Hotel ch.8

Harry was sitting behind the reception desk, lost in the gritty, neon-lit world of "Redheads and Revolvers." The old man and Tonks were right. Barrington used his words to paint a picture of a bygone era when hard-boiled private detectives roamed the city's dark streets, looking for clues to brutal murders in seedy bars and grimy slums.

It was nearing 10 PM, and the Star Hotel was quiet. A few guests had come and gone, but there had been no calls to the reception all evening. Harry had used the time to immerse himself in the novel he had bought. He imagined what the Star Hotel might have looked like in the 1920s when gangsters and dames prowled its hallways.

Harry was jolted from his novel when the hotel phone suddenly buzzed. He glanced at the screen and saw Tracey's name. Surprised, he straightened in his chair and swiped to answer.

"Good evening, Ms. Davis. How can I help you?"

"Harry, you need to rescue me," she panted into the phone, her voice barely audible over the laughter and clinking glasses in the background.

"What's going on?" Harry asked, concern creeping into his voice. "Are you in danger?"

"I'm trapped at this damned faculty and alumni party! I swear if I have to endure one more lecherous professor or snotty student, I'll lose my mind."

Harry relaxed, irritated by her dramatics. He made no effort to hide his frustration in his voice, mindful of his duties as the concierge of the Star Hotel.

"What do you want me to do?" he asked. "I can call a car service to pick you up if you want to leave."

"No, that won't work," she sighed. "I need to stay and show my face. I can't leave. At least not yet. I'm screwing up my life sitting in the corner with a fake smile plastered on my face, pretending to have a fun conversation on this damn phone!"

Harry cleared his throat. "Tracey, have you been drinking?"

He heard a long, slow exhale before she responded. "Just sparkling water, you jerk. But I get why you're asking. I'm not drunk. I'm just desperate. Please, help me, Harry."

The situation seemed trivial, but the desperation in Tracey's voice was real. She had opened up to Harry one day and revealed the tension she was under. It meant something that she called him when she needed rescuing.

"Okay, Tracey. Tell me what you need."

"I'm sending you my location now. We're on the 46th floor. There's a QR code that will get you into the event."

"Got it," Harry replied, checking his phone. "I'll be there in half an hour."

"Harry? Bring a mask. A medical one, not a costume mask."

"Okay. Why?"

"I'll tell you later. Just wear it before you come upstairs. And hurry! I'm drowning here."

Twenty-five minutes later, Harry was at HighTower. Fifty-eight stories of black marble and tinted glass rose into the night sky like a giant piece of gleaming black licorice.

As Harry entered the opulent lobby, he was struck by the scale of the place. Gilded chandeliers hung like celestial bodies above the crowd of elegantly dressed men and women who carried themselves with an air of self-satisfaction that was both intoxicating and repellent.

He showed his QR code to a bored security guard. The guard scanned it and waved him through. There was a bank of elevators. It was only a moment before Harry was whisked up to the upper levels of the tower.

This place is like something out of a spy movie. Or a sci-fi flick. The whole place looks like a damn spaceship.

Harry slipped on the mask, a plain black one he had found in the hotel's supply closet. The elevator stopped, and he stepped out into a wide hallway, heading toward the open doors of a large ballroom.

Delicate classical music blended with the murmur of a large crowd greeted him as he entered the expansive room. The space was filled with elegant people dressed in impeccably tailored attire. Most were older, their three-piece suits and pencil skirts, updos, meticulously manicured nails, and jewelry glittered in the dim light.

In one corner, a string trio provided tasteful background music while waiters in tuxedos circulated with trays of champagne and small hors d'oeuvres.

"Harry!" Tracey called out, her eyes lighting up as she spotted him.

She must have been waiting near the door, anticipating his arrival. The sight of a familiar face reassured Harry, especially one as lovely as Tracey. She wore a simple black dress that bared her shoulders and displayed a tasteful décolletage. A plain gold necklace and sensible heels completed her outfit. Her only adornment was a jeweled clip pinning her short black hair to one side.

"Thank God you made it," she whispered in his ear.

"You look amazing," Harry complimented her as she looped her arm through his.

"Thanks. You look great too. That suit looks like it was made for you."

"It was."

"Being a concierge must pay better than I imagined."

"It has certain unexpected benefits," Harry said, smiling under the mask.

Tracey looked into his eyes, intrigued by his comment. Harry met her gaze, letting her imagination fill in the gaps.

"So here's the deal," she said finally. "You've been my boyfriend for two years. You work in the hospitality industry. You're also sick, your throat hurts, and you can't talk much, so I'll be speaking for you."

"You've thought this through," Harry marveled.

"I study literature for a living," she replied. "I know how to spin a tale."

"Got it. So what's the plan?"

"We're going to mingle a bit. I need to show my face to a few donors. Then, once we've paid our social dues, we'll make a graceful exit."

"Understood."

Tracey patted his arm. "Just be tall, dark, and handsome. Leave the talking to me."

Harry let Tracey lead him into the crowd, enjoying the looks they both attracted. It always felt good to have a beautiful woman on his arm, even if he was just playing a role.

Maybe this could turn into something more than just an act? Tracey is hot as hell and has already tried to get you into bed. Now she's calling you to be her pretend boyfriend? I'm sure Professor Davis has more in store for you, man.

Whatever the future held, Harry enjoyed the moment with Tracey. Circulating among the crowd of wealthy, privileged people, he felt like one of those TV movie heroes who mingles with aliens to study their strange culture.

Holding onto his arm possessively, Tracey steered them toward a group of older people. A silver-haired woman adorned with pearls observed them, her eyes appraising Harry with equal parts curiosity and disdain.

"Ah, Professor Davis! Who is this handsome, masked man you've brought with you?" she asked.

"Professor Rusk, this is my partner, Harry," Tracey introduced him, tightening her grip on his arm.

"Partner?" the woman repeated skeptically, her lips curling into a patronizing smile. "Isn't he a breath of fresh air?"

"He's a bit under the weather and lost his voice, but he's been fighting through it to be here with me tonight," Tracey lied smoothly. "We are once again practicing social distancing! Lovely to see you all."

The woman's eyes narrowed in irritation, but she said nothing more as they moved away from her group.

For the next twenty minutes, Tracey guided them from one group to another, like a hummingbird visiting flower after flower. She skillfully paid her "face tax," putting on a charming facade that Harry immediately recognized as an act. The more time he spent with Tracey, the better he could discern her true feelings.

They were in the middle of another tedious conversation with a group of older folks when Harry felt a hand on his shoulder.

"What a delightful surprise," a warm, husky voice whispered in his ear.

Harry coughed in surprise as Bellatrix joined him and Tracey. She wore a green dress that flowed loosely over her curvaceous body, with her signature ruby pendant hanging between her ample breasts. She smiled at him with amusement as he turned to her.

Tracey's eyes widened at the sight of the Star Hotel's owner. Bellatrix scanned them both, quickly assessing the situation.

"Professor Davis, how lovely to see you this evening. I see your...companion is still feeling under the weather?"

"Yes, he is!" Tracey said quickly, grateful that Bellatrix was playing along with their little farce. "His throat is still sore."

"Ah, what a shame. Your voice is so melodic. I do hope you feel better soon. Illness often laid me low, deeply penetrating my throat and leaving me feeling utterly drained and spent. You must know what I mean, right, Harry?"

The older people around them nodded sympathetically, completely oblivious to the double meaning in Bellatrix's words. Harry grinned broadly, happy that the mask covered his face.

Tracey squeezed his arm tightly, her face struggling to maintain a pleasant expression.

"I'm afraid Harry and I must be going," Tracey said. "We don't want his illness to worsen. Or to spread throughout the room! It was lovely seeing you all tonight. Perhaps later we could discuss the workshop I'll be conducting online about the latest analysis of authorial intent in recent trauma memoirs..."

"You can't leave without introducing me to your partner first!" a booming voice said.

Heads turned as a tall, gaunt man joined the conversation. He looked to be in his sixties, his white hair contrasting sharply with the black suit he wore.

Harry felt Tracey immediately tighten her grip on his arm, her body tensing with discomfort. "Of course, Professor Warren," Tracey said calmly. "This is Harry. Harry, this is Dr. Warren. He is the head of the LUM department."

The head of the department? So this was the guy Tracey had mentioned the other night? The jerk who tried to get into her pants by dangling a lecturer position? He looked the part.

Harry struggled to suppress his disgust as he shook the man's hand. His grip was cold and clammy, just as Harry had suspected.

"What do you do for a living?" Warren asked.

"Harry works in the hospitality industry," Tracey answered for him.

"Really? Interesting. How is the hospitality industry doing these days?"

Harry raised his hand and waggled it back and forth, signaling "so-so."

"Your partner is very eloquent despite not speaking," Professor Warren said, his voice dripping with barely concealed contempt. "Still, I would have thought you'd seek out someone more aligned with your interests, Tracey."

"Actually, we have a lot in common," Tracey replied sweetly.

"Really?" Professor Warren sneered. "So tell me, Harry. What book are you currently reading?"

"Harry lost his voice," Tracey interjected. "He can't—"

"C.Q. Barrington," Harry said loudly. "Redheads and Revolvers."

Professor Warren's eyes narrowed at Harry's response. Clearly, he hadn't expected Harry to answer. Neither had Harry, but the man's arrogance demanded a reply.

"C.Q. Barrington? Well, it's been many years since I read him, but I don't recall his works being highly regarded. At least not by serious people."

The older folks around them chuckled, sharing his amusement at Harry's expense.

"Actually, C.Q. Barrington is criminally underrated," Harry said with conviction. "Dark and muscular prose with thematic subversion of the genre through an existential incision of the human condition."

Harry smiled under his mask at the shocked expressions around him, especially Professor Warren's. He looked disgusted, as if he had just smelled a particularly pungent fart.

The moment was broken by Bellatrix's throaty laugh, her hand patting Harry's forearm as if he had just shared the wittiest joke imaginable.

Tracey seized her opportunity. "On that interesting note, Harry and I really must be going. Again, it was wonderful to see you all tonight. Especially you, Bellatrix. Goodnight!"
Everyone said their goodbyes, except for Professor Warren, who merely stared at them. Tracey led Harry away from the group, weaving through the crowd and heading toward the exit.

"That was amazing," she whispered to him. "I'm so turned on right now."

"You can thank a girl named Tonks," Harry replied. "She's a barista with pink hair. I think you'll like her."

"You'll have to introduce me."

"Anytime, from Wednesday to Sunday. Monday and Tuesday are Ginny Weasley's shifts. Rumor has it, Weasley's the real deal."

Tracey shook her head, laughing quietly.

"Let's get out of here," she suggested, her warm breath tickling Harry's ear. "I think I've had enough of this charade."

"Lead the way," Harry responded, eager to escape the stifling atmosphere.

Together, they slipped out of the party, leaving behind the pretentious laughter, smug arrogance, and fake smiles.

As the elevator descended to the lobby, Tracey pulled Harry close and kissed him hard. He responded, his hands roaming her back, their tongues swirling together.

"I'm not ready for this night to end," Tracey said breathlessly.

"Neither am I."

"Let's go dancing," she giggled.

"Fuck yeah!" Harry laughed.

Holding hands, they stepped out into the warm summer night.