On it was a stack of DVDs, all action classics: Die Hard, Rambo: First Blood, Reservoir Dogs . . . and right on top, in a place where I’d be sure to see it, Kill Bill.
I smiled at Jax. "My favorite. You remembered that as well."
"I did."
I thought about how he’d been sweet earlier by asking me to play cowbell during the show’s encore even when I didn’t want to at first. I ended up having a blast with the entire band. "Want to watch it with the band?" I asked.
"Yeah," he said. He looked down at the floor momentarily. "We can. Whenever you want. But don’t you want a tour of the room, first? You’ve barely looked around."
He was right—I did barely look around. As excited as I was about the suite, it also made me worried. I didn’t want to tell him the reason—every time I saw another room, I felt a little more sick at how much the room must be putting The Hitchcocks over budget. I’d worked hard to keep the band’s budget tight, and I knew every line item. There wasn’t one for a fantasy suite party. I hoped Palmer didn’t get wind of it. Goodbye, bonus. Hello, help wanted ads.
"What’s behind the windows?" I asked, trying to shake the feeling of impending doom. I knew it was probably far too late to get a refund, and since we were already here, I might as well enjoy what the suite had to offer. I hoped that whatever party Jax had planned, it was worth it.
Jax picked up a small, black remote control. "A view," he said. "But let’s wait until we’re on our way upstairs—the view’s better from up there."
"Upstairs?"
Jax turned his head and gestured with his chin, and my eyes followed to see.
Oh my god.
"A glass elevator?" I said, startled. "But Jax, that’s not where we came in." I walked closer to the elevator. It seemed impossible, but there it was, extending up to the floor above—an elevator inside the hotel room. It would have made me giddy, if I hadn’t already been so worried about the band’s budget.
"I know," he replied. "Maybe you should get in."
I pressed a button, and the elevator doors opened. The two of us stepped into the glass-walled enclosure, and I saw two buttons marked "1" and "2." Biting my lip, I pressed the "2," and watched as the doors closed around us.
Jax, waiting at the back of the elevator, had a remote in his hand. "Want to press the button?" he asked. I was confused, but pressed it anyway.
As soon as I did, the window curtains began to part, revealing a view of The Strip that made it clear we were high above most of the other hotels in town. I gasped. "Jax, it’s . . ."
"Wait for it," he said, his voice barely containing his excitement.
As the curtains pulled back further, I saw it: a giant T-shaped swimming pool, just off the living room area, that projected out beyond the edge of the hotel and over the street outside.
My eyes opened wide, and I felt my hand tightening its grip against the elevator railing as the doors slid open to the second level.
"Holy f**k," I said, my voice barely above a whisper. A two-story suite with a private pool? I didn’t even want to estimate the cost. It made me almost sick to think about, and Jax’s eager face made me feel incredibly guilty. He’d wanted to show me the rock star lifestyle, but all I could think about was cold hard cash.
He stepped off the elevator, and I followed behind, feeling anxiety churn my stomach. "You can let the running tally go," he said. "I can hear the cash register going off in your head every time you see a new room."
I grimaced. Had I been making myself that obvious? "You’d just better not tell me that all the money I cut from the budget is being spent here."
"What, on this suite? No," he said, walking over toward one of the walls. "Come over here, check these pictures out."
I picked up my pace to catch up with him, but not before catching a glimpse of another bedroom and a full dance floor. This place was more insane than my friend, Kristen’s place—and her husband was a billionaire.
Then, looking at the wall, I saw the pictures. Photographs of politicians, musicians, and actors, from Kanye to Clinton, speckled the wall. All of them were posing in the hotel room where we were standing—even Hugh Hefner was in on the action, standing in front of the incredible pool.
My eyes traced over the A-list icons in the photos. "You’re telling me this room, with all these celebrity guests, isn’t going to put us over budget?"
"The room’s free for main stage performers," Jax explained. "Welcome to the big leagues, they said. I wanted to show it to you. I thought you might like it."
Free. I exhaled in relief—that meant I could start enjoying the amenities, instead of trying to figure out what they’d cost.
"You thought right," I reassured Jax, happy that it was the truth. ". . . Hey, I’ve got an idea. Let’s get a photo of the Hitchcocks later. We can give it to the hotel so they can add it to their collection."
"Yeah, imagine a photo with Sky right about there," he said, pointing to an empty spot on the wall next to Miley Cyrus' portrait, "Just so she could flip off Miley."
I giggled. "Yeah, and right here, Chewie would—"
BZZZ! The doorbell to the room cut me off before I could finish my sentence.
"We’d better get that," Jax said, walking toward the elevator.
"Is it the rest of the band?" I asked as we got back in. "Or the party guests?"
A hint of a smile played on his face. "Let’s go downstairs and find out."
When he opened the door, I expected to see Chewie, Sky, and Kev bounding in. Instead, a veritable army of room service waiters pushed a procession of carts through the entrance hallway and into the living area. There were enough covered dishes on their trays to cater a small banquet.
"Where shall we serve the food?" One of the waiters asked, his voice soft and melodious, with an understated French accent.
"That won’t be necessary," Jax said, hastily, then dug into his pocket and stuck a green wad of bills into the waiter’s hand. "I can serve it myself."
"Yes, monsieur," the waiter said, giving a small, deferential bow before leaving along with the rest of the room service staff.
Once the last white uniform was gone from the suite, Jax spread his arms out toward the room service carts. "Pick anything you like," he said.