Chapter 6
The morning came as it always does after soul-shaking, bed-rattling evenings of ecstasy and fulfillment – all too soon and cruelly.
The bar of sunlight slowly creeping toward the bed as the sun rose over Pittsburgh finally reached Morgan’s closed eyes. As long as they remained shut, they would seal in all the joy and discovery from her night with Darren. But as the sunlight brightened and bored through her eyelids, the new day intruded. The calendar page had flipped, and that one, dreamy night was assigned to history.
Soon, it would be as if it never even happened at all.
Consciousness returned to Morgan like a swimmer coming up for air – all at once and greedily.
Morgan popped up from the pillowy mattress, monetarily disoriented by the alien surroundings that she had never bothered to explore last night. She had been too busy exploring other things.
She squinted against the brightness from the big, naked picture window. Still, just that first blast of daylight and awakening was enough to send pain shooting across her temples and behind her eyes.
The alcohol, she thought. All that alcohol.
Hit by the hangover’s uppercut, Morgan gently lowered her head to the bed.
With a hand covering her brow like a baseball player scanning the bright sky for a fly ball, she searched the cushiony terrain of the king-sized bed for her partner in passion. Perhaps she could command Darren to draw the curtains and smother the offending daylight.
But among all the bumps and lumps of pillows, sheets and blankets, Darren Spencer was nowhere to be found.
She closed her eyes and listened for the shower.
Nothing but the distant hum of a housekeeper’s vacuum, beginning the thankless task of cleaning up the leavings of lodgers’ nocturnal rituals.
Morgan exhaled, her eyes closed but her mind working, collating and calculating the probabilities and outcomes.
In the light of day, she had no choice but to be the levelheaded business executive. It was as if her very cells would not allow her to be anything else.
Perhaps this was best, she thought. Darren’s morning absence would make their transition to their daytime roles of boss and assistant all the easier. When they next encountered each other in the hustle and bustle of the office, they would slip into their former roles and routines like an old man putting on well-worn shoes.
He was making it easier, she thought. That was all.
Morgan turned her head and squinted at the digital clock. It said 9:32.
She squeezed her eyes shut yet again.
“Shit,” she breathed out. “I’m late.”
Still, she didn’t budge. Thankfully, there was nothing pressing awaiting her back at the firm. If there were ever a night to drink and party and, well, everything else she did until the wee, wee hours, last night was it.
Her night of release and abandon had been timed perfectly. It came right on the heels of a flawless internal review of her signature project and nearly 36 hours before she would need to put the project over the plate with the client.
Morgan was covered.
Not only covered, but deserving of this indulgence. It would make her better, sharper and more focused going forward.
If she ever shook her killer hangover, that was.
Then another thought occurred to her: Grease. I need grease.
In college, there had been nothing better than a buttery, greasy breakfast of eggs, bacon and sausage to emulsify and counteract the alcohol in one’s system. It was the morning-after rescue.
Morgan blindly reached for the hotel phone, then managed to punch zero.
“Room service,” she pleaded in a hoarse voice.
Her mouth was parched, and the mere whiff of her rank breath nearly induced a wave of nausea.
Finally, a man with a Hispanic accent asked for her order.
“Scrambled eggs, bacon, sausage and wheat toast,” she said. “Give me a large O.J., bottled water and coffee, too.”
She paused and listened to the Hispanic man attempt to repeat her order. She thought she understood him. More to the point, she was fairly confident that he had gotten her order at least mostly correct.
“I’m not sure what room. Can’t you tell from the phone number? That must be correct. Thank you.”
She didn’t bother to hang up the receiver. And she still didn’t move.
At some point, she would have to. At the very least, she would need to slip into one of those hotel-provided terrycloth robes so she could accept the room service she had just ordered. But not right now. She still had a few moments to revel in her immobility.
The next thing she knew, someone was rapping at the door.
Morgan quickly cycled through the disorientation of again waking in unfamiliar surroundings. Her alcohol-hazed brain worked more rapidly through its analysis.
Room service, she determined.
Morgan, still naked, called out, “Just a minute,” then extricated herself from the twisted, bundled covers and tiptoed to the bathroom for a robe.
Out of habit, she peeked through the peephole before unbolting the door to allow the uniformed room service attendant to serve her breakfast.
As soon as she opened the door and smelled the food, her angry, empty stomach growled at the unmistakable aroma of good grease.
Yes, she thought, this was just what the doctor ordered.
“On the desk is fine,” Morgan directed the waiter, who dutifully deposited the tray, then returned with the check in a black folder.
Morgan opened the folder and was mildly surprised to see her name on the hotel bill. But the full implication of this didn’t register, at least not then.
She signed the slip, added a tip and returned the folder to the waiter.
“Thanks,” she said as she escorted him out, and then bolted the door behind him.
On her way toward the desk, where her breakfast awaited, Morgan picked up her handbag and pawed for her smartphone.
She checked its display for a call from Darren.
Nothing.
Then Morgan saw the record of her last phone call, the one she made to her home early last evening before events and passion overtook her.
“Shit,” she muttered.
But these were things best tackled on a full stomach and following a hot shower and a strong cup of coffee. She sat down before her feast, and removed the metal lid, revealing her plateful of cholesterol.
“Here’s to ya,” she said, unwrapping the silverware, placing a napkin on her lap and digging in.
Later, after breakfast, a shower and a headache-inducing, guilt-ridden call home, Morgan called Darren.
This wasn’t an insecure older woman seeking reassurance from her younger lover. This was a hard-charging boss seeking to orient her day and cover for her late arrival by obtaining office reconnaissance from her most trusted assistant.
At least, that was what it should have been.
Instead, Morgan’s call immediately bounced to voicemail. She listened to Darren’s flat, professional voice run through his by-the-numbers greeting.
Her message to him was terse and far less professional:
“Call me. ASAP.”
Her thumb disconnected the call. Her eyes moved to the hotel’s picture window framing Pittsburgh’s iconic skyline. But Morgan wasn’t gazing at the scenery. Her eyes were vacant. Behind them, her mind was working through a multitude of calculations.
Why didn’t Darren pick up? He never not picks up.
But she couldn’t dwell on this. Not if she wanted to salvage the afternoon at the office. She slipped into her cocktail dress from the night before and didn’t bother with her hair or make-up.
It was a classic “walk of shame” moment as she slunk out of the hotel, and palmed a ticket to the valet.
The sight of her SUV rolling up in front of the Sheraton was the most welcome one of the morning. She slapped a five-dollar bill into the valet’s hand, climbed behind the wheel and slammed shut the d
oor.
Morgan tore off for home.