CHAPTER EIGHT

Chapter Eight

Anderson groaned as he slowly woke up, his head throbbing with the relentless ache of last night’s drinking. He blinked against the harsh morning light streaming through the half-drawn curtains, his vision blurry and his mind foggy. The events of the previous night were a disjointed mess in his memory, flashes of Agnes, the bar, and his own anger swirling together in a confusing haze.

As he shifted on the bed, Anderson froze, the realization dawning painfully slow. He was naked, the sheets tangled around his legs in a disheveled mess. His heart skipped a beat, a sick feeling rising in his stomach as he turned his head and saw Agnes lying beside him. She was half-covered by the bedsheet, her bare shoulders exposed and her hair fanned out across the pillow like a dark halo.

“Agnes,” Anderson muttered, his voice thick with disbelief and a tinge of panic. He sat up abruptly, clutching the sheet to his waist as if it could shield him from the reality before him. “What the hell happened last night?”

Agnes stirred, her eyes fluttering open slowly. She smiled lazily, a satisfied grin spreading across her face as she propped herself up on one elbow. “Good morning to you too,” she said, her voice smug and dripping with unspoken triumph. “I think you remember well enough, Anderson.”

Anderson’s mind raced, snippets of their drunken escapade coming back in jarring flashes. He remembered Agnes’s touch, her persistent advances, and his own desperate need to forget the pain of losing Wanda. But the specifics were lost in the blur of alcohol and regret. He ran a hand through his tousled hair, frustration bubbling up inside him.

“Agnes, this…” he started, his tone wavering between anger and confusion. “This was a mistake. A big fucking mistake.”

Agnes’s expression shifted, her smile fading as she sat up, pulling the sheet around her chest. “A mistake?” she repeated, her voice sharp. “You weren’t saying that last night, Anderson. You wanted this. You needed it.” She leaned in closer, her eyes narrowing as she studied his conflicted face. “Don’t try to pretend it didn’t happen.”

Anderson clenched his jaw, his hands gripping the sheets so tightly his knuckles turned white. “I was drunk, Agnes. Out of my mind! This—” He gestured between them, his voice rising. “This isn’t what I wanted.”

Agnes’s eyes flashed with anger. She threw the sheet aside, standing up with an air of defiance as she reached for her clothes scattered on the floor. “You can lie to yourself all you want, Anderson,” she snapped, pulling on her dress with quick, jerky movements. “But you can’t blame me for what you did. You wanted to forget Wanda, and I was there.”

Anderson’s eyes followed her as she dressed, his mind spinning with regret and the sting of her words. He couldn’t deny the truth in what she said; he had been desperate, seeking solace in all the wrong places. But seeing her now, the reality of their actions hit him like a punch to the gut. “Get out, Agnes,” he said quietly, his voice strained and devoid of the fire it held moments before. “Just… get out.”

Agnes glared at him, her expression a mix of hurt and defiance. “Fine,” she spat, snatching her purse from the floor and storming towards the door. She paused, looking back at him with a bitter smile. “But don’t forget, Anderson. You’re as much to blame as I am. Maybe more.”

She slammed the door behind her, leaving Anderson alone in the stark silence of the room. He buried his face in his hands, the headache from the alcohol paling in comparison to the emotional turmoil churning inside him. His thoughts drifted back to Wanda, her face haunting him even now. He had fallen so far, and he didn’t know how to claw his way back.

Michael awoke to the soft sound of a knock on the door. He rubbed his eyes, disoriented for a moment as he sat up in the lavish bed. The previous night had been a blur of celebrations, but now the suite was quiet, bathed in the soft light of early morning. He glanced around, noticing Wanda was not beside him.

“Wanda?” he called out, his voice groggy. He listened closely, hearing the faint sound of water running in the bathroom. A small smile tugged at his lips as he imagined her preparing for him, perhaps trying to rekindle a spark that still felt elusive between them.

The knock came again, more insistent this time. Michael sighed, dragging himself out of bed. He adjusted his robe and walked over to the door, expecting perhaps room service or a staff member with some message. But as he pulled the door open, he froze, his expression shifting from casual to shocked disbelief.

Martha, his ex-girlfriend, stood there dressed as a room service attendant, complete with a uniform and a cap that couldn’t quite hide the mischievous glint in her eyes. She held a tray with a silver lid, a mock display of professionalism that was betrayed by the knowing smile curling at the corners of her mouth.

“Martha?” Michael’s voice was a mix of surprise and confusion. He stared at her, his mind racing to catch up. “What are you doing here?”

Martha pushed her way inside, setting the tray down on the small table near the door. “Oh, I just thought I’d stop by,” she said breezily, her eyes roving over the room with casual interest. “Las Vegas is a small world, isn’t it? You never know who you might run into.”

Michael shut the door behind her, his expression hardening. “This isn’t a coincidence, is it?” he asked, his tone cautious. “You planned this.”

Martha shrugged, her smile widening. “I heard you were here,” she admitted, taking a step closer to him. “Figured I’d drop in and say hello. Maybe reminisce about old times.” She reached out, brushing a hand lightly against his chest. “You know, we never really had proper closure, Michael.”

Michael stiffened at her touch, his eyes narrowing. “Martha, this isn’t—” he began, but she cut him off with a bold move, her hand sliding up to his neck as she leaned in, her lips dangerously close to his.

Before Michael could react, the bathroom door swung open. Wanda stepped out, a towel wrapped tightly around her chest, her hair still damp and cascading over her shoulders. She froze, her eyes widening as she took in the scene before her: Martha, inches away from Michael, their bodies almost touching, the unmistakable air of intimacy hanging between them.

Wanda’s breath hitched, her heart skipping a beat. “What’s going on here?” she asked, her voice brittle as she fought to keep her composure. The question hung in the air, heavy with suspicion and hurt.

Michael quickly stepped back, putting distance between himself and Martha. He glanced at Wanda, his expression caught between guilt and frustration. “Wanda, this isn’t what it looks like,” he said, his tone hurried and defensive.

Martha smiled slyly, turning to face Wanda with a cool, collected demeanor. “Oh, I was just delivering some room service,” she said sweetly, her eyes flicking from Michael to Wanda. “I didn’t realize you had company.”

Wanda’s gaze shifted between them, the tension thickening as she tried to process the scene. She could feel the prickle of insecurity creeping up, the doubt and the questions forming in her mind. She tightened her grip on the towel, forcing a smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “I see,” she said quietly, though her voice wavered slightly.

Martha picked up the tray again, giving Michael one last lingering look before turning to Wanda. “Well, enjoy your stay,” she said with a mocking tilt of her head. She walked past Wanda, her steps unhurried and confident as she left the room, the door clicking shut behind her.

Michael exhaled, running a hand through his hair as he tried to regain control of the situation. “Wanda, I—” he started, but Wanda cut him off, her expression unreadable.

“It’s fine,” she said, her voice tight. “I was just… getting ready.” She turned away, heading back into the bathroom, the door closing softly behind her.

Michael stood there, staring at the closed door with a sinking feeling in his chest. The morning that had begun with a promise of intimacy now hung with the weight of misunderstandings and unresolved tensions. He knew Martha’s presence was more than just a fleeting visit, and as he looked around the empty room, the realization set in: the past he thought he had left behind was far from done with him.