forty-four." I rolled my eyes; the guy was almost twice my age. "Still vigorous, though."

"A little too vigorous," I muttered, glancing pointedly at his boxers. "I can't believe I slapped that woman."

He shrugged. "She doesn't mind being slapped," he tossed out after an awkward little pause, but by then we were at his door and I'd turned to face him. "Look, I'm sorry for all the trouble I've been causing you around here. I know how all this must look."

I stared up at him, hesitating. The greying hair at his temples was all frayed from Gina's little hands, and his eyes pierced mine intently. I thought about my lunchtime conversation with Izzy, my body getting warm: he smelled like sex. I was grinning, I realized. "It looks like a cheap hotel in the middle of the night, Mr Bourne," I shrugged. "That's all it looks like to me. I haven't been a hotel manager very long, but I've learned to keep my mouth shut."

"But your eyes open." He seemed like he didn't mind standing out in the hall all night, I realized. Talking to me.

"I've always been pretty observant." I glanced at the doorknob, the card reader. "Want me to let you in, sir, or were you just going to stand out in the hall in your underwear?"

His eyebrow rose as his arm swept out. "Lead the way."

"Lead the way?" I laughed. "No, that's not how this works, Mr Bourne. I open the door, then stand aside professionally with my hands behind your back. You go in, I ask if you need anything else, you say no, and I wish you a good night."

"When do I tip you?" His eyebrow was still up, and the look in his eyes gave a little shudder just below my belly. I knew I was blushing as I answered.

"We don't take tips, sir." But I was still smirking, and by the time I got the sentence out, so was he. "Well, we're not supposed to, anyway."

He didn't move. "I know you're not supposed to, Ronnie. This isn't my first time staying here." He paused. "And Aaron Silber's math grade is doing much better now." He let that sink in, my blush deepening, then he tossed his head at the door. "So? Lead the way." For a moment we stood there in the dim-lit hallway, the hotel sighing around us, the tension growing, my mind fading back into a naughty gloom. Fuck. I'd already smacked one guest and gotten half-buzzed on Jaeger; why not go hang out in another guest's room? I didn't let myself think about what might happen. I kept eye contact as I pulled out my phone. "Expecting a call?"

"I'm texting the kid on the desk," I explained, wondering whether I sounded as excited as I felt. It had been awhile since I'd been pursued, least of all by my old vice-principal. "I've got a fucked-up ice machine on the second floor. I'm checking it out." I slipped the phone back into the skirt's little pocket. "As far as he cares, anyway." I moved up to stand by Bourne, feeling his heat, smelling his smell as I slid my card. "Come on in, sir. If you'd like me to, I'll just check the room and ensure there's no damage?"

"Your attention to detail is impressive, Ronnie." He was staring straight down my shirt as I pushed his door open, and my pussy knew it. I'm sure I put some extra sway into my hips as I stepped into the darkened room, smelling that saliva-sweat stench of fucking, noting one of the lamps had been tipped onto the rumpled bed. "She tripped on the lamp cord," he explained, knowing I wasn't buying it.

"Such a shame." I set the thing back upright, but checked the rest of the room as carefully as I could; if there was real damage and I didn't report it, Tony would have my ass. "Looks fine."

"Since you're here..." He was over by the TV, unwrapping the plastic glasses there. "I brought some wine. It seems my friend won't be joining me, so feel free to have a glass."

I laughed out loud at that one. "You're very subtle, Mr Bourne." He just laughed along with me; there wasn't much point anymore, but the charade was fun. The flirting. Still, he was not asking me about wine. I thought I knew what he was asking me, and I thought I'd probably say yes. My pussy, pulsing slightly all day, since DeVaunte had left me begging, already had said yes as soon as I accepted his invitation into the room. "Red or white?"

"Do you care?" He was very confident now as he crossed to his suitcase.

"Of course I care," I retorted, leaning against the wall by the bed. I was trying not to look at the big wet patch there, nearly centered on the sheet. "This is a Belgian company, sir, and the hotel has a restaurant. We get trained in wine and shit."

"And shit?" He chuckled. "It's a chardonnay." He poured two, looking apologetically at the bed. "Sorry about the mess."

I rolled my eyes, and made sure he saw me do it. "No you're not." I hesitated, wondering how aggressive I should be. "You had fun," I said at last, shrugging. "You've been having a lot of fun here lately." I strolled around the bed to join him at the little table by the window with its two sleek chairs. "Thank you," I added, taking my cup.

He shrugged as he sat. "I take my fun where I can get it."

"You get it right here." I sipped.

"Right here in the hotel?" he flirted lightly, "or right here with you?" He looked frankly at my chest, and I let my mouth flop open in shock.

"Why sir!" I wasn't offended, and he knew it. Things were moving fast now. "How dare you!" He looked absently at the lipstick mark I'd left on the plastic. "I think I slapped the wrong person. I think you might need one, too. Your own ex-student!" I shook my head severely, but he merely smiled.

"You talked to Izzy Speier, I'm sure," he said softly.

I held his gaze while I nodded, my body tingling. "I did." I took another sip. "This is, like, a pretty long midlife crisis you're having. If you don't mind my saying so."

He yawned. He hadn't touched his wine yet. "I've always been a guy who... well. You know."

"Likes taking his fun where he can get it?" I broke in, and he nodded pleasantly.

"You always had a way with words."

"Bullshit," I scoffed. "You don't even remember me from when I was at school."

"You got that English awrd," he pointed out. "That, I remember. I had to hand it out at graduation. But you're right, generally; you don't stand out much." He shook his head apologetically. "I'm the vice-principal. I only know the kids I have to work with. The shitheads. The ones I have to yell at." He waited until my eyes found his once more. "I don't get to know the ones I'd like to get to know," he added, low-voiced. His murmur thrilled me.

"And now," I said slowly, turning my cup on the table, "here I am. Alone in your room." We stared a bit longer, the silences getting more and more comfortable. "With you in your undies."

He tossed his head back at that, laughing. "I had to put them on before I chased Gina down the hall," he explained, still unashamed. Like he was reciting a news story. I wondered whether he cared about her at all. "I know they're not cool, like the Disney ones."

I smiled. "They're fine." I tossed my heavy hair back. "I have to admit," I went on, "I'm a little intrigued at a man who could make a woman get quite that pissed off."

"Oh, it's not that hard. She's not careful about her meds."

I snickered. "My boyfriend," I said pointedly, watching for his reaction, "says he used to make mistakes in his life, when he was younger. That he was stupid. That he used to, as he puts it, 'stick it in crazy.'" Bourne's smile grew. "She's the kind of crazy he used to stick it in, I think."

Bourne nodded ruefully. "There's a reason for it, too," he admitted. "She's an awful lot of fun, if I get her in the right mood."

"You're terrible!" I was smiling despite myself. "You're trouble, Mr Bourne. I never would have guessed it back then."

He was watching me now as carefully as I was watching him. "I try to be careful to keep my worlds separate." He raised his cup at last, holding it up to me. "I never really did thank you enough, for covering for me. With my wife." He took a breath. "I'd love to make it up to you."

The tingle in my body grew, radiating out now from between my legs. I crossed them. This was all so, so tawdry. "How'd you say my brother's math grade was, sir?" I asked him, my voice all throaty now.

He nodded, smiling, his manner cynical. "Coming along fine, like I said." He sipped, his eyes riveted on me. "But that's making it up to him, Ronnie. It's not really making it up to you."

I brushed back my misbehaving hair once more. "I don't want my sister and brother to wind up as night managers at an airport hotel." I tossed my head. "Simple as that, Mr Bourne."

He nodded, then threw back all the rest of his wine in one gulp. "You're not a student anymore. Call me Brett."

"You're a guest," I countered, the tingling everywhere now. The tension was almost tangible in that room. "I can't call you Brett."

"Not right now," he pointed out mildly. "This is my room. You're my guest, Ronnie."

I was already nodding before he was done with the sentence, my breaths deepening. This was getting exciting. "Interesting conundrum." I glanced at the rumpled bed. "And you, sitting here with nobody to... well, to have fun with."

"Oh," he rumbled, his voice even lower now, my whole body barely holding back a shudder, "I'm not sure that's true." I felt my mouth drop once more, my eyes widening at him. My tits ached, tight. I felt a sudden overpowering heat, a constriction around my whole body. I needed to get out of my clothes. I thought about Izzy, about what she'd said about him, and licked my lips.

I had no idea what to say to that. But his eyes were fixed squarely on where my nipples were trying to burst out of my shirt, so I'm not sure he needed to hear anything. In his eyes was the confidence of a man who's used to getting pussy whenever he wanted it, and as I thought about the light in his eyes and the rumble of his voice I could see why.

I swallowed. He needed an answer. I tipped my glass toward him. "Mr Bourne," I sighed, seeing his face go smug as he heard the rasp in my throat, "you should be more careful."

"Yeah?" He'd let go of his cup, his hands resting calmly on the chair's spindly arms. "How so?"

"People at home are eventually going to figure out what you're doing these days. Here at the hotel." I licked my lips. "You're only three towns away from North Adams."

He regarded me a moment, coolly, his legs splayed on either side of the table. I knew I could glance down and see his penis through the slit in his boxers, and I knew he wanted me to; it was a small triumph to keep my eyes on his face. He smiled, one of those Jack Nicholson Joker smiles. "It's just so difficult to control myself." He dropped his eyes slowly to my chest, then back up. "You know how that can be."

"Fuck." It was wrenched out of me, and he chuckled calmly as I just sat there and shook my head, my body betraying me. He got slowly to his feet, and I certainly looked that time: his dick was fattening, tenting the boxers. He preened a moment, wanting me to see. The tingling in my body was a ringing in my ears now, and I was glued to that chair with a force greater than gravity. A man in a straitjacket had more freedom then than I had. "Mr Bourne..." I'd started a sentence I couldn't finish, my voice croaking to a wheezy stop as he came around the table and stood over me.

"Self-control." He was whispering now with a strange smile. I saw nothing but the loose, tented boxers, bulging more and more by the second, the hole in front opening up: I saw flesh in there, and hair and shadow, and my brain recoiled. I shouldn't want that dick. That thing had just been inside the crazy bitch who'd slapped me. Like, an hour ago? And here it was, already starting to firm up again, reaching for me this time... He stopped when he was a foot from my face, gazing down with a curl to his lip. "It's so overrated."

I sucked in a thick breath as, with no warning at all, Mr Bourne dropped to his knees with silky grace, staring up at me now instead of down, still with that smug look in his face even as his hands found my bare knees. I was sucking in great gasps, my eyes wide. "Damn," I managed.

"Way, way overrated," he urged, and it seemed I was watching with someone else's eyes as he pushed my legs slowly open. Long fingers splayed their way along my skin, the tips just barely easing under the hem of my skirt.

And then he stopped, his eyebrow climbing back up his forehead, totally in charge. "You agree, right?"

He didn't have to push anymore, my seat creaking as my thighs flew open against the arms of the chair. "Hell yes." It came out as a rushing sigh, DeVaunte and his afternoon disappointment completely forgotten, my face curling into a grimace of need. And even then, as the ringing in my ears faded into a distant cottony hum in my desperate brain, his bold eyes stayed locked on mine, his lips moving to my leg. His kiss was dry and hot, small, an insistent flicker at my thigh before his head swung aside to the other leg, higher, my chest heaving above him.