I drop my bag next to the bed and find a single rose lying across my pillow with a wrapped chocolate. The red of the flower is lush against the starched white fabric, and I pick it up and smell the petals. They’re sweet and powdery. I wonder momentarily if I’m still in the car, dreaming. After the obligatory bounce on the bed and check of the bathroom, I decide that despite the late hour, I can’t sleep. Not when there’s so much to explore. I quickly brush my teeth, take down my hair, and reapply deodorant. There was music downstairs—familiar music. There has to be people. I put on some gloss and slip my keycard into the back pocket of my jeans and head to the lobby.
The lobby is deserted when I walk through, but the bored desk attendant has returned to his computer duty. I wonder if he was reprimanded for ignoring us earlier. By his lack of attention now, I guess not. The music leads me forward until I’m at the entrance of the grand ballroom. It sounds like a serious after-party on the other side of these doors. I look around, my heart racing, and then push my way inside.
There is, indeed, a party. And not a few drunken late-night castoffs, either. I spin, trying to take in all the sights at once. The room is three stories tall, with massive chandeliers, golds and yellows splashed through the room, heavy deep-red drapes framing the doorway. On the walls are panels of intricate tapestries, gold frames. There are private alcoves with benches carved into the wooden walls, guests sipping from fancy glasses. All around me are sequins and bow ties. On the low-rise stage a distinguished-looking older man plays the black baby grand piano while a woman in a gold dress sings along. The words seem slightly familiar, although off somehow. But the singer’s voice is amazing—haunting and soul scratching. I want to people-watch, so I go to find a space in the alcove, smiling as the world twirls around me.
A server in a black tux comes by and offers me a drink, bending low so I can take the glass from his tray. He smiles at me, much like the valet, and then disappears back into the crowd. This must be how celebrities live—all-night parties, free drinks. I sip from the glass and the champagne bubbles tickle my nose. My father would kill me.
I stop. Would he? Would he even care at this point?
“Is it casual Friday already?” a voice asks. I turn just as a guy about my age sits down. He’s wearing a sharp gray suit, and when he crosses his leg over his knee, I see his shoes are impossibly shiny. He’s not smiling, not like the others, but there is a definite hint of flirting in his amber-colored eyes.
“Not technically,” I respond, sipping from my drink in a movement that I hope looks natural. “But as it turns out, formal wear at four a.m. on a Tuesday is kind of douchey.”
The guy laughs, genuine and hearty, and I like the sound of it. In my world of constant faking, he’s showing me the first authentic joy I’ve seen in a while. I sip again, wondering how much champagne I’d need to forget everything but him.
“You win,” the guy says, uncrossing his legs to lean forward. “And I have to tell you, I’m quite charmed by your lack of party attire.”
“Well, that’s good, because I’m super impressed with the fact that you own a suit.”
He laughs again, and the skin crinkles around his eyes, his dimples deepen. His smile is absolutely disarming in the most wonderful way.
“Elias Lange,” he says, holding out his hand.
“Fancy,” I tease, and slip my hand into his. Rather than shake it, he brings my fingers to his lips, kissing them politely. The heat of his mouth nearly makes me swoon, and when my hand falls back onto my lap, I’m entirely self-conscious of it. As if Elias has brought that particular body part back to life. He smiles and gazes out at the party, seeming to realize his effect on me.
“I’m Audrey,” I say. “And I didn’t know there was a party tonight. What’s the occasion?”
“Same party every night. It’s what we do here.” He loosens his tie and then reaches to grab a glass from the tray of a passing server.
“We? Do you stay here a lot?” I ask.
He sips, looks at me, and sips again. “I do. Want me to show you around? I’ve about mastered the trust-fund-kid tour. Promise it’s more fun than this.”
I plan to tell him no because I don’t typically run off with complete strangers after a three-second conversation, even if he does own a suit, but my response is cut off.
“Eli,” a girl calls loudly, and then pauses to stand in front of me. She pretends I don’t exist as she speaks. “I thought we were going to dance,” she says. Her pink lips pout in a childish way I find obnoxious, and from his lack of attention I’m guessing Elias does too. Despite her behavior, the girl is stunning, a vision in a white, sparkly dress, with snow-blond hair framing her face.
“You know I don’t dance, Catherine,” Elias says casually. “I’m sure Joshua would love to take a spin with you. Would you like me to ask him?”
Catherine’s small blue eyes tighten to slits. She spins to face me as if I’ve spoken. Her glare shoots splinters of ice, stabbing me all at once. “Who are you?” she asks.
Wilting, I try to take a sip of my drink without letting my trembling hand spill the champagne. “I’m Audrey,” I respond. Elias shifts next to me like he’s about to step in. I hope he does before this girl scratches my eyes out.
“You weren’t invited here, Audrey,” Catherine says dismissively. “Now leave.”
Elias leans forward to take Catherine’s hand, drawing her gaze back to him. “Cathy,” he says softly. I expect her to warm to his voice—I know I would—but she rips her fingers away like she’s offended by his tone. Elias’s posture goes rigid, his brown hair falling into his eyes before he smooths it back in place. “Go away,” he says coldly. “I’m not doing this with you right now.”
Catherine bends down, bringing her face close to his. For a second I think she’s going to kiss him, and my stomach turns. Instead she smiles. “Eli,” she whispers. “Drop dead, darling.”
To this, Elias chuckles and lifts his glass. “Cheers,” he says, and drinks.
Catherine tosses one more hateful glance in my direction and then stomps her way across the ballroom. I put my hand on my stomach and exhale, happy to have mostly avoided a confrontation. When Elias turns to me, he shrugs apologetically. “Don’t judge me too harshly for being rude,” he says. “She’s an absolute psychopath.”
“She’s something,” I agree, watching until Catherine disappears from the party. The minute she’s gone, I relax slightly. Around us the conversations continue; the music plays, and I’m close to figuring out the melody.
“Ready for that tour?” Elias asks, hiding his smile behind the rim of his glass. “I know where they keep the chocolates for the pillows.”
I laugh, thinking he’s pretty adorable. But still, I’m not an idiot. He’s a total stranger, and even if he weren’t, I’m not exactly in a dating frame of mind. “No, thanks,” I say.
Elias doesn’t appear surprised by my rejection; in fact, he seems to appreciate it. He tilts his head, sliding his gaze over me. “How did you get here, Audrey?” he asks.
“The door.”
He laughs softly. “Fair enough. I take it, then, that you’re not here for the ghosts?” he asks. “Most of them are.” He motions to the crowd in the ballroom.
“Really? Is this place haunted?”
“They think so.” Elias pulls his tie from around his neck and tosses it aside. His hair has fallen forward again, and I think he looks more casual, more approachable. It makes him that much more attractive—a sneak peek at his real life.
“Who are you without that suit?” I ask. Elias’s eyebrows raise, and I nearly trip over myself to explain my words. “I don’t mean naked! I mean in life. Not with a suit—oh, God.” My cheeks warm with heat, and soon I’m laughing. To his credit, Elias nods along with my words, as if truly curious about my thought process.
“Well,” he says, motioning to the rooms above us, “if you’d like to have a look . . .”
I swat his shoulder, and then we’re both grinni
ng, oblivious to the concierge until he clears his throat beside us. He shoots Elias a quick frown of disapproval before addressing me.
“Miss Casella,” Kenneth says when he turns to me again. “Perhaps you should head up to your room? After all, you’re leaving tomorrow and it’s nearly four a.m.”
Elias sips calmly from his drink. Does he get carded? Does the hotel care if he, any of us, is underage? And then I wonder what business it is of the concierge that I’m not in bed, tucked under the covers.
“You see,” Kenneth offers, like he’s read my expression, “this party is invite only. And I don’t believe you have an invitation.” He waits. “Do you have an invitation, Miss Casella?”
I hate being scolded, and this feels very scoldy. “I do not,” I respond. I curl my lip at Elias as if asking what the deal is with Kenneth, and then start toward the exit.
“It was nice meeting you, Audrey,” Elias calls out. “Maybe I’ll see you around.”
I half turn, my heart thumping hard. I don’t respond, afraid he’ll hear it in my voice—the grief, the absolute dread of the next step. I’ll only be at the Ruby for a day, and then I’ll be shipped off to my grandmother. To be honest, tonight was the first real fun I’ve had in ages. I don’t want to spoil the mood by letting anyone in on how damaged I am. So I just wave and then zigzag through the crowd back to the doors.
As I leave, my eyes are drawn back to Elias. He sits alone in the alcove, dressed the part but still out of place somehow. His mouth is downturned as he stares into the dancing crowd, glass in hand, like he can’t stand being here at all.
My hallway is quiet, so stuffed with quiet it’s almost hard to breathe. I go into my room, toss my keycard on the dresser, and launch my flip-flops somewhere under the bed. My head is swimming, and I quickly grab the first pair of pajamas I can find. They’re soft and worn through the knees, and I switch off the light and climb into bed.
I stare out the window at the golden trees, lit from below by the hotel lights. It’s so peaceful here. My head sinks into the pillow, my eyes growing heavier with each blink. I’m exhausted from the trip and have a dull ache in my arm. I reach to rub the underside of my forearm, but the scene is slowly fading away. I think about the party, about Elias. The way he tried to hide his smile behind his glass, the golden hue of his eyes as he slid them over me. I can imagine the sort of tour he would have taken me on. It probably would’ve ended in his hotel room. I’m not sure I would have minded that.
I curl up and snuggle into the pillow like it’s a person holding me. I picture his arms around me, the beat of his heart under my hand. I pretend it’s Elias, warm and comfortable. “How did you get here?” he asks again.
The room sways with the beginning of sleep, a deep sleep that’s too inviting to resist. I close my eyes completely and answer, “I don’t know.”
Chapter 2
My room is dark when I open my eyes, drawn awake by the low hum of music. I blink until my vision adjusts; the soft glow outside my window tells me it’s not quite dawn. I’ve been asleep for only a few hours. Light seeps from under my door, and I wait a beat for the music to stop. It doesn’t.
Slowly I get out of bed and feel my way toward the door. From the other side I can hear music, faint, but too close to be from the party. I listen, knowing immediately that I’ve heard the song before. I just can’t place it.
I glance back into my dark room and debate returning to bed. Ultimately, the idea that there’s a party so close to me is too intriguing. The hinge creaks as I pull open the door, and I poke my head out to see if there’s anyone in the hallway. At first my eyelids flutter at the sudden brightness, but I quickly see that I’m all alone. The music seems to be coming from the end of the hall.
What is that song?
I open the security latch so I won’t get locked out, and then step barefoot into the hallway. I ease my door shut, taking another curious look around. The chords strum, like a guitar, slowly, too slow to make out the melody. When I leave the safety of the vicinity around my door, my heart starts to pound. My throat grows dry.
I study each door I pass, trying to find the source of the music. I’m not sure what time it is, but I know it’s insanely late for people to be awake. Late for them to be listening to a song on a loop. What song?
The temperature in the hallway starts to drop, colder the closer I get to the last door. I wrap my arms around myself, rubbing my shoulders when I start to shiver. I wish my brother and father were on this floor. I hate being alone. I’m almost to the last room—room 1336—when the music starts to fade, like someone is slowly turning down a knob.
I stop, the sense of being watched freezing me in place. I swallow hard, past the dryness in my throat, and peek behind me. Terrified that I’ll find someone (something) standing there.
But the music is gone. Now I’m barefoot in the hallway of the Hotel Ruby with uneven breaths and chilled skin. I look once more at the door and then turn to walk quickly back to my room. I slip inside and shut the door, my palm flat against it as I process my fear. For good measure I throw the locks and then move a chair in front of the door.
I stare at the handle and step backward toward my bed, sure I’ll see it turn at any moment. But as the time ticks by, as the sun starts to rise, my panic diminishes. I’m high strung, I tell myself. And maybe just a little drunk.
Eventually, I slide under the covers, exhausted and achy. Soon I’ll be asleep, and my real fears will find me, just as they normally do, to remind me of how I ruined my life.
I never got a chance to officially break up with Ryan. For weeks, months really, I imagined all the scenarios where I would say, “Ryan, I don’t love you anymore. I want to be friends.” He was my best friend, and not even one with benefits. I would shrink away when he tried to kiss me, find an excuse when he wanted to hold my hand. Ryan loved me the same way he always did. I couldn’t break his heart.
We were just shy of our two-year anniversary when I decided to finally do it. End our relationship. I’d cried the entire night before, mentally and emotionally preparing myself for what I was about to do. He would come to my house to pick me up for school, but before we left, I would tell him.
Instead, when I got downstairs that morning, my mother was there making breakfast. She never stayed late on school days. My stomach dropped because it meant another day—another day of pretending to be Ryan Martin’s girlfriend.
“What are you doing here?” I demanded, bare feet on the cold linoleum tiles, ASU T-shirt clinging to my chest. “You’re supposed to be at work.”
My mother laughed from where she stood at the stove. That What drama has befallen you now? laugh a mom gets when she thinks her daughter is overreacting. “I don’t know, Audrey,” she said, turning away to pour a circle of pancake batter into the skillet. “Some people call it breakfast. It doesn’t always have to come out of a cereal box.”
“You can’t be here,” I told her. “You’re going to ruin everything.” Tears began to fill my eyes, and my mother pulled the pan off the heat and crossed the kitchen. She put her hands—hands that were always cooler than my skin—on my arms and steadied her gaze on mine.
“What’s the matter? What am I going to ruin?”
My mother liked Ryan. No, she loved Ryan. She thought he was sweet, kind. I once told her she should adopt him, because when he was here, she doted on him as if he’d come from her womb. I stared back into her gray-blue eyes, just like Daniel’s, and I couldn’t gather the courage to tell her that I was changing my life forever. That although I wanted to stay friends with Ryan, realistically I knew it wouldn’t happen. My entire identity would change.
“I . . .” I started, unsure what to say to wipe the expression of concern off of her face. The smell of pancakes—flour and butter—hung in the air, mixing with my dread and making me sick. “Nothing,” I said, shaking my head. “Ryan will be here in twenty minutes, so you should probably make extra.”
She didn’t believe the excuse, qui
rking up her eyebrow as she weighed whether or not to press me. She didn’t. Mom went back to the pancakes, and I got dressed, numbly brushing my teeth and hair. Another day of being dead.
Only it was my mother who was dead less than two hours later.
I open my eyes and stare at the ceiling. The memory of my mother’s touch, cool and comforting, fades from my arms. I squeeze my eyes shut, missing her desperately. Wishing I’d thanked her for the pancakes and told her stay, stay just long enough.
There’s a knock at my door, jolting me upright. I glance around the wallpapered room, momentarily displaced. The white bedspread, the large, imposing trees outside the window; I’m not in Phoenix. It takes a second before it clicks. I’m at the Ruby.
Another knock.
I look for the time, but there’s no alarm clock on the nightstand. Only a gold-plated lamp. “Hold on,” I call out, my voice thick with sleep. When I stand, my ankle buckles under my weight, and I stagger back onto the bed. I quickly pull up the leg of my pajama pants, expecting to see swelling, but instead I find a perfectly normal leg, bright pink painted toes. Tentatively I put my foot on the carpet, testing the pressure before I try standing up again. I’m fine.
My brother calls from the other side of the door. “Today, Audrey. My stomach is starting to eat itself.”
I stomp my foot a few times, expecting a stinging pain—anything. After a few hops I decide it must have been just a cramp. I move the chair out of the way of the door, embarrassed that I let myself get so freaked out. In the light of day it seems silly.
I open the door and find Daniel wearing the same clothes he had on last night. His hair is disheveled and there’s a shadow of blond scruff on his jaw.
“You look like hell,” I say. “What time is it? I don’t have a clock in here.”
Daniel shrugs. “It’s morningish. Brunchish. I don’t think there’s a single clock in this hotel. Not one that I’ve seen. But who cares? We’re on vacation.”