However, it’s nearly dinner time, and if last night was any indication, there’s a reason my shift begins in the evening. This is when things get interesting around the hotel.
The lady stops in front of me, glaring. My best professional guess is that the she’s between the ages of seventy and one hundred. She’s extremely tanned, probably the reason I can’t pinpoint her age more exactly, and she’s holding a bottle of sparkling mineral water in front of her like it’s a poisonous viper.
“I was told you were the manager on duty.” Her tone indicates that she finds this doubtful.
“I am.” I can feel my smile slipping just a bit.
“Then I hope you can help me with my problem. I ordered a bottle of Perrier, and the waiter brought me this.” She holds up a bottle. It’s sparkling water, but the brand is not Perrier.
“I’m sorry. Can I get you something else?”
“When I ask for Perrier, I want Perrier.”
She holds the bottle out, so that I have no polite choice except to take it.
“I’ll inquire in the kitchen to see what brands of sparkling water—”
Before I can finish this thought, a crash sounds from the lobby. Still holding the water, I hurry to see what’s happening.
“You’re nothing but trash,” a red-faced man yells. “A whore.”
I recognize the woman he’s screaming at, the blonde who was in Cruise’s room last night, immediately. Not Dawn, but the other one. She’s wearing a denim mini-skirt, and a painted on green tank top. It isn’t the most sophisticated of outfits, and I could never pull it off, but it looks good on her.
Admittedly, I didn't like her. I was particularly annoyed by the mocking laughter as I walked away from Cruise’s villa. But I’m not okay with any woman being knocked around, not on my watch. The red-faced man grips her arm, pinning her to the wall, and his other arm goes up, like he’s about to strike her. He’s bulky, like a high school football player a decade past his glory days.
Overshadowed by his bulk, she looks tiny, and frightened.
I open my mouth to shout something, to distract him and make him stop. This cannot happen in the lobby of this hotel. The sort of guests who are worried about the brand of sparkling water served are not going to appreciate witnessing the spectacle presented by seeing a woman in a mini-skirt getting shoved against the stucco wall.
Before I can utter more than a half-crazed sounding yelp, the man throws the blonde against the wall. She screams, and Cruise barrels into the lobby.
“Get your hands off her.” Cruise’s low voice carries across the lobby. Under the crystal chandelier, his tattoos that snake out from under the sleeves of his black t-shirt stand out starkly, out of place, like he’s some fascinating specimen from another world.
“What’re you going to do about it?” The red-faced man is bigger than Cruise, but some of his bulk is muscle gone to fat. If he wasn’t so angry, so belligerent, he would be the only one of the trio who might look like they belong in this lobby. He’s wearing an expensive suit, and a silk tie. The blonde looks too trashy for Seascape Villas, and Cruise is disconcerting, his expression furious, his board shorts casually paired with the black t-shirt that highlights the bulge of his biceps. His hands are already balled into fists. He’s ready for a fight.
“What’re you going to do?” Red Face taunts him.
“I’m going to make you take your fucking hands off her,” Cruise answers. The whole time, he doesn’t even look at the girl. No, this isn’t about some kind of possessiveness over her. In fact, I get the feeling it’s not about her at all.
“Oh yeah? And if I make one phone call—”
Cruise’s blue eyes spark dangerously. “You would make that phone call, Patrick? With all I know about you?”
Patrick smiles, revealing teeth that could use a good whitening treatment.
“All you know about me? You’re the one who—”
Cruise hits him. It’s an almost casual movement, like shadow boxing, except that Patrick’s head snaps back, and blood spurts from his nose.
I gasp, covering my mouth. The violence shouldn’t be unexpected. Cruise is barely controlled violence, but in this elegant lobby, it can’t be anything but shocking.
Patrick wipes blood from the corner of his mouth.
“You think I’m going to hit you back? Right here? I don’t think so. You’ll be hearing from my lawyer.” He’s trying to sound confident, but you can tell it’s false bravado. He’s scared.
Patrick turns and makes eye contact with me, reading the gold nameplate pinned to my sweater. “And the hotel will be hearing from my lawyer, too.”
“Hiding behind your lawyer?” Cruise sneers. “Is that what seven years out of high school have done to you?”
“Um, yeah. I’ve got lawyers. I’ve built a business from the ground up. What’ve you done?” Patrick glances around the hotel lobby, as if the shabbiness of it somehow reflects on Cruise.
“And how does beating up women figure into your grand image of yourself?” Cruise spits.