You've Been Warned

I reach the stairwell entrance, frantically pushing through the door. Did he see me? Would he recognize me from behind? Or from the front, for that matter?

I’m about to race down the stairs when my gut steers me in the opposite direction. Up! Go up!

Dashing up the steps, I reach the landing halfway to the next floor and throw myself against the cold concrete wall, out of view, I hope. I hold my breath, listening for Stephen.

Sure enough, he was right behind me. He’s running down the stairs. My gut was right.

I tiptoe to the railing and steal a quick glance. A couple of flights below, I can see the top of Stephen’s head. Also on display are his bare shoulders. He’s wearing nothing but a towel.

He continues downward, probably thinking I’m headed for the lobby.

That’s when I hear it. The voice I love to hate.

“Honey?” Penley calls out. “Where are you?”

On a dime, he stops. Penley must have him wrapped around her bony little finger.

“I’m down here,” he calls back.

“Who was making the noise in the hall?” she asks.

“That’s what I’m trying to find out.”

“Oh, I see. So you’d rather run around the hotel half naked than have sex with me? Okay. Fine.”

It’s classic Penley. And before you can say “horndog,” Stephen’s racing back up the stairs to her.

It’s a miracle, all right.

Praise the Pencil!

Chapter 82

“YOU’RE WHERE?” he asks.

“Outside the Fálcon Hotel,” I answer. “Where you need to be right away. Please come.... Yes, I want you to drop everything.”

I quickly explain why.

“I’ll be right there,” Michael tells me. “Don’t move.”

“Don’t worry, I won’t.”

I don’t. I remain perched on a stool behind the window of a Starbucks across the street. There’s a perfect view of the Fálcon’s entrance, the red awning eclipsed only by the occasional bus or delivery truck passing by. After Stephen chased me into that stairwell, I wasn’t exactly in the mood to stick around inside. Plus, there’s the matter of my history with the hotel. Poor little Kristin’s first days in New York. A horror story in itself. But definitely one for another time.

Anyway, a picture might be worth a thousand words, but having Michael see Penley’s affair in the flesh—as it were—speaks for itself.

Now he has to get here before they leave. Which means I change my mind about one thing: I hope Stephen does have sex like Sting... on one of his best days too.

Twenty minutes later, Michael storms through the door of Starbucks. All at once, the loitering latte drinkers glance up from their laptops.

“What the hell are you looking at?” says Michael’s expression. “Go back to writing your stupid spec screenplays that will never get made!”

He spots me and hurries over. “They still in there?” he asks, nodding at the hotel.

“Yes, thankfully,” I answer.

He frowns, and I get it immediately. Thankfully really isn’t the right word. As much as he wants to catch Penley red-handed, I have to remember this isn’t something he relishes.

In fact, he seems completely on edge and on the verge of going over the top, which is something I don’t want to experience.

That look of doubting me, of thinking that I’m “Crazy Kristin,” is entirely gone from his eyes, though. He knows I’m not mistaken or making it up. This is real.

He asks me to tell him everything again, from my first steps following Penley to when I called his office. “Give me every detail, Kris,” he says. And I do. Right down to their room number.

Of course, there is one thing I leave out, and that’s the other room and the music. Was there really no one in there? Was there even music playing?

Michael pulls back a sleeve to reveal his Rolex. “How long has it been?”

“About an hour,” I say, watching him tap his loafer impatiently. “Just so you know, they’ll probably come out separately. That’s how they arrived.”

He bristles. “She’s walking out of a hotel, for Christ’s sake. At eleven in the morning. Alone or not, what more do I need to see?”

He sees it anyway, the whole sloppy enchilada.

To my utter disbelief, Penley and Stephen emerge together seconds later. How brazen. How stupid. How very Penley.

And how enraged Michael becomes.

I’m watching him watch them, his face reddening, his nostrils flaring. Maybe a picture would’ve been better. I’m afraid he might explode right here in the coffee shop.

Then it gets even worse.

Penley and Stephen engage in one hot and heavy, no doubt about it kiss. It’s the money shot, and while I no longer need to capture it on film, I do anyway. The photographer’s instinct takes over. Don’t think, just shoot.

As for Michael, it’s as if he’s watching a spectacular car wreck. He can’t turn away from the Kiss. I don’t really blame him. It is compelling stuff, in a sick sort of way.

“Unfuckingbelievable,” he mutters under his breath. “Un-fucking-believable.”

I lower my camera and look at him. It’s his voice. I’ve never heard it like this before. The tone, the register—it’s beyond anger. It’s beyond anything.