Who: Liam Roberts What: A narrative of the alter-changing sort Where: Liam's room at the Wynn When: Shortly after the phone call with Sam. Warnings/Rating: None.
Liam had stayed in bed long after Sam had left for work, occasionally rolling over and burying his face in the pillow she had slept on before even he grew disgusted with his pining. Sam was a friend, nothing more, or at least that's what he kept telling himself. After all, the girl seemed bound and determined that he was for the boys anyways, but Liam himself was undecided on that particular preference. There was no hiding his attraction towards women, but Seven threw a wrench into the entire thing, one he wasn't entirely sure what to do with. And then there was the hotel...
The hotel.
Letting out a groan of disgust with himself, Liam hauled himself up and out of bed, stripping out of his clothes on the way towards the bathroom, a trail of fabric left in his wake. The shower was turned on something that bordered on cold and he stepped in, letting the water run over his down-turned head, his back. A long breath was released, shuddering in the cool air from the water, finally turning his face up into it and letting it wash away the night and day before. If he worked hard enough, he could forget what was happening with Tristan, he could forget what he'd be doing later on that night to shove her back through her door, and maybe, tonight, he could forget a bit more over sushi with Sam.
The bar of soap was grabbed and he ran it over his body; chest, arms, shoulders, back, and then hands slid down over his hips, the scar tissue that was determined to stay. Bite mark on one side. Carved initials on the other. No matter what happened, this reminder was staying; there was no way in hell he would ever be able to forget Tristan, not with her initials carved into his very person. The bar of soap slipped from his hands, landing on the shower floor with a loud thud, and instead of bending over to retrieve it, Liam leaned back, resting against the shower wall, both hands covering his face.
It was standing there under the spray that he came to the realization that the now-familiar voice of the French aristocrat was silent. Not just silent but... gone. Liam thought for a moment that maybe the curse of the hotel had rid him of anyone up there sharing brainspace with him, but the laughter that echoed up there, distinctly feminine in nature, told him he was oh so very wrong. "Oh for crying out loud," Liam grumbled. "You have got to be kidding me." It had to be some sort of sick joke, and in the absence of Raoul's voice, bullheaded and persistent as the man had been, he found himself missing him. The loss had come without warning, a replacement sliding in without permission, just another aspect of this place that he had no control of. And control was something Liam was becoming very particular about.
"So long as you don't try to get me married to someone on this side of things, I'm sure we can figure out an arrangement," Liam said to the empty shower stall. The water was cranked to something warmer, and with yet another thing to worry about in his head, he finished his shower.