Hotel Chapter One

I struggled through the front doors of the hotel, weighed down with far too much luggage on this seventh and final day on the road. I was relieved that this was to be the last night travelling for a while and was doubly pleased to see that there was only one person ahead of me checking in. I let the heavy laptop case slide off my shoulder and leaned against the desk. The desk clerk was booking in a tall, good-looking man in his early twenties. 

The mousy little clerk looked up from coding the key card and handed it to the man in front of him. 

"Here you are, Mr. Harrison," he said. "Your room is on the second floor." Mr Harrison stepped to the side to put his credit card back in his wallet and began to get his luggage together. I took a long glance at him, taking in his muscular build and youthful good looks. He reminded me of my own son Matt, and I felt a sudden sense of shock that I had been clearly appraising someone so young. As I looked at him, he casually glanced back and smiled.

"May I help you?" I snapped my head around, realizing I had been paying more attention to Mr Harrison, than checking in, and found the desk clerk looking at me with a stupid grin on his face.

"Oh! I'm sorry, um, reservation for Richfield," I said, a little flustered, digging into my purse for a credit card. I glanced back at Mr Harrison, and looked quickly away again as I saw that he was still looking at me. I had caught his eyes working their way up my legs. That should have made me angry, but those eyes and that smile...I gave my attention back to the clerk who was busy searching for my name, he seemed to be having a problem.

"Are you sure you have a reservation?" he asked.

"Yes, I'm sure. I made it myself. It has to be there. Keep looking." My voice was tinged with frustration. I was weary from the travelling, and was longing to have a workout, and then totally relaxing for the evening.

Mr Harrison hesitated now, resting his arm casually on the desk, awaiting the outcome of this situation. He seemed to have more than a casual interest and I found myself wondering what he was waiting for. 

“Spell the name, please," said the clerk. 

"R-I-C-H-F-I-E-L-D," I spelled slowly and unable to keep the growing frustration showing in my voice. "Alana Richfield," I repeated.

"I'm sorry, but I don't see that name, and I'm afraid we're full tonight," the little clerk said apologetically.

"You cannot be serious!" I blurted out, with heavy emphasis on the "not" part of that word. "Look, it's been a long day. I'm tired, and I'm in no mood for this. It has to be there. Please check again." The clerk gave me a long look, then sighed as if to say, 'it won't do any good,' but he began searching again through the small, antiquated-looking cardboard box full of index cards.

Just then, Mr Harrison spoke up, 

"Perhaps I can help, my room has two beds and I'm only going to be using one, you're welcome to share with me." I looked at him with a mixture of disbelief and disdain. I was set to let him have it as I turned around, just imagine the gall of this kid! But my words caught in my throat. I simply ended up staring at him, my mouth slightly agape at his sheer audacity, my mind searching for the right words.

There on his face was an odd combination of sincerity and mischief that I found almost irresistible. I had no idea if he was actually being serious, but I felt quite unable to get upset with this disarmingly charming boy, he reminded me so much of my own son, Matt. 

Matt who tormented me in dreams, who sprung to mind every time I masturbated. Matt who I had to resist. 

"Thank you, but I'll pass on that. Maybe some other time." 

I said the words with a mixture of embarrassment and feigned indignation. I was struck with an odd combination of feelings that told me to slap this guy, and at the same time, take his offer, go to his room, and fuck him all night long. I was aware that my reply had sounded lame, and could have kicked myself for acting embarrassed and covering it so poorly. ‘I'm 48 years old for chrissakes; I've heard crap like this before, what's going on? Am I that tired?'

He spoke again, 

"Ok, but I think it's a great solution to your problem. If you change your mind, let me know." Then turning, he walked away. He never looked back at me. I watched him disappear around the corner and found myself wishing he would look back, even for just a second. 

With an audible sigh, I turned my attention back to the struggling desk clerk. He was staring at me again with a stupid-looking grin on his face. I scowled back, and he looked down at the card box, digging through it with increased urgency.

An hour later, I had changed into some workout clothes and was in the hotel’s small gym jogging slowly on a treadmill. The mirrored walls allowed me have an all round view of myself, and I tried to see myself as I appear to others.

Just about five feet, five inches tall, short blonde hair, nice legs and decent breasts. My tanned skin was glistening from the workout. I was in good shape, and even though I was a little unhappy at letting a few pounds creep on over the years, I had a pretty face and I also knew I had a great ass. 

So okay not perfect, but I can easily pass for 35, and I know I am still sexy looking with it

Suddenly I heard a voice behind me saying,

"Well, hello there, Ms....um, Richfield, isn't it?" At the sound of my name, I turned my head and was startled and then a little flustered to see the guy who had embarrassed me earlier at the desk. "I take it they found you a room after all?” he asked.

"Yes," I said. "And it's Alana. It was just a mix-up with filing my name in that stupid box they use. Someone had it put it in there under 'A' instead of 'R'."

"Well, I'm glad you were able to stick around," he said. "But I still think I had a great solution to your problem at the time." He smiled broadly at me without a hint of embarrassment. I stared at him dumbly in continued disbelief at his boldness. 

Removing the towel from around his shoulders, he climbed up onto the stepper machine and began to pump his legs up and down. I couldn't help but glance at him once in a while as I continued to jog on the treadmill.

For his part, he did much more than glance at me; I could feel his eyes burning into me the whole time I was working out. 

My irritation with being watched grew as I jogged. 

When I had finished, I stepped off and let him have it, good-looking, and desirable notwithstanding. Looking at him with all the resolve I could muster, I said, 

"Look here, Mr. Whatever-Your-Name-Is, I don't appreciate being ogled. I have a son your age, and I would thank you not stare at me like a piece of meat." 

He either didn't care, or he knew somehow that I was not entirely sincere, which of course, I wasn't. I was kicking myself for what was really going on inside me: I was enjoying the hell out of the fact that this bold, handsome boy couldn't seem to take his eyes off me. I was eating it up, but trying not to give him the satisfaction.

"It's Harrison – Greg Harrison," he said, smiling broadly and with that maddening self-assurance.

"Well, Mr. Greg Harrison, I'll thank you to keep your eyes in your head," I replied and with that, I wrapped a towel around my shoulders and left the room. Yet even as I walked away, I knew he was watching.