Hotel Lamia
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Jeay S Raven
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787K
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Jenny finds out that she works in a hotel full of supernaturals when her life is threatened by one on her way home from work. The group works together to keep her safe amidst the growing threat. In the meantime, Jenny secretly takes solace and comfort in a mysterious being that visits her in her moments of sadness. But can Jenny trust the being when she can't even see it? To make matters more complicated, Jenny is forced to hide out in the home of Ambrose, a cranky supernatural that only ever looks at her with disgust. Will Ambrose be able to keep her safe when she's being attacked in her dreams and comforted by invisible beings he can't see? And can he fight his growing feelings for her along the way?
The £300 Glass
“Damn!” The wine bottle crashes against the concrete floor. Its contents seep out, staining the light gray surface a darker shade. I quickly gather the green shards of glass and mop up the spilled white wine with a dishcloth. Thank God it wasn’t a pricey bottle.
I pick up the bottle of 2018 Henri Boillot Montrachet Grand Cru that I initially came in here for before I clumsily knocked into the shelf.
Who on earth orders a £300 glass of wine on a Tuesday? That’s more than I make working a shift here, even with tips on a good night. Some folks just have money to burn.
I leave the storage room and head down the hallway. This part of the hotel doesn’t have the same opulence as the rest of the place. The white paint is peeling off the walls, and it smells of stale beer and sweat.
I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror on my way to the bar. I run a finger under my eyes, wiping away the black smudge of mascara. I usually don’t bother with makeup. My sky-blue eyes are enough to charm the guests into being generous with their tips. But without some makeup, I always get complaints from my manager.
I tuck a stray dark curl back behind my ear.
Good enough! I tell myself.
I enter the bar and position myself behind the counter, bottle in hand and my best customer service smile on display.
The high-maintenance blonde who ordered the wine sighs, clearly annoyed. “Did you have to grow the grapes first?” she says with a snooty smirk.
“My apologies, ma’am,” I reply, my smile never wavering.
I decide not to waste my breath trying to explain because I know it won’t make a difference. Some people are just looking for a reason to complain. I won’t let her sour my mood, no matter how hard she tries. I grab two glasses and pour the wine with precision.
“The service here is just horrendous!” she spits out with venom.
I bet she’s trying to score a discount with her complaints. Sorry, Karen. Not gonna happen!
I slide the two glasses toward her, flashing her another flawless smile. She snatches them up and heads back to her table without another word.
I start cleaning the black marble countertop while I survey the expansive room before me. Small, black tables are scattered under the twenty-foot-high ceiling. Large, glittering, crystal chandeliers give the room a serene, luxurious feel.
Behind the bar, there’s a massive wall mirror with shelves for all the top-shelf liquor bottles. The mirror makes it easy to keep an eye on the room while mixing drinks or preparing garnishes.
The hotel is old, like from the 1800s or something, and the style is maintained throughout the building, except for the parts the guests would never see. Why spend money on that?
The place is ridiculously lavish. I like it, don’t get me wrong, but the snobby people it attracts ruin the whole vibe of the place. It’s not that I hate rich people. It’s just that so many of them are complete jerks.
While slicing up some lemons, I glance up into the mirror, stealing a look at the guests. The blonde is sitting in the center of the room with a redhead, scowling and gesticulating wildly with her arms.
Why would people with such good fortune in life spend it being so unpleasant? Such a waste.
Over by the windows, the regulars are chatting. They’re big business men, and they come here to relax with a stiff drink every day around noon. They’re good tippers and mostly well-behaved.
I grab a few limes and start cutting them into wedges. When I look up at the mirror again, my eyes instantly land on a man at the far left corner table. He’s staring right at me.
I quickly look down, pretending I hadn’t seen him staring. I feel a shiver run down my spine, and the hairs on my neck stand up. A faint electrical charge pulses through me, making my heart skip a beat.
I grab a random bottle off the shelf, using it as an excuse to look again. Our eyes meet for a split second, and it feels like my soul is being pierced. I suck in a sharp breath and dive back into work, trying to act normal.
The eye contact feels so strange, like he’d just seen me naked. I’ve never felt so exposed in my life.
Looking around the counter, I search for any excuse to escape to the kitchen. I notice the tray of dirty glasses is almost full, so I grab it.
“Back in five!” I call to the other bartender, Pete.
“Roger that!” he responds.
In the kitchen, I put the tray in the industrial dishwasher and pull the lid down.
As it starts humming, I focus on taking deep breaths while I try to understand why I’m feeling so weird. I don’t have a problem with eye contact. Not at all. I’m confident and thick-skinned. Not much can shake me. So why do I feel so exposed?
I grab a clean glass from a shelf and gulp down two full glasses of cold water. My body quickly cools down, making me feel more like myself again.
The dishwasher beeps as it finishes. These things are awesome! I grab the tray and head back to the bar.
My eyes immediately dart to where I’d seen the man, but he’s gone. I feel a pull to find out who he was. But how? I hadn’t seen him at the bar. Maybe he got a drink while I was in the storage room earlier. I turn to Pete with a sneaky plan.
“Did you get a nice tip from the corner table guy?” I ask casually.
It’s not an unusual question between bartenders, but he looks at me, confused.
“Huh? There hasn’t been anyone at either of the corner tables,” he says, frowning at me, like I’m drunk or something.
“Hmm. I thought I saw a guy there just before I left for the kitchen,” I say, my eyebrows furrowing. I turn away from Pete so he won’t see my reaction. My plan to check the receipt won’t work.
“It’s just been the housewives and the regulars,” he says, cleaning his part of the counter.
“Oh, my mistake, then,” I say, trying to play it off casually. I still feel a twinge of doubt in my gut. I’m not convinced I imagined it. It felt too real.
The remainder of my shift is a snooze fest. Pete’s on midshift, his hours overlapping with mine and the next person’s.
I snag my bag from my locker and head out the rusty back door. It’s supposed to be early spring, but the afternoon air bites with a winter chill. I shove my hands in my pockets and make my way out of the alley, heading down the street toward my apartment.
I chose this place for its proximity to the hotel. It gives me a leg up in the battle for extra shifts.
I’m only contracted for two shifts a week, but I always manage to snag more. Especially after the manager notices how quickly I can get there when he needs someone last minute. Now, I’m the first one he calls when they’re short-staffed.
I sprint up the five flights of stairs to my penthouse. I call it that because it’s the only apartment on this floor, but in reality, it’s just a musty loft converted into a tiny, one-room flat.
Everything is crammed into one room, except for the bathroom. A minuscule kitchen in one corner, a couch and a beat-up TV in another. A double bed occupies the third corner, and the fourth corner is home to the musty bathroom.
I toss my bag on the floor and head to fill the bathtub.
I’m still a bit on edge from what happened at work. The way I felt when he looked at me. Damn! It’s disconcerting, to say the least. I can’t recall his face, but the intensity of his gaze is seared into my memory.
But why didn’t Pete see him? It’s not like my brain usually conjures up things like that, but who knows? I’m sleep-deprived and overworked. Maybe my brain finally snapped under the strain of years of neglect and abuse.
I peel off my white, button-down shirt and toss it onto the bathroom floor.
Living alone is a luxury. No one to nag about my mess, and I only have myself to clean up after. Coming from a foster home overrun with kids and constant adult yelling, this is paradise, even if it’s a dump.
I gather my long, raven hair into a messy bun and step into the tub. As the warm water surrounds me, I feel the tension drain from my body. I let out a moan as I close my eyes.
I tune into the sound of the dripping tap, letting my mind drift into oblivion, a skill I honed while living in the hellhole of a foster home. I clear my mind, think of nothing. It always helps me cope with life’s stress and worries.
The water feels like a gentle caress, as if it’s hugging me. It swirls around my breasts, lightly teasing my nipples. So soft and soothing. It moves around my body, warming me, awakening every nerve.
A wave of water travels from my chest, over my stomach, and down between my legs. Heat pools at my core, making me feel needy. In my dreamy state, I let out a soft moan, savoring the strange sensation. Water swirls gently against my pussy, nudging my clit, making my breath hitch. I grip the edge of the tub.
My mind is foggy, lost in the hum of the delightful tingle. I start moving my hips, grinding against the swirl as the soft pressure gradually intensifies.
The water twists harder around my nipples, making me gasp. Suddenly, it starts pulsing against my clit, and I cry out in ecstasy as the orgasm hits me like a tidal wave.
I snap back to reality, frantically scanning the tiny room, searching for an explanation for what just happened. When I see nothing is amiss, I leap out of the tub, grab a towel, and bolt out of the bathroom.
What the hell just happened?
