An Important Notice to Readers...
Although this fiction blog is illustrated with photos of dolls, and dollhouse miniatures, the language and content of the storyline is intended for an adult audience. Please be advised.
|An empty chair is never good|
The hand stopped, and withdrew. He forced himself not to look, but from the sound of her voice, he could tell she was pouting.
"Really? You want me to stop?"
He mumbled into the pillow, and shifted to face away from her, lest he be tempted to give in, which would surely be a disaster. Clenching his teeth to ride out the throbbing pain, he worked to spit out the words he hoped sounded convincing. "The last few days have been a killer, babe. The wedding...the explosion. I'm just exhausted. Give me a few more hours to recoup, and I'll be good. Promise."
There was silence on her end, and then an exaggerated sigh. Lucky for him, she had decided to put on her good girl personae, and didn't argue the point. After a few moments, he felt her roll out of bed, pad off to the bathroom, the door shut with perhaps a bit more force than necessary At some point after, he must have dozed off, because the next thing he knew she was standing at the side of the bed shaking him awake.
"Ted, if you're going to sleep all morning, I think I'll just go down to the beach, and read awhile. Should I wait for breakfast until you come down?"
He opened a blurry eye to see her standing at the side of the bed, a living wet dream all decked out in the emerald green bikini and matching cover up he had picked out the day before. The thought of her out and about, dressed as she was, and all alone, gave him pause. But he was in no shape to jump right up and join her, and although he could demand she stay put in their suite until he was ready to move, the opportunity for privacy to tend to his injuries won out over his concerns. The resort was known for its high tech security, a mecca for the wealthy and famous who wanted obscurity. She should be safe enough within its boundries, even if she did garnish some unwanted attention.
Maureen stood waiting, beach bag in one hand, a wide brimmed hat in the other. "So...should I wait on breakfast until you come down."
He knew that she meant in the next half hour or so. In the few months they had been together, he could set his clock by her routine. Once out of bed, coffee, toast and yogurt were a necessity for her, and the thought of any of that in the next hour left him queasy. "No, sweetheart. You go ahead without me. I'll get something when I get up."
There was a loud "tisk", followed by a caustic "whatever", and then a hastily added "Sir", as her kitten heeled sandals clicked across the tile. She paused at the door. "I'll be at the beach...if you ever care to join me." Then she shut the door, quietly this time, probably figuring she shouldn't push her luck about how much he'd let slip by, even on their honeymoon.
A thread of guilt wiggled into his thoughts, and he pushed it away. His prior commitments had no bearing on his personal life. There was no reason he couldn't have both. People did it all the time.
There were plenty of days left for them to have the romantic honeymoon she expected. He'd rest here in bed for just awhile longer. Then he'd find some athletic tape in the hotel gym, wrap his sore ribs, and join her for the rest of the day. Maybe even rent a speed boat, and go exploring on their own. Find a deserted cove, and make up for this morning. He closed his eyes and relaxed. How much trouble could find her in an hour?
It was the banging on the door by housekeeping that actually woke him. He grabbed for the cell phone on the nightstand, and was shocked to find it was almost 1PM. Beckett couldn't be sure what time Maureen had left their suite, but he figured it was somewhere around 9:30 AM. That meant he'd been sleeping here for over 3 hours, while she sat sitting by herself on the beach. Throwing back the covers, wincing as he did, he sent the maid away, and then made a quick call to the desk requesting athletic wrap.
It took nearly the better part of an hour to shower and tend to his injuries, and it was after 2 before he made his way down to the beachfront to face his disgruntled bride. The pricey resort offered the comfort of reserved beach chairs and umbrellas, set discretely apart from one another, and marked with the guests' names, so it didn't take him long to find the right spot. A tag marked"Baker Room 2412" fluttered in the breeze from the pole of the umbrella, and his wife's canvas beach bag and hat was propped in the sand next to the lounge chair. The book they had purchased the day before in the hotel gift shop was laid open on the seat, along with a used bottle of sun screen, but of his wife there was no sign.
He walked along the shore, shielding his eyes from the glare of the mid-day sun, hoping maybe she had gone into the water to cool off. But there was no sight of the flaming red hair, or the emerald green swim suit amongst the frolicking tourists. Tamping down the anxiety that was starting to bloom in his gut, he made his way toward the pool area, and then back into the building to do a more thorough search. A complete circle of the entire resort complex gave no sign of her anywhere, and the mild anxiety began to turn to major panic. He tried calling her cell, and then remembered that he had taken her phone from her when they first left Dollyville. Angry with himself for all sorts of reasons, he returned back to the beach, and flopped into the chair to work out his next move.
From his spot under the umbrella, Beckett caught the eye of a small boy, who had set up his t-shirt business a few feet from the resort's roped-off property. The boy smile and waved. Considering the possibility the boy might have information on his wife's whereabouts, Beckett wandered over to converse with him.
"Hola amigo." Hello there, friend.
"Buen día señor. ¿Quieres comprar una camiseta? Muy barato. Buena calidad." Good day Mister. Would you like to buy a t-shirt? Very cheap. Nice quality.
"Claro que mi amigo. De hecho, ¿qué hay que comprar todos sus camisetas?" Sure my friend. In fact, how about I buy all your t-shirts? From his wallet, Beckett removed two crisp $50 bills, and the boy's eyes rounded with excitement. "$ 100 para todos tus camisetas ... además de un poco de información." $100 for all your shirts...plus a little information.
At the mention of information, the boy looked at his feet. "Yo no sé nada de nada, señor. No se puede ayudar a ninguno." I don't know nothing about nothing, Sir. Can't help you none.
Beckett forced his smile wider, and held the money out to the boy. "Tenía la esperanza de que podría haber visto una bella dama de allá. El que tiene el pelo rojo." I was hoping you might have seen a pretty lady over there. The one with the red hair. The lad nodded warily, and Beckett continued. "Ella es mi esposa, y me parece que no puede encontrar. Tenía la esperanza de que podría saber dónde fue." She's my wife, and I can't seem to find her. I was hoping you might know where she went.
The boy nodded and smiled. "Sí, señor. Yo la vi. Muy bella dama, pero un genio para que coincida con su pelo." Yes, Sir. I saw her. Very beautiful lady, but a temper to match her hair.
"Sí ... eso sería ella. ¿Sabe usted dónde se fue?" Yup...that would be her. Do you know where she went?
"Bueno sí, señor. La policía llegó y arrestó a ella." Well, yes, sir. The police came and arrested her.
"¿La policía? Arrestado ella? ¿Qué diablos?" The police? Arrested her? What the hell for?
"Se metió en un argumento con uno de los vendedores sobre el precio de unas pulseras de plata. Ella se negó a devolverle las joyas, o que pague lo que quería. Así que el hombre llamó a la policía, y se la llevó." She got into an arguement with one of the vendors over the price of some silver bracelets. She refused to give him back the jewelry, or pay him what he wanted. So the guy called the police, and they took her away.
"¿Qué carajo, Maureen!" What the fuck, Maureen!
Swearing a string of obscenities in both English and Spanish, Becket handed the boy the cash, then turning on his heel, headed toward the resort to see about transportation into town. Behind him, he heard the boy call out.
"Hey, señor! ¿No quieres que tus camisetas?" Hey Mister...what about your t-shirts?
Copyright 2013 Victoria T. Rocus
All Rights Reserved