The elevator stopped at the twelfth floor and Bonnie Ouvray held on to Bruxton’s arm for support. Her legs were unsteady and the floor seemed to move in a sine-wave pattern. “Just a few more steps, and we’ll be home safe,” Bruxton assured her as he maintained a delicate balance, propping her up and reaching for the room card key. When the bedroom came into view, Bonnie lurched forward to fall face down across the bed. She turned over and lay spread eagle, her glassy eyes unable to focus.
Bruxton rushed to remove his shoes and unzip his trousers; he jumped on the bed and straddled her. He reached over to unbutton her blouse and unfasten her bra when she sat up suddenly; her head collided with his, causing a brilliant burst of pain for both. She had a retching spasm and projected an arc of vomit that splashed Bruxton’s shirt and the bedding. Dazed, she moaned, “I’m so sorry,” as she brought the back of her hand across her slobbering lips. Bruxton arched backward, jumped off the bed and with an ugly grimace, stared at his foul-smelling shirt and the wet vomit around him.
“Jeezus, just look at this fuckin’ mess!”
In a quivery, distant voice she repeated, “Oh, I’m so sorry. What should we do?”
“Shit! The first thing we’re gonna do is get out of these shitty clothes and take a shower! Then I’ll call the clothing shops downstairs and have some clothes sent up.” He tossed a towel at the disheveled, embarrassed Bonnie and shook his head as though he alone suffered humiliation. Turning his back to her, he said, “You owe me big time for this, girlie.”
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