My eyes scan his hotel room, it's cluttered but not messy. Like he knows where everything is. He has a laptop on the little table by the window, and he walks over and shuts it before leaning against the windowsill.
"Why is it so fucking hot in here?" I ask, grabbing the collar of my shirt, forcing cold air to come through. This room feels like a goddamn desert.
"I like it hot, Doe."
"Maybe you should put on clothes like the rest of us instead of walking around half-naked, treating the thermostat like it's a fucking oven," I remark.
"Are you here to criticize my preferred thermostat settings, or do your job?" He sneers and opens the window. The muscles in his back are well-pronounced, the images of a skeleton and a woman inked forever on his tanned skin.
"You don't need to be rude, sponsor." I throw at him before I walk into his bathroom, pick up the used towels and place the new ones on the sink.
"What's your deal, anyway?" I turn around, surprised to see he's entered the bathroom as well, only a couple of steps away from me, lit cigarette dangling from his full lips.
"I'm sorry?"
"You live in a hotel? You've got a tan no one has in New York wintertime." I list.
"Temporarily, yes. Until I find a place."
"Where you from?"
"None of your business, Doe."
"Why do you want to be my fucking sponsor?"
"You ask too many questions." He shuts me up by walking away. I find him by the window, tapping his ashes in a soda can he's cut in half. It balances on the windowsill.
"Take a break. Have a smoke." He nods to the pack of Marlboro's on the table and the unopened one next to it.
"I can't risk Kate knowing." I shake my head, still holding the damp towels in my arms. They smell like soap — smell like him, expensive even.
"I don't see anyone else in my room." Masen looks around dramatically.
I watch the bed, unmade but neatly folded over sheets. What I see on his nightstand makes me frown.