Checking in.

Exhaling, he flicked a still-lit cigarette into the street. The spark flew high at first but quickly disappeared into the reflections of streetlights on the wet concrete.

Whoever said smoking wasn’t cool was full of shit.

He coughed twice as the last draw singed the back of his throat.

Touché.

The crowds were still cheering and the cameras still flashing a mere three blocks away. He had never loved three blocks so much in his life. He shook his high leather collar up to his ears and turned toward the fading facade, giving the doorman a quick nod before opening the glass door to the side of the more popular revolving edition.

Score one for the underdog.

—

The cracked tiled and cloudy mirrored lobby was as tired as ever. There were four…no…five new stains on the deep crimson carpeting running past the marble reception counter to the vintage elevator boasting its original caging and questionable safety. A young lady fidgeted in her white shirt, black skirt uniform behind the front desk trying to get just the right amount of cleavage.

“Miss?”

She jumped but recovered albeit with one undone button too many.

“Oh – welcome to the Park Manor…Do you have a reservation?”

Her eyes danced between meeting his and the television broadcasting the red carpet scene from around the corner. Her face flushed as she realized exactly whose eyes were unabashedly tracing the freckles on her chest.

“Oh! Hello Mr. Lancast-”

“The room is booked under Collins.”

“That’s right…I forgot. So sorry.”

“No bother.”

She stared a moment too long before digging out his usual room key from the numbered rack behind the counter – the city’s last stand against electronic key cards. 212 was easy to find but she used this as the opportunity to slip that one button back into the loop. And then another for good measure.

“The kitchen is open until midnight tonight and breakfast will be served from seven to…”

She looked up to see he was already halfway to the elevator and trailed off, making a point to stare at his ass as he waited for the gates to open.

Now we’re even, perv.

She unbuttoned again as the platform rose out of sight.

—

Closing the door behind him, he settled into the unassuming anonymity of 212, cracking the neck of the Jack Daniels waiting for him on the bedside table. From the window, he could see the moving spotlights carving short-lived dreams into the clouds. They didn’t look as tempting as they used to.

Stripping down to a pair of faded jeans and kicking his Converse toward the door, he fell back onto the bed only to light another cigarette while using the obligatory yet inconsequential No Smoking sign as a coaster.

He turned the television on and tossed back his first of many shots.

Now let’s see what kind of asshole this Lancaster chap is to skip his own premiere.

Again.

~ by Ben on October 19, 2009.