Ribbons

RIBBONS

J R E
VANS

Copyright © 2015 J R Evans

All rights reserved.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

Published and designed by Invasive Designs.

Please send inquiries to: [email protected]

Editing by Double Vision Editorial.

ISBN: 0692518126

ISBN-13: 978-0692518120

FOR BRANDON

Who keeps me on my toes by occasionally elbowing me in the junk.

AND MELISSA

Who tries to stop him . . . sometimes

1

Bethel’s cart pulled to the right. She gave it a shove to get it back on course and continued shuffling down the hall. The cart had tormented her for months when she’d first started working here, but now she barely noticed it. Her shoves and shuffles were on autopilot, much like the rest of her job. The hotel was new, one of the newest in Las Vegas, which didn’t make it the best but did make it popular. The cart, on the other hand, had been around awhile. Bethel suspected it was older than any of the hotels on the Strip. She and the cart had that in common. At least she didn’t look her age.

Bethel’s cleaning cart shuffle was accompanied by an incessant bass rhythm coming from the other side of the door marked
Vista View Suite
. It was hard not to fall into step.

Whump! Whump! Wha. Wha.

Shove. Shuffle. Shuffle. Shuffle.

Whump! Whump! Wha. Wha.

Shove. Shuffle. Shuffle. Shuffle.

She wasn’t dressed for dancing. Her uniform fit well, of course—she had tailored it herself—but the prim style, matched with Bethel’s full figure, made her feel more matronly than elegant. However—

Whump! Whump! Wha. Wha.

—wasn’t a very elegant tune anyway.

One final shove put the cart in front of the door. She gave three sharp knocks and raised her voice in a way that might be heard above the music but still sounded polite. “Housekeeping!”

She waited. Bethel knew the room was registered to a Mr. Darin Dunn, and apparently that was a big deal, especially if your major source of news was found on a rack next to Kit Kats and Life Savers in the grocery store check-out line. With high-profile guests like Mr. Dunn, she was instructed not to barge right in after a quick knock on the door.

Whump! Whump! Wha. Wha.

She sighed and rested one elbow on the handle of her cart. “You called guest services? Can you please come to the door, sir?”

Whump! Whump!

She could just barely hear, “I really can’t,” between beats. It sounded distant, maybe from some other room off the entrance.

Wha. Wha.

She used her polite shout again. “I’m going to use my key and come in now.”

“Looking forward to it.” The reply didn’t sound too sincere.

Bethel muttered under her breath as she slid her key card through the slot. “Here we go . . .”

Bethel had found that when people described a disaster as being “of biblical proportions,” they were usually just trying to sound witty, or maybe trying to scare people by buddying up with the Bible. In Bethel’s case, she had personally witnessed nine disasters of biblical proportions. She could say that because those disasters were actually retold in one of the books of the Bible. She had seen one other, just outside the city of Arrapha in what was then called the Guti Kingdom. But the guy—the prophet, or survivor, or whatever—who had recorded it hadn’t been a very good writer, and his book hadn’t made it into the Old Testament. So technically, that one didn’t count.

The
Vista View Suite
wasn’t a disaster of biblical proportions, but it was trying to be.

She noticed the bras first. They were spinning like festive streamers from the blades of the rotating ceiling fan. All the rooms in the hotel had air-conditioning, of course, but a ceiling fan added a touch of class. Clearly that wasn’t being appreciated here. The bras didn’t even match, and Bethel assumed they had probably been contributed by party guests who had, thankfully, passed out somewhere else. From the looks of it, the bras didn’t really match the theme of the party, either.

No less than five ice sculptures decorated the room. Each was in a similar state of decay. The one nearest to Bethel must have started out as a triumphant-looking Viking, wearing nothing but his helmet, having sex with a winged Valkyrie. Doggy-style. Now, after hours of wasting away one drop at a time, it looked more like a garden gnome tackling a startled pigeon.

A banner strung above the wet bar proclaimed,
It’s a Snow Day!!!
Skis leaned in one corner of the room next to a pair of crisscrossed snowshoes nailed to the wall. An inflatable snowman gave a lopsided smile behind a glass coffee table covered in white streaks and smudges. Next to one streak was a rolled up dollar bill that looked like it had been dipped in powdered sugar.

The whole thing seemed vaguely disappointing, like decorations at a bad prom.

Whump! Whump! Wha. Wha.

Movement caught her eye, but it was just the wall-sized TV across the room. It was hard to make out which of the On Demand titles was playing due to the spiderweb crack in the screen. Bodies collided in a scramble of tan lines and razor burns. If she had to guess, it was probably
Porn Wives of LA 3
.

That’s when she saw somebody lying facedown on the couch in front of the broken porn screen. Somebody naked.

Whump! Whump!

Bethel jabbed a button on a wall panel without looking. The music cut off mid-
wha
.

“Hello?” said Bethel.

The woman raised her head off the couch. It looked like it took tremendous effort. She appeared both dazed and pouty. Even bleary-eyed, she was pulling off “sexy”, except for the drop of dried blood peeking out of one nostril.

She managed a “Mmm-uh?”

Bethel realized then that the woman wasn’t completely naked. She was wearing big fluffy white earmuffs. The kind that looked warm but were more for show during a day on the slopes. The only powder this woman had seen last night was still on her upper lip.

“Don’t mind her. She’s useless,” a voice called out from behind a closed door across the room.

Bethel had been in there plenty of times. It was the master bedroom. She picked her way across the living area toward the door. On her way, she nudged bottles and glasses aside with her feet, noting which ones were broken and where to spray extra carpet cleaner.

She opened the door. Dimmed lights just barely illuminated the master bedroom. Even so, she could tell that this room had been spared the brunt of the damage from the night before. Satin lumps crowded the bed, and she could make out the shape of somebody sitting up against the headboard.

She jabbed a finger at another wall panel. This time, the Strip appeared, as if by magic, as the curtain slats twisted and then retracted on their own. The man in the bed tried to cover his eyes with his hands when the bright light hit him. He couldn’t, though. They were handcuffed to the headboard. Instead, he squeezed his eyes shut with a wince and then slowly pried them open. When he smiled, Bethel finally recognized him.

“Uh, hello. Thanks for—” was all he got out.

“Mr. Dunn, I am not cleaning up your drugs!” Bethel’s polite shout was gone. It was replaced by something more scolding.

“There’s . . . leftovers?” he asked.

One of the lumps under the satin sheet mumbled something that sounded like, “Mmaphetic!”

“I know, right?” agreed Mr. Dunn.

He was good-looking, she supposed. The sheet covered him from the waist down, but it was clear he was naked. He didn’t seem embarrassed at all. His smile was more confident than apologetic. Like,
Look what I got myself into this time
. The other lump under the sheet was most likely a woman if the feet sticking out at the end of the bed were any indication. Thanks to the harsh light from the window, Bethel could tell that the woman’s head was buried in Mr. Dunn’s crotch. Apparently, she was not coming up for air.

Bethel pointed sharply down at the woman-lump. “What the hell is that?”

Mr. Dunn raised an eyebrow dramatically, making up for the fact that he couldn’t gesture with his hands. “Um . . . Melanie?”

“Muhlina,” the lump corrected him.

“Oh right. Melinda,” he said.

Bethel crossed her arms and raised her own eyebrow. “And how come Melinda couldn’t come to the door? Is she handcuffed, too?”

“Oh no. Thank God, no.” Mr. Dunn pointed his chin down toward the edge of the sheet where Melinda was holding out a cell phone. “She was actually able to reach her cell phone and call the front desk. She’s flexible.”

“So her business was too pressing to unlock you?” Bethel asked.

“No, no,” he said. “You may find this a bit shocking but . . . Melinda’s a hooker.”

“Ephcort,” stated Melinda.

Mr. Dunn shook his head. His expression made it seem like he was trying to be a better person, but kept failing. “Sorry. Escort.”

Bethel rolled her eyes. She didn’t even try to stop herself. “Shocking.”

“So, anyway, she was doing her . . . thing. And she has this tongue ring,” he began.

Bethel’s eyes narrowed.

Mr. Dunn pointed down toward his crotch from his restraints. “It turns out I had also put a ring on . . .” He obviously wanted her to make the mental leap on her own, but when she didn’t react, he added, “They got caught.”

She knew what was next. She knew what was expected of her. But, dammit, she just wasn’t in the mood. She lost her shit. “Oh! Hell! No!”

“Yeah. She tried to feel around to unhook us but—”

“Um oo cloph oo it,” Melinda tried to explain.

Mr. Dunn translated. “She’s too close to it.”

Bethel pressed her palms against her eyes. She backed off when she started seeing white starbursts. She made a sound that, she knew, sounded very much like a death rattle.

Mr. Dunn flashed a winning smile. It was lost on her. “What’s your name?”

“Bethel.”

“Bethel, don’t worry.” He gave a reassuring nod. “It’s limp.”

“I wasn’t worried,” Bethel assured him.

“Good. Just don’t do anything sexy.”

She didn’t.

* * *

And she didn’t start cleaning the room right away, either. She figured she deserved a break. She would have taken a cigarette break, but these days smoking made her stand out more than blend in. Her job, her
real
job, was all about blending in. Or more precisely, it was all about being ignored. She was so good at being ignored that she had to clear her throat twice before people noticed her enough to move out of the way to let her on the elevator. At least she didn’t have to fight her way forward to push a button; everyone was already heading down to the casino.

Bethel’s real job was simply to
watch and be wakeful
. It was usually up to her to decide what that meant. When she had first been sent down to walk among the sons of God, it had been easier to know what to do and what not to. That was back when people lived in mudbrick huts and used giant standing stones to track the seasons. She had helped people see the divine truth all around them—sometimes with a hug, sometimes with a fist. Now things were always so complex. Everything seemed to have a justification. It was like there was no good or evil anymore. She hated that. Instead of feeling righteous, she usually just felt confused and a little useless. The Assyrians had a name for those who did what she did,
Iyrin
. She preferred the Slavic word,
Grigori
. It was a thankless job.

She didn’t get lonely exactly—familiarity bred contempt, and she was familiar with everybody—but she did feel the need to vent from time to time. This was one of those times, so she was happy she had a coworker to talk shop with. She wound her way through the slot machines and tables until she found Sam.

He was dealing cards at a blackjack table. It wasn’t his only job. When you didn’t sleep, you had to find something to pass the time. Sam also managed a club, drove a taxi, and, when he was feeling particularly bored, handed out stripper cards on the street corner down by the Tropicana. He liked dealing with people face-to-face. Bethel was content cleaning up after them and going through their dirty laundry.

Sam pulled off his company vest well. Hair slicked back and white at the temples, he was a compromise somewhere between smarmy and sophisticated. His mustache hid most of his sarcastic grin that never quite made it to a real smile. The crowd at the table leaned in closer as he flipped over his facedown card. Bethel knew this was his favorite part.

He had a three and a king.

“Winner,” he started, his voice low.

The crowd held its breath. There were a lot of chips on the table. He flipped over a two.

“Winner,” a little louder now, though everyone was silent.

He tapped the card at the top of the deck and snapped it down onto the felt. A six.

“Chicken dinner!” he finished, the mock surprise in his voice barely contained.

The crowd made lots of angry sounds. Most of them left, gulping down their free booze first. He didn’t get any tips. At least it freed up a stool for Bethel. She plopped down and eyed Sam, arms crossed over her apron.

“What?” he asked, not really trying to sound innocent.

“I didn’t say anything,” she said.

“Let me guess, then.” Sam’s hands seemed to sort the scattered chips in front of him on their own. “Somebody left you a big tip because they were so impressed with the great job you did cleaning up the hooker juice in the shower, and you were feeling so good about yourself that you decided to come down here to have a drink and maybe double your money?”