Chapter 12: The Hot Tub Invitation
The chime of his phone was a dentist's drill right into his temple.
James blinked, pulling the device from the pocket of his hoodie.Stacy’s text glowed up at him. "Hey babe! Some of the sales team wants to go hot tubing tonight but I totally forgot to pack a swimsuit. So annoying!"
His thumbs hovered over the keys. He was in his room, the desk littered with his own notes—timelines, trigger phrases scrawled in angry capitals. He started to type, Just say no, tell them you’re tired, but a second message cut him off before he could send it. "Never mind! Carl bought me one. So sweet of him!" James’s jaw made an audible click. He stared at the words until they blurred. Then, a third ping. A photo.
He opened it.
It wasn't Stacy in the bikini. Not yet. The photo showed a hotel room desk, the generic landscape print on the wall behind it. Centered on the wood veneer were three separate, shockingly small triangles of electric pink fabric. They looked like they’d been cut from a larger, already-insubstantial thing. The bottoms were a mere string. Beside them, for a cruel sense of scale, lay a single, rolled-up black dress sock. The bikini used less material. A small, robin’s-egg blue gift box sat just behind the display, its lid off.
He could see the ghost of her smile in the corner of the shot, the innocent pride of showing off a gift. The image seared itself onto his retinas, hot pink and humiliating. Then his screen flashed again.Another photo.A selfie.
Stacy stood before the full-length bathroom mirror, phone held high.The electric pink bikini was on her body now. The triangles of the top strained against the full curve of her breasts, the fabric digging into soft flesh. The bottoms were a narrow V of material clinging to her hips, the strings cutting into her skin. Her smile was bright, uncomplicated.A message accompanied it: It's a little tight but it fits!
James’s breath left him in a low, punched-out grunt. His fingers tightened on the phone, the edges biting into his palm.He zoomed in. He traced the lines where the suit disappeared into the cleft of her breasts, the sharp contrast of the vibrant fabric against her pale skin. A possessive heat coiled in his gut, tangled with a nauseating dread. They would all see this. Carl had bought this. Bill and Michael would see this. He typed a reply, his movements jerky. -It looks great. Have fun. He deleted it. -Be careful. He deleted that too. He settled on three flat words. -Looks very pink.
He sent it and stood up, the chair scraping sharply against the floor. The quiet of his room was suddenly oppressive, a vacuum waiting to be filled by the sounds from the spa wing—laughter, splashing, her voice. He pictured the steam rising off the water, obscuring nothing.