Tetris in Red

Epigraph

Real doesn’t always knock nicely at your door.

Sometimes, it will pick at your lock while you’re busy playing with Illusion.

Rhys

The creamy, expensive carpet muffles my footsteps as I walk out of the elevator and into the lowly lit hallway.

There are only ten doors on this floor. Each is firmly closed. No sounds other than my labored breathing and the fast-paced beating in my chest can be heard. The air is eerily still, which isn’t surprising since most of the occupants are downstairs for the after-party.

Five light bulbs hang overhead and animal portraits are plastered on each side of every door. The conditioned air is in the right temperature yet my armpits are on the verge of creating a goddamn waterfall.

I stop just outside his door.

A dog on the left side has its eyebrow raised while the cat on the right pins me with a patronizing stare. They are judging me already and I haven’t even touched the door.

I take a deep breath.

It’s all or nothing.

I lay my ear against the door to hear if there’s a semblance of life on the other side. There are only white noises. Usually, guys like him create sounds, even if it’s not intentional. But I know I don’t have to worry about it right now. I saw him downstairs with his tongue digging a second Mariana trench on a blonde’s throat.

My hands shake as I swipe the key card on the slot. This is it. This is fucking it. My nerves are shot, cold sweats dot my forehead as I take the first step into his expensive suite.

It feels so wrong. So illegal. My feet can barely cooperate.

My limbs are awkward as I tiptoe around, my eyes seeking. I knew doing this will mean violating his privacy. But he violated mine first. I’m only trying to take back what’s mine.

I should’ve asked him nicely, should’ve done more to reach out to him. But I can’t—don’t want—to talk to him. He’s big now. Larger than life. I don’t want him looking down on me and seeing the same girl he saw years ago. Not a chance.

I reach his bedroom in no time. An open suitcase is placed above the king-sized bed and its contents are littered on the floor—clothes, shoes, airline tickets, watches...

The corner of my mouth tips up. “I guess some things never changed.”

My hands dig into every crevice on his suitcase but found nothing. Pouches? Nothing. Pockets on his pants? Nada. I move to his drawers but find them empty as well. Of course. For all I know, they are only staying here for two days before they travel again to another city—

“Rubbish. For all I know, Dad knew about this already...”

My whole body stills. I haven’t heard that voice for years. The endearing remnants of the British tone of the boy I once knew are gone. It is replaced by a very deep male voice with a gracious American accent that makes my heart stop beating for a second and thoughts fleeing from my mind.

“I got it. I’m actually going to do it now.”

His nearing footfalls snap me into action. I look around to find a hiding spot. The bathroom and the closet are a no-go as they can be skimpy, full of transparent glasses, mirrors or just too obvious for Christ’s sake. And I don’t have time to open each one to decide. My eyes travel and travel, and travel, until I hear him stop right outside his bedroom door.

Did he hear me moving? Did he hear my heart galloping crazily inside my chest?

My pulse nearly vacates my skin as I consider my options. “What to do... what to do...” I whisper a prayer. I don’t want to face him. I can’t. I shouldn’t.

No.

No.

No.

My eyes fall to the bed. The bed is high enough. Has a big enough underside to fit myself into. Bingo.

I’m on my stomach and crawling under it when the door slides open.

Alec

“Honestly, Mom. We still have a generous amount of time.”

I sigh as my mother rattles on and on about the surprise birthday party for my Dad. It’s about two months from now and she’s already stressing herself over anything and everything she can think of. It’s rather exhausting.

I love Mom, really, with all my freaking huge heart. But this is getting annoying, more so when my hands were getting busy and she just had to call to check if I picked the right cupcakes, because apparently, my auntie El is allergic to blueberry.

I pinch the bridge of my nose as I tune her out. My bored face turns skeptical as I note the state of my room. It’s like a pack of hyena ran through it. Jesus. I need to work on my organizing skills.

“I’ll call you later, Mom.”

“I’m not done talking to you, Alec John MacSweeney,” she says sternly. “Are you sure you already checked in with the catering? Everything should be hypoallergenic for everyone.”

“Mom.” I sigh. “I’ll check on the catering again and have the cakes deliver for tasting. Call you later. Love you.”

The phone lands with a muted thud as I throw it on the bed. My hands fall on my hips as I survey my room. It’s a disaster. Maybe I should pack my stuff and box my shoes already? I should probably clean my guitar as well. And oh, I’ll also need to deliver my clothes to the laundry—

My moving gaze halts when it finds the shower door. Suddenly, my limbs moan in agony as my skin groans with all the sticky sweat covering them.

Suddenly, I’m too tired to care.

I discard my pants and walk toward the door when I hear it.

Sniff. Sniff. Sniff.

I pause and strain my ears to hear but there’s nothing. I must’ve imagined it. So I shrug. But as I near the opaque door, I hear it again.

This time, louder.

This time, there’s a series of haggard breathing.

“Who’s there?” I call out.

The breathing grows urgent. There’s even a fucking muted, “H-help...”

I become nervous. Fuck, I should’ve dusted my clothes off when I left my band mate’s cousin’s funeral. The elders warned me. They said his cousin’s soul would follow me wherever I go if I didn’t do it. A curse escapes my lips. I shouldn’t have drunk my ass off that night and forgot about it.

Cough. Cough.

“Oh my God, who the fuck are you and what do you want?”

I grab my guitar from its stand. It’s the latest Gibson Les Paul Traditional and my all-time favorite but there’s no other weapon of choice. I turn around and scan the room. My eyes narrow as I see strands of red hair peeking underneath the bed. I try to remember if my bandmate’s cousin was a redhead.

Then, my nerves skyrocket when images of that Japanese movie Holland, my agent, made me watch comes to mind.

Oh god.

Does Sadako have a redhead sister?

“I need...I-I need...”

I jerk as the hair moves and the face of a woman comes into view. Her eyes are bloodshot, her face and nose are red and there’s snot running down from the latter. What the ever-loving hell?

My worries dissipate and are quickly replaced by outrage as I realize what’s happening. I can’t fucking believe it. Actually, I think I can.

I carefully place my guitar back on her stand. Crossing my arms, I scowl at the mystery woman who seems to think it’s smart to hide under my bed.

“Same question earlier. Who the fuck are you and what the hell do you want?

She slowly crawls from under the bed and I notice her shoulders rising and falling with each shaky, quick pant. I frown. “Are you okay?”

“H-help...”

I recall hearing someone muttering help earlier. This is so weird. And I don’t know if I should trust this woman enough to touch her and make sure she’s okay. Her dress is wrinkled and her face is wet and haggard. My gaze scrutinizes her overall appearance and notes that she doesn’t have any deadly weapons on her.

Except... there’s something in her right hand.

My guitar pick.

I send a frustrated groan to the heavens.

Of course, a fan.