A Night With The Billionaire Musician

CONFUSION AT SUNRISE

ELENA TORRES

It took the bright glare of the sun outside to rouse me from such sweet sleep.

The only problem, or the first of many problems that would assail me that morning, rather, was how my head hurt at the very same time. I almost howled out in pain, suddenly remembering all the narratives from my friends who were drinkers.

It was easy to guess that I was suffering a hangover.

That became a lesser issue, however, when I felt a weight over me, and not just any weight, but a man's hairy hand and a man's hard torso behind me and a man's—

I screamed and jumped out of bed, where I found I was naked and then pulled the covers from over him to clothe myself. He was woken by the noise I made and kicked himself up, his eyes quite alert for someone who had just been asleep.

It was clear he would have wasted no time in a fight if I had been dangerous.

“Who are you?” I asked him, drawing the sheets over himself and watching him cover himself with a pillow.

“Are you crazy, Chloe?” he asked back.

“My name isn't Chloe. I'm Elena.”

His eyes blazed with confusion as he ran a hand through his slick, jet-black hair. “But we were supposed to be on a date, and you came into my room, and you came onto me, and we made love. You agreed to everything. You gave me your consent."

I opened my mouth to protest, and I would have if I had not realized that he was not lying. Little by little, it all came back to me. I even remembered myself pleading for him to have me. And he had only done as I had asked him to.

“Oh my God. There has been a mix-up. A terrible one,” I sighed, feeling the tears sting my eyes as they sought for my clothes.

“You mean you're not Chloe?”

“No,” I said, meaning to say far worse and insulting words, but only managing to get a single syllable out.

He picked up his phone and hastily switched it on, as I picked up my clothes from the floor and moved into the bathroom. I heard him exclaim just as I threw the bedsheets off and slipped myself into my clothes, and would have dressed myself up if I hadn't noticed my skin and the red marks on them.

I moved to the mirror and saw how many they were, and for a second my mind recalled him leaving one of those hickeys on my belly.

“This isn't good,” I moaned, pained at how severe they were.

He left them everywhere.

“Hello?” I heard his voice say outside the door. He was obviously speaking to someone, and I did not want to think about who it could be. Security? Some spooky friend of his that had dangerous plans for me? How would I know?

“Try to listen to me, Chloe,” he spoke again.

Oh. It was a woman.

“I was busy, and I had so much business to attend to, and I was unable to reach you. I didn't mean to jilt you on—”

It was at least clear that whoever Chloe was, she wasn't letting him speak. She was far too angry.

“I didn't mean to do that to you. Why won't you understand?”

I stopped listening and focused on getting myself covered up, and my previous day's clothes were doing a bad job of hiding my hickeys from public view.

What kind of animal was he, even?

Frustrated, I walked out and saw him better clothed now, wearing a pair of briefs. My confusion had eased a little bit and I now had the presence of mind to make demands of him.

“I need a veil. A black veil,” I declared without thinking, and without looking at him. I was desperate to be out of here, but it didn't mean I wasn't shy of him.

“What do you need a veil for?”

I hesitated a moment, thinking of how best to tell him that I needed to cover the hickeys. But since my tongue found no appropriate words to say it, I only growled at him to get it for me. His expression was inscrutable as he went to his wardrobe and then flung some veil with a crisscross pattern at me.

“Suit yourself,” he snarled.

I thought he was angry, and I felt bad that he was angry. But I was too bothered about getting out of being seen with him and was through the door before I even knew what was happening.

***

I moved straight to the reception to challenge the man for his incompetence.

“How dare you?” I growled, looking angrily at him.

“May I ask what the problem is, Madam?” he asked.

“You gave me the wrong key.”

He looked confused for a second, but his eyes widened and there was a scowl on his face. A professional scowl. Nothing that made me think he wanted to do more than look enraged. But it made me step back a little bit, too.

“That was your mistake, Madam. You took the wrong key.”

“No I did not.”

“You did. You picked it up without waiting for me to give it to you. The man who the key was meant for came in moments after and if he hadn't been kind, I would have lost my job. We have had to change the key secretly, and from my own purse, just in case it was a burglar.”

I tried to think, and though I did not recall taking the key, I was certain he was right. It was even more certain when he pulled out the key to my actual room and handed it over to me.

Room 304.

I apologized for the mix-up and was generous enough to tip him a large sum for his trouble before making my way to my room. And as I did, I remembered looking at the room numbers—304 and 403—and thinking they helped me call Joe a hoe.

Then I had gone and slept with a man I didn't even know.

What was the difference between us now, really?