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[garyalanhidalgo]

3. The Hotel Cairo Is Private Property

Who knew Hughie Roman would be grateful to this Fabian person after ignoring his calls many times over the past two months? Accepting the Acting Manager’s invitation sounded like a long overdue holiday, but taking a rideshare to the Hotel Cairo was anything but. It truly was an act of desperation. 

He opened the passenger door of the black circa 1990s Jetta, and a cloud mushroomed off it from the thick layer of dust that camouflaged its countless scratches, dents, and bald spots.

“Hughie Roman?” the red-haired woman at the wheel asked as she lifted her sunglasses to reveal her pale blue eyes. “I’m Rusty Fontana, your rideshare to Hannibal. I tried to run your credit card, but it got rejected.”

Hughie reached for his wallet and said, “I can give you cash. Why do you look so familiar?”

“I must have one of those faces,” she said. “You know an average Joe. I mean Josie.”

At least Rusty Fontana’s charming company made the two-day road trip from Los Angeles to Hannibal feel shorter and less repetitious than he feared. His chauffeur hesitated to share additional details about herself. To compensate, Hughie shared more than Rusty, who’d never seen his show, probably wanted to know about her outspoken passenger for the next forty-eight hours.

“Where do you want to get dropped off?” Rusty asked as they passed by trees, then more trees, followed by even more trees.

Hughie glimpsed the white and gray building with four massive pillars that made it look like, to his ex, the Pantheon, and Hughie, the White House. For once, they had both been correct. The Hotel Cairo was the premier example of Greek revival architecture that deserved to sit in Los Angeles or New York, not here in this backwater setting out of The Last Picture Show or—he choked—Deliverance.

“I’m headed there,” he pointed out the Hotel Cairo to an exasperated Rusty as they got closer to the hill it reverently crowned.

“You’re staying at the Hotel Cairo?”

“Just until next week. It’s not quite like I pictured it.” As they got closer, he identified that the stucco white was actually dirty white, and bald spots scarred the roof where some gray shingles had slid off. Sure, they were minor wear and tear, but Hughie cringed at the thought as they diminished the hotel’s face value. “It’s seen better days.”

“As someone born three decades before they built that hotel,” Rusty said, “I won’t comment. Hey, at least they have running water.”

Hughie glumly noted that the fountains spread out across the grounds that, per the agent’s vivid description, once spouted water were now used as planters for common-looking yellow flowers. He would take it up with the actual manager soon enough, not just someone acting as manager.

“Speaking of running water,” Rusty said, “I hope you don’t take this the wrong way, Mr. Roman.

“We’ve been stuck like glue for two days. You can speak your mind freely and please call me Hughie.”

“Alright, Hughie.” Rusty fanned her nose. “You may want to freshen up once you get to your room. Sorry, but I told you to wash up at the last three gas stations.”

“I have a thing about using public bathrooms.”

Rusty pinched her nose and scrutinized him from head to toe. “While you are quite handsome in a devil may care way, you smell like a—I forgot what’s politically correct for—bum.”

“I haven’t used a public toilet since I was in high school. Even then, I detested them. Who knows what nasty diseases you’d pick up?”

“Yet you don’t have an issue with stinking up my car. Thank God I keep Pine Air Freshener handy for my riders’ enjoyment. If you could reach for it below my seat and apply it per instruction to the rear-view mirror. I’d be much obliged. And feel free to wear one. Please, I keep extras.”

Hughie did as advised to hang one in the rear-view mirror. Then he panicked as the Jetta began to pull into the hotel driveway. Before the car turned to wind its way up the hill and arrive at the main building, he abruptly hit the vehicle’s horn.

“What the fuck?” Rusty cursed, not amused by the scare he gave her.

“Can we please stop here?” he asked.

“But the hotel’s still further up. Let me drop you off at the door even if you aren’t fit to mingle with the townsfolk. Main Street locals maybe, but this hotel is a four-star establishment. They have a higher class of riffraff.”

“Ahem,” Hughie said. “It’s a five-star hotel. They have a gourmet restaurant, health club, and spa. And the only local I’m gonna mingle with is the honor bar.”

Rusty scratched her head. “If you’re not careful, those things could run up an enormous debt.”

“I meant I’ll hit up the hotel bar.” Hughie sniffed his reeking armpits as he got out of the car. “After I take a shower and change.”

Because of their abrupt stop, they currently blocked the driveway of the Hotel Cairo. As he stretched beside the Jetta, he spotted an antique white and gold Rolls Royce as it rolled down the hill at the same time. Even in car-obsessed Los Angeles, the elegant automobile would have commanded a great deal of attention. This model, a 1938 Wraith, would have particularly earned his adulation.

Its engine may have purred like a cat, but its horn trumpeted like an elephant at him as he pulled out his luggage from the trunk of the more practical Jetta. With his luggage in hand, Rusty left Hughie in the dust, frightened off by the warning.

Having expelled at least one inconvenience from its path, the Rolls prepared to mow down its remaining obstruction. Face to face with the vehicle, Hughie angrily reminded himself that it was half his property and, therefore, whoever it was inside owed him some respect. He shivered as he looked into the icy-blue pupils of the attractive, middle-aged lady with dazzling flaxen hair snug in the backseat. She scolded her chauffeur, who winked at Hughie as they flew within an inch of his life.

Narrowly missing him, Hughie waved to get their attention, but the Rolls sped off the property in a huff. The vanity plates XENIA1 glared at him as he gave the Rolls one last look. He rolled his eyes while he stifled his envy.

Hughie dragged his Louis Vuitton rolling luggage and wheeled duffle bag, both matching Monogram Canvas, up the winding road to the Hotel Cairo. Surveying the sprawling property, this had indeed been his only worthwhile investment in thirty years of get-rich-quick schemes that included the late nineties Dot-com bubble and bust and cryptocurrency, whose concept he still couldn’t understand.

It wasn’t exactly that he was trying to get rich. Thanks to Autumn of My Discontent, he was rich longer than most actors managed. But alas, he got old. Everything went downhill from there.

Hughie felt guilty for not telling Rusty the truth. He didn’t want the hotel staff or their manager to see him get dropped off in her over-the-hill Jetta. Not that it wasn’t a fuel-efficient and comfy ride, Lameo Larry would say. It just wasn’t the right fit. He may be a loser back home, but Hughie Roman wanted to arrive at his hotel as a winner even if he had to pretend that he took a limousine from the airport after flying first class, of course. Obviously, the limo had a flat tire outside the driveway, forcing him to walk the rest of the way up. 

Thank God he brought Louis Vuitton luggage. It was still the unmissable mark of a celebrity.

* * *

At the peak of the steep last length of the driveway, two men lost no time welcoming him to the Hotel Cairo.

“Hello,” Hughie said. “Which one of you is—” Before he could finish his friendly how-do-you-do, a well-dressed man with gray-green eyes immediately punched his face with wanton disregard. With that, he lost consciousness for at least a minute, in which he fantasized he cuddled an Oscar like a long-lost child.

“Whoever the man is, you should never have hit him. You’re the lawyer. You should know better.”

“What’s this drunken bum doing with expensive luggage like this? He must’ve stolen it from one of your guests.”

“Don’t call him that. It’s disparaging. He’s an unhoused person with an alcohol use disorder.”

As the Oscar tore itself away from his forlorn embrace, Hughie groaned in relief, then rubbed his left cheek. The thickness of his beard had protected his precious face from any superficial damage.

“I-I-I’m ...” he said.

“Thank God, you’re awake.” One of them kneeled to check on him. It wasn’t the man that struck him. This man had beaming brown eyes that matched his carefully tapered chestnut hair. If he wasn’t already fully awake, Hughie would’ve mistaken him for an angel shielding him from the nasty piece of work in the blue blazer. “I’m sorry, sir. The Hotel Cairo is private property and James just wanted you to go. But he should have asked and not laid a finger on you. Is your jaw okay?”

Hughie turned his head to show off his chiseled jaw. The nice man saw he was okay, sighed with relief, and caressed his cheek with tenderness.

“Fabian,” the mean man shouted. “You don’t know where he’s been.”

“Fabian Flores?” Hughie stood up.

“That’s me.”

“As I was trying to say before your security guard pummeled me without mercy, I’m Hughie Roman. We spoke last Monday.”

“I am not the security guard,” the one named James growled at him, “and you aren’t Mr. Roman. But this is probably his luggage.”

 He unzipped the leather duffel bag and dumped its contents on the ground before Hughie or Fabian could protest.

“James, please stop,” Fabian said to his crazed co-worker. “Do you have any I.D. to prove you’re Hughie Roman?”

“Yes, I do.” Hughie reached for his wallet, but his back pocket was empty. “No, I don’t. I must’ve dropped it in the Uber.”

“You took an Uber here?” Fabian asked. He crouched on the ground and scooped up Hughie’s belongings.

Hughie saw a familiar wine-colored envelope sticking out among his unmentionables. He grabbed it and presented it to Fabian.

The hotel manager’s eyes dilated. “It’s our seal, and it’s sent courtesy of Carraway & Sons.”

“I still don’t believe him.” The man named James would’ve been handsome even by Hollywood’s lofty standards had he not had a disagreeable scowl. “He looks and smells putrid. Hughie Roman is a wealthy television star. Surely, he would’ve showered and dressed up before he checked into his hotel.”

James took the envelope from Fabian and pulled out the thick packet of papers inside. Finally, identifying an unmistakable sign made him laugh hysterically.

“What is it?” Fabian asked.

“It’s my father’s signature.”

“Now, do you believe him?” Fabian said like he definitely knew Hughie had told them the truth.

He caught the thoughtful hotel manager staring at him from time to time. Why was he so obsessed with his face long after he brushed his cheek while he’d been on the ground? Now that Hughie was on his feet again, Fabian studied his face even more conspicuously. It was as if he looked more familiar now that gravity hadn’t flattened his features out of proportion. Who did he see in those stolen glances?

Hughie’s mind raced as he heard James call someone on his phone. “Sheriff Holden, we have a criminal element at the Hotel Cairo.”

After a forty-eight-hour trip, being knocked unconscious upon arriving, and having his clothes scattered across the driveway, Hughie was out of steam.

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2. The Opposite Side of the World

“Please don’t let today be the day the roof caves in.”

As if to wake the dead, Fabian Flores banged his head on the indestructible birch desk so it drowned out the kerplunk of the early May drizzle hitting the Hotel Cairo’s roof. A couple of months ago, as the night front desk manager, he would have welcomed the sound as a treat, relaxing him as he waited for his shift to end, especially on Friday nights when he often faked a welcoming smile for the late check-ins, usually there for a romantic getaway. He envied those kinds of guests who packed light and carried their own overnight bags, even if the porters complained about missing tips. Tonight, as he sat in a relatively dry office, two months into his promotion, the Hotel Cairo’s Managing Director received it as a threat. He wished the Grand Old Lady of the state’s famous Cherry Hills could wait a few more months of patch-up jobs while they brought back her old strength.

Fabian sat at the desk for an hour, ignoring that his neck stiffened and legs cramped, engrossed by what he read and reread in the well-loved journal he’d just luckily found behind the bookshelf.

The Hotel Cairo’s founder dated the first page, May 6, 2016, then faithfully updated his thoughts up to 2020, when Mr. Cicero’s health took a turn for the worse. Fabian wished he had known Mr. Cicero longer, but he had only been working there less than a year before he died. Hard to believe that was almost three years ago.

Leo planned to expand their wedding services from hosting the usual one or two weddings a month like they had revolutionized their business conference bookings from an “upon request” service to daily conferences and even business retreats on the weekends. If the majestic Cherry Hills that surrounded them got by for business events, they offered an even more sumptuous setting for exchanging vows, especially in the Age of Social Media.

“What has you so bewitched?” James Carraway’s eloquent voice asked from behind the papers. “I just got done meeting with Xenia. I’m supposed to ask if you’ve contacted Hughie Roman before I send a private investigator after him. She’s eager to get him here to discuss several matters.”

The Hotel Cairo’s lawyer mumbled the last word. Fabian didn’t mind that one matter they had to decide was whether to keep him officially as Managing Director or put out feelers for a permanent one.

James asked the inattentive hotel manager, “How can you decipher those ancient hieroglyphs?”

“Because they’re Leo Cicero’s chicken scratch.” He stashed the book in a drawer.

He finally looked eye to eye with their hotel lawyer. James had gray-green eyes that didn’t blink as they stared back at him. His dark blond hair and five o’clock scruff contrasted with the powder blue linen suit and immaculate white shirt he wore. Fabian noticed he had the same style of blazer and pants in five other colors. Their tailored fit construction showed off James’ lean, muscular build.

Fabian couldn’t remember how long he had been staring. He swung his chair to face the window, away from the lawyer’s view. Did James notice him staring? Did he drool? He swabbed his fingers around his mouth, then looked at his reflection in the office’s only window, which had steamed up so he couldn’t see outside. Checking out his own reflection in the glass, James Carraway met the hotel manager’s deer-in-the-headlights gaze with a bright, flattered smile.

“How did someone like Mr. Roman end up with fifty percent of the Hotel Cairo?” Fabian asked, pretending not to notice his scrutiny. He gulped in desperation and spun his chair back to face James again, thankful the lawyer didn’t let on something was amiss. As a lawyer, James was, he assumed, skilled at faking his emotions.

“You know those Hollywood types. They have to spend their money on something big to brag about. It doesn’t get bigger than a forty-acre estate with a mansion.”

“But he lives and works on the opposite side of the world. Couldn’t he sink his millions into something closer that he could check on?”

“That’s right.” James rested his elbows, then head on the other side of the desk, gawking at Fabian. “Mr. Roman’s never been here. He bought the shares right after Leo passed away. Mr. Cicero left it in his will to sell half the hotel shares as a nest egg to pay for any future improvements.”

“I guess I should know that,” Fabian said, disappointed he hadn’t sought the information before. He should have familiarized himself with all three of the owners, even if Mr. Roman was an undependable no-show.

“I can fill you in on all the complexities of the hotel’s legal history,” James said, sitting back and fooling around with his tie as if the temperature had gone up. “Maybe you want to put a pause on filing? Is that what you’re doing? Why don’t we go for a drink instead?”

James was attractive and helpful, but Fabian drove himself to be discreet, not just because they were co-workers, but because he had more serious issues he needed to worry about.

“A drink?” he asked.

“Relax.” James picked up on his unwillingness. “It’s a business invitation. Is Rosewood Bar neutral enough for you?”

“You’re right. I need a drink.” Fabian changed his mind to James’ relief. “Do you mind me asking how old you are?”

“Forty,” James said. “Am I age-appropriate enough for a friendly drink?”

Fabian got out of his chair and put on his burgundy blazer with the prominent “T-H-C” in gold stitching. He was warming up to the idea of one drink with a coworker, but prayed it wouldn’t worsen into anything else the way things often did after a couple of drinks.

One undeniable benefit of no longer working the graveyard shift was not being asleep at home while the rainbow-colored sunset of the Cherry Hills unfolded outside the Hotel Cairo. Fabian had seen nothing so magical, as if Mother Nature had woven every color into the sky over the misty peaks that dotted the horizon.

“This is the first time I’ve been here at this hour.” He saw guests already entranced by the unmissable view while they enjoyed their drinks on the terrace or inside with them. “No wonder the bar still does so well.”

“I forget.” James led them to the bar, where they perched side by side on comfy bar stools. “As a night manager, you wouldn’t be here until midnight.”

“I’d also be stuck between the front desk and Mr. Cicero’s office unless there was an emergency at another part of the hotel,” Fabian said, as the lights and colors coming in from outside and filling the room overwhelmed him. At a baby grand piano tucked away in a corner, their regular pianist played a dazzling melody to accompany the enchanting time of day. “I actually shouldn’t give myself so much slack now,”

“Do I need to remind you to relax? Even Mr. Cicero would join us here for a drink after we concluded business for the day. He’d always boast about this peculiar view from the terrace, especially during sunset. That God created it for lovers.”

“I never thought it would be so incredible.” Fabian was dumbfounded by the specific words James used, not because he’d read it in Leo’s notes, but because James’ glances and grins lingered a little longer on him.

James nodded at the bartender after she had finished serving the guests who had just come in. Fabian’s face went from a little boy seeing his gifts on Christmas morning to the little boy who broke his mama’s favorite vase. The bartender rested a shiny silver bucket packed with ice and a bottle of champagne sitting inside, waiting to be uncorked.

“We didn’t order this,” Fabian said as the bartender turned to James for further instructions.

“Don’t worry.” James raised his hand and signaled the bartender to go ahead. “I arranged it earlier. A late toast to your promotion. Trust me, it won’t be a human resource issue.” His companion’s legal assurance had somewhat won over Fabian as he started to unwind. There was still something despite James’ adoring expression coupled with the room’s radiance that alarmed him. Maybe love wasn’t for everyone—especially not him.

Before he could refuse, the champagne flowed without caution into two exquisite flutes. The shimmering bubbles and diverting aroma tempted him before he sipped a single drop. He blamed himself for not putting an end to James’ true desire until it was too late. “If you say so.”

“I say so,” James said as he presented a full glass to Fabian and raised the other.

“Well, you aren’t my boss,” Fabian said. It was too late. He already tasted the connection he’d tested. It was something he hadn’t felt in forever.

“And you aren’t my boss.” James pinged his glass on Fabian’s. “Anyway, here’s to your promotion as the Hotel Cairo’s Managing Director.”

“Acting Managing Director.” Fabian tapped James’ glass back and sipped with diligence.

“Semantics,” James assured him. “Leo was fond of you and his ex-wife, who seems to be the only partner still interested in the hotel, handpicked you. It was a shame the hotel had to suffer under what’s his name for three years.”

“Mr. January was a nice man.” Fabian sought to be diplomatic. “He took care of business as usual, but not the hotel’s long-term prospects. Since we’re talking business, I’m curious. Who do you really report to?”

Fabian often wondered about James and Xenia Xavier, who were as thick as thieves.

“The Hotel Cairo, of course,” James answered fondly.

He hadn’t quit staring at Fabian since toasting his promotion. Fabian caught him doing it in the past when he tagged along with his papa for after-hours meetings with Mr. Cicero in his office. Fabian once expected the hotel lawyer to ask him out right away. He never did.

“That’s something we have in common.” Fabian sipped a bit more champagne after James poured a second round. “Our love of the hotel.”

“Then here’s to the Grand Dame of Hannibal,” James said, “the Hotel Cairo. May your shareholders finally meet so Fabian Flores can loosen up and go on a proper date. Not that we’re on one, of course.”

Fabian smiled at James and tapped his glass once more. Its resounding hum heightened the spell he was under. He said, “I hope Mr. Roman feels the same way about his hotel, then we can all pull together and bring it back to its fairytale days.”

“Fairytale days?” James inched his barstool closer, so Fabian now inhaled his fruity, woodsy scent and looked into the depths of his vivid eyes. “Didn’t Leo say that?”

“That’s what he called his happiest times here.” Fabian checked himself. He pulled away even as his associate sidled up without regard. He had to put a stop to it now. “Thanks for the champagne, but I should get back to work. I hope to get in touch with Mr. Roman before you send a P.I. after him.”

“Alright.” The hotel lawyer’s eyes eclipsed and his smile drooped. “Please keep me updated on Hughie Roman. And Fabian?”

“I will.” Fabian stopped in his tracks at the tender way James declared his name. “Anything else?”

James paused, his voice cracking. “Promise you’ll let me take you out to dinner soon. I’d prefer to take you to my favorite restaurants in the city or even downtown Hannibal, but if 24/7 is all you can manage time-wise, I’ll take it.”

Fabian’s pulse hurried. At least he had his back to James since he sweltered as the lawyer awaited his answer. “How about dinner at 24/7 tomorrow? I planned to go over the restaurant numbers with Chef Milos. We can have dinner afterward.”

“Alright,” James yelled. “It’s a date.”

Fabian spun around, grimacing a bit.

“Business date,” James corrected himself as Fabian rushed off. He eyed the half-empty bottle of champagne sitting in front of him as if it was urging him to finish up. “Business date.”

* * *

The office door squeaked open, and Fabian half-expected Leo to greet him.

He looked at the tarnished brass wall clock with the Roman numerals hanging to the right of the desk. It would no longer be business hours on the West Coast, or evening yet. He would try to call Hughie Roman again before James sent a P.I., which might only drive him further away.

He dialed the number that after two months, he’d committed to memory. It rang six times and still no answer. Fabian was about to hang up when a distant, exhausted voice eventually answered, “Hello?”

“Mr. Roman, I’m glad I finally reached you,” Fabian blurted. He feared losing his breath before Hughie Roman finally lost interest and hung up. “This is Fabian Flores, Acting Managing Director of the Hotel Cairo.”

“Acting Managing Director? What happened to the last guy who called last year?”

“I want to invite you to attend the annual shareholders’ meeting next week.”

“Next week?” Mr. Roman sounded annoyed already. “That doesn’t give me much notice. I may have auditions booked then.”

“Sir, I’ve been trying to reach you for two months. I wanted to give you a lot of advance notice. I’ll have Redwood Lodge prepared for your stay. It’s the hotel’s largest cabin home and is reserved for the majority shareholder. In case you forgot, that’s you.”

“I haven’t forgotten I own fifty percent of the Hotel Cairo. Believe me. I haven’t forgotten. I’ve been meaning to visit your hotel, but could never find the time with my busy shooting schedule. I’ve appreciated that it’s making money and, of course, the regular dividends prove useful. However, they aren’t nearly enough for me to hold on to my shares.”

“Maybe the opportunity to triple your investment would convince you to hold on to them a little longer.” He heard the other man read off some numbers. He must’ve used his fingers and toes to do the math. 

Mr. Roman finally answered, “Triple would be nice. How long would it take? I don’t have time on my side these days, Fabio.”

“It’s Fabian,” he corrected the weary voice. “And neither do I. All I ask is that you come to the partners’ meeting so I can make my presentation in front of all the shareholders. Please.”

“So the other partners will be there.”

“There’s only three of you.”

“Would they be interested in buying my shares?”

“Why don’t you visit us first before you decide?” Without meaning to, Fabian had grasped a handful of his hair.

“Then you can ask Miss Xavier or Mr. Holden face to face if they’d be interested in increasing their ownership.”

If he hadn’t had doubts about the survival and the success of the hotel before, he had plenty of them now. Hughie Roman sounded sleepy and even broken, although it was just early evening in his time zone. Maybe he had a long day of shooting. He shouldn’t forget their majority shareholder was an actor. Maybe a successful one who was too busy to return his calls. He had to be to buy half the Hotel Cairo.

“Good idea.”

“Let’s discuss everything before you make an …” Fabian thought he had finally convinced Hughie Roman to at least give him a chance had it not been for one careless adjective. “Impulsive decision.”

“Impulsive?” The once passive voice was now full of vitality and worse, defensive. “Who says I’m making an impulsive decision? I’d like to talk to your lawyer instead of you about selling my shares then.”

“I meant to say final.” Fabian’s voice cracked as he tried to redress his incorrect choice of words. “Final decision. If I haven’t convinced you that it’ll be worth holding onto your shares, then I’ll gladly do everything to help you sell them at the best price.”

The word sell was a dagger in Fabian’s heart. He refused to even entertain the thought.

Fabian Flores prepared to fight.

“Fine. I’ll go to your shareholders’ meeting. Expect me there by the end of the week. I’d benefit from a mini-sabbatical before the shindig.”

“That sounds better, Mr. Roman.” Fabian rejoiced in the opportunity to win over Hughie Roman before he did something foolish with his shares. “I’ll email you the details.”

“You do that, Frodo.”

“Fabian.”

“I’m sorry, Fabian,” the actor said the correct name. “I’ve been trying to be better at remembering names.”

With that, Mr. Roman hung up.

There was something else about Hughie Roman and their conversation that made Fabian Flores certain Leo Cicero would have loathed the man determined to sell his legacy.

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[garyalanhidalgo]

1. The Autumn of My Discontent

The Primetime actor announced with a pause for dramatic effect, “And the Emmy for Supporting Actor in a Drama Series goes to …”

At least if it wasn’t Hughie Roman, it wouldn’t be multiple Emmy winner Herbert Peters either.

“You should’ve won,” Herbie buttered up his fellow loser, his come-hither blue-gray eyes, sensual lips, chiseled face, and James Dean hair perfection.

“No,” Hughie said. “You deserved to win. Your clip absolutely broke my heart. What episode was it from?”

“It was from your funeral,” Herbie choked up. “I mean Uncle Richard’s funeral last month.”

“I’m sure Uncle Hughie has better things to do than keep up with our show,” their co-star, Larry Mallory, cut in and affirmed his Lameo nickname well-earned. He was ever owl-like with his dark round eyes, beak nose, and unceasing hoot. “We have the same agent. You’ve surely auditioned for a bazillion gigs by now, maybe for Primetime TV shows, streaming projects, or even big-budget movies like our Little Herbie. World’s an oyster for someone as handsome and talented as Hughie Roman.”

“Are you flirting with me?” Hughie asked. Although he accused Lameo, it was Herbie’s reaction he watched out for.

When Herbie had turned a deaf ear to him and instead filmed his reaction to his first loss since time immemorial, Hughie’s chest caved in from the confusion. Had he misjudged his TV nephew’s kindness as a kinky come-on? He was even more embarrassed to admit it’d been because he found the attention of a younger queer man sexy. Someone like Herbie, who was more in his element as a gay nineteen-year-old back when they first met than Hughie had ever been in his entire life, even at sixty.

Herbie raised his iPhone and accepted his unseen audience’s condolences, well wishes for next year, and even a handful of date invitations. Hughie couldn’t help but notice his muscular arms and well-developed pectorals, which he hadn’t had when he screen-tested ten years ago for the role of Toby Hunter, Richard’s cad nephew. A fit of nostalgia came over him. Little Herbie, as the cast and crew had nicknamed him, had grown up on Autumn of My Discontent, coming out publicly not even a year later and becoming even more well-loved by soap fans thereafter. Hughie, on the other hand, was coaxed out of the closet in 2020 because his fiancé refused to marry anyone in the closet, especially someone who was, on a very, very slow news cycle, fodder for gossip, just because he was on television.

As for Larry, all of Hollywood seemed to know he was gay. He’d even been the grand marshal of the West Hollywood Gay Pride parade. Yet for such an out and proud queer person, he lived his personal life out of everyone’s scrutiny. If someone cared who Lameo had dated or was currently doing, they were left to guess.

“I’m not flirting with you,” Larry said. “I’m currently in a loving, committed relationship. I was just trying to be a pal.”

“I meant it as a joke,” he assured him. He peeked at his watch and decided the network after-party at the Beverly Hills Hotel’s Crystal Ballroom was where he should be right now. He saluted Lameo before he took off. “See you at the party. Gotta fetch the Lamborghini. Still drive a Mini Cooper?”

“Yes, a Mini Cooper Electric SE Hardtop.”

“I’ve heard of it. Rui wanted a car like that one when we were together.”

“It is a fun drive.” Larry grinned as he glanced at a message on his iPhone. “My date’s on his way to the hotel. I’ll see you there.”

“See ya,” he said, overjoyed he’d relish a brief break from the tiresome man. What desperate Yo-Yo would date Lameo? The droll answer was apparently joining them at the party.

Not only did Hughie Roman have a date with the open bar, but he had one ending scene to perform for the Autumn of My Discontent producers. After almost thirty years of unwavering loyalty, Richard Hunter and Hughie Roman had deserved more than the unceremonious send-off without so much as a scrap of dialogue or discernible facial expression. The industry and TV viewers should have seen him act up a storm and unequivocally know that Hughie Roman was a brilliant actor whose career was on the rise. 

Even if resurrections were par for the course in a soap opera, when all was said and done, the powers that be remained adamant: “Hughie Roman, you’ve been more trouble than you’re worth.” Tonight, he would teach them to use such an auspicious actor as nothing more than a prop on what was to be his final, final death. He swore he’d continue the vicious cycle tonight—all at their expense.

As he prepared to take his leave, Herbie suddenly blocked his way. He was no longer playing for his invisible audience as earlier. He had a pained expression, perhaps still about losing. Hughie’s heart went out to him. He’d felt just as heartbroken the first time he’d lost and every time after that. He couldn’t help but give his TV nephew a sympathetic hug.

“What can I say, kiddo? You’ll win it next year.”

He welcomed his reassuring hug. “I hope they figure out what a mistake it was to let you go.”

“That’s really sweet of you to say.” Hughie slapped Little Herbie’s broad back and was gobsmacked as the younger man’s rock-hard erection brushed his crotch without apology.

“I miss you so much.”

“Herbie?”

“Yes?” he said without emotion while he’d kept him hostage in the awkward embrace.

“You have a hardon.”

“Oh, shit. I’m sorry.” Herbie pulled away as his entire face turned scarlet. “I got excited when they were reading out the winner.”

“That was half an hour ago,” Hughie said as he glossed over the younger man’s excuse. “It’s alright.”

They both fumbled back even if the cringeworthy encounter seemed to have gone unnoticed in the emptying theater.

“I don’t know what to say.” Herbie was beside himself.

“Are you going to the party?” he asked and pushed aside his own undeserved guilt. “Do you need a ride?”

Before he finished his sentence, Hughie caught himself in time. To his out-and-out relief, Herbert Peters hadn’t even heard his TV uncle's offer to ride in his Lamborghini. He mused how much had changed since they met. It had always been such a treat for Little Herbie.

As he drove across town to Beverly Hills, Hughie Roman, with little deliberation, did away with calling him Little Herbie any further and all future overtures—no matter how innocent—to ride with him.

* * *

As soon as he’d arrived at the Beverly Hills Hotel, Hughie darted for the Crystal Ballroom just off the hotel’s busy lobby. An eager mash-up of local and national media mingled with the attention-hungry stars from Autumn of My Discontent and the network’s other daytime programs.

Hughie had tired of his first open bar once a reporter had requested that his TV ex-wife reenact her Emmy-winning line. Filled with gratitude, she cried her eyes out and said, “Doctor, please pull the plug.”

He would’ve scurried off somewhere less pretentious for his next drink had he not caught the familiar scent of the Ethiopian Frankincense he’d slept and awakened to for at least two years. Even now, it had filled him with hope. Understated and very personal, the rare scent was therefore out of place here among the Hollywood glitterati. He’d first breathed in that earthy bouquet of wood and citrus when he took a summer off Autumn to do theater at the Pasadena Playhouse in 2019 and fell head over heels with the play’s then forty-five-year-old co-star, Rui Mamo.

His ex-husband stormed into the noisy ballroom and searched the room for someone. He stood under the ballroom’s namesake chandelier, which had always reminded Hughie of a delightful bouquet of roses all lit up. Once he’d caught sight of the man he had once loved, he tried to wave, but his hands had gone limp. Rui was still as dashing as ever with his rich chocolate complexion and theatrical goatee. His mind raced, wondering why he was here. This would be the first time since the divorce he would see Hughie too. 

Time had stopped as Rui finally took notice, and waved and smiled at him—his eyes filled with so much love like in the good old days. He had wanted to wave back, but grabbed his martini instead and polished it off. Not that Rui Mamo was an evil ex-husband, but another drink temporarily stifled the unresolved feelings and embarrassing scenes his presence could still provoke.

He could only stare as the lanky man crossed the crowd to be with him at last. Once upon a time, he’d promised Rui that if he ever won, he’d thank him foremost for loving him. A short and simple speech that perhaps Rui still remembered. Maybe there was indeed hope that they could find their way back to each other.

His tummy fluttered at the romantic notion that tonight would not be a complete tragedy after all. If he had wanted a winning chance to get him back, he needed to get hold of himself. Hughie Roman hightailed it to the bathroom to splash cold water on his face and, after too many drinks, pee.

“Rui?” Hughie regarded him with quixotic eyes. “I’m touched that you’re here to celebrate my birthday.”

“Happy birthday. Sorry, I was busy with planning yesterday I forgot to greet you.”

“What planning?” He’d tried to act naively. “Are you going home to Africa to visit your family?”

“Not until after the—” Rui tried to answer before Larry nudged him in the ribs.

“Why’d you hit my husband? I meant ex-husband. Just because you’re helping with his birthday surprise doesn’t give you carte blanche to touch him.”

“I’m not here for your birthday,” Rui said.

“Then you’re here because you heard I lost again.”

“I’m sorry, but it’s not that either.”

Hughie had become more and more frustrated that no one was saying what he’d longed to hear. “Then why are you here?”

“Surprise,” Larry whispered.

“Surprise,” the cast and crew of Autumn of My Discontent shouted on cue while an army of servers rolled in a six-layer cake lit up by birthday candles flickering under powerful gusts from the hotel air conditioning ducts. With great care, they ground the massive cake, which accommodated ten candles per tier beside the dessert buffet.

Was this one concluding middle finger from his ex-Autumn family? Family is who you can turn to when your life is a disaster. Surely, that included tasty ex-husbands.

His heart flooded with hope, Hughie wrapped his arms around Rui and swore never to let go of the only good thing left in his miserable life. “I’m sorry I failed you so much when we were married. You being here tonight is the best thing that’s happened to me since you left. I still love you.”

“What the fuck?” Rui muttered.

It wasn’t the response Hughie had expected after such an honest declaration of true love. Why wasn’t he reassuring him that he wasn’t crazy, that he returned, without question, the same feelings the divorce had forced them both to hold back? Just to make sure Rui knew he loved him, body and soul, Hughie held on even tighter. “It’s your turn to say you still love me too.”

Rui tried to squirm out of his bear hug. “Please let me go.”

“I was thinking about that little bed-and-breakfast we bought for our retirement. Maybe we can start fresh there soon. I now have all the time in the world for you.”

Rui had pulled away far enough so he could grab Lameo’s shoulders. He seemed to be almost begging for something. “We have to tell him now.”

“Larry? Where’s that date you were bragging about?” From as early as he could recall, Hughie Roman had always been the last to know, or in one very important matter, he’d been left out entirely.

Rui had nearly freed himself after holding on to Lameo’s torso like an anchor. “We have to tell him before he makes a fool of himself.”

“You mean an even bigger fool.” Hughie wasn’t in favor of releasing his ex, but Rui had fought for dear life.

Larry finally spoke, “He just lost his job, lost the Emmy, and—”

“And I lost you to Father Flannigan?”

Hughie clenched his fists. He could only think of one way to settle all his pent-up frustrations and nagging questions. With one terrible punch to his jaw, he knocked out his so-called BFF, who fell backward into the gorgeous birthday cake the show had presented him. That’ll teach them they couldn’t just put him out to pasture.

He turned to Rui for a congratulatory embrace, but his ex-husband had already darted to Larry’s side, wiping away fluffy white icing and cake bits from the fallen man’s now soiled tux.

“Grow up, Hughie Roman,” Rui said. “You’re a sixty-year-old baby.”

It had broken his heart one more time.

“How long has this been going on?” he asked unapologetically while they plucked a few now extinguished birthday candles from Larry’s suit. “I’ve been wondering all this time why you walked out on me. It was Father Flannigan all along.”

“Stop playing TV detective.” Rui shook his head. “And his name is Larry, not Father Flannigan or Lameo or Mr. Vanilla.”

“It’s my favorite flavor,” Larry cooed as he sampled some of the heavenly birthday cake smeared on his coat.

“Hughie never means it as a sign of affection, honey.” Rui stood up between them, protectively anchored to the floor. “You don’t deserve an explanation, but we’ve only been seeing each other since Valentine’s Day. After the divorce.”

“And neither of you could have told me? You had to save it for now? Here?”

“I’m sorry,” Rui said. “We should’ve told you sooner.” 

“I thought we were BFFs?” Hughie asked. He’d always been accomplished at roasting Lameo Larry with his own guilt.

“I’m sorry, pal,” Larry said. “I promised Rui I wouldn’t say anything until after our wedding.”

“Wedding?” Hughie screamed bloody murder and vaulted towards Larry. It wasn’t about betrayal anymore. He wanted vengeance. “Wedding.”

To get to Lameo, he’d have to get Rui out of the way first. He took a deep breath and thrust out his chest as he stared into Rui’s outraged eyes. His ex hadn’t blinked. He was now filled with the same need to get even. The same Rui Mamo, who had always quoted his idol Michelle Obama: “When they go low, we go high.” Hughie smiled smugly as he shoved him out of his way.

Their suits were covered in icing, but Rui and Larry had remained flopped on the ballroom floor beside each other as two gay wedding cake toppers Hughie had just plucked off and dumped. The two men rolled over to look into each other’s eyes, then burst out laughing.

Hughie scowled. They had no reason to laugh after what he had done to them. It was as if nothing else mattered as long as they were together. He cried, “I’m sorry.”

“We owed you that for keeping mum. I didn’t want to go tonight, but Larry insisted we try to remain your friends. He’s been worried about how lost you seem. Seeing you tonight, I’m worried about you too.”

“I don’t want your pity,” Hughie said. “From either of you.”

“You know neither of us would cheat on you,” Larry said as he held onto Rui. “Let’s not get into it here.”

Hughie lowered his head in shame. All the party guests had stayed quiet as the drama had played out, but he quickly noticed the flashes from mobile phones and various devices still pointed at them. It only reminded him that others had forever captured his heartbreak for all the world to see. Even the writing staff of Autumn of My Discontent kept their ears glued to the air for future storyline material.

His other BFF, Ben Jerry, the show’s head writer, had been taking mental notes but shook his head disappointedly at Hughie once he’d glanced in his direction.

“Hughie?” Rui stopped him.  “I have to talk to you.”

“Get out of the way. I already apologized. By the way, did Ben Jerry know about you and Larry?”

“Who’s Ben Jerry? The ice cream?”

“No, the head writer. I thought he was my best friend.”

Rui had stifled his laughter. “If he’d really been your best friend, then you’d know his name is Gerry Hemmings. You were the best man at his freaking wedding.”

“Thank you for the information,” Hughie whimpered. He gave him the cold shoulder, even as Rui tried to reach out. “I’m done with this show, and Rui, I’m done with you.”

“Larry told me the studio has been getting a lot of legal-related calls.”

“It’s none of your fiancé’s business. See, I’ve accepted your joyous news.”

“Never mind me. Is that why the producers really fired you?”

“And it’s likewise none of your business.”

“Despite everything we’ve said and done to hurt each other, I still care about you. Larry and I both do.”

Hughie acknowledged his good intentions with a cool nod. “It was part of the reason. They also think I’m ready to retire, considering I’m reaching retirement age pretty soon.”

“You? Retire? That was never your plan until you married me.”

“It’s why I bought shares in that quaint bed-and-breakfast. It was my promise to make more time for you when I eventually did.”

Rui brushed off his nostalgia. “The Hotel Cairo was never a little BB. It was much too big an investment on your part for me to have split in half. It’s all yours. You should sell it to pay off your debts.”

“Sell it?” He became teary-eyed, recalling their hopes and dreams when things had been good. “We dreamed of running it once. Just the two of us.”

Before he walked off, Rui grabbed his shoulder once more. “Good luck and happy birthday. And please don’t sleep with Herbie. I saw the way he looks at you.”

“Why would you think I would do something that stupid?” he replied to no one.

As much as he’d wanted to hit the party’s open bar to drown his troubles, he hadn’t the resolve to rejoin the celebration and its superficial guests. Especially not when the only two people who’d given a damn about him there had left together.

He stormed off to the valet where the other guests who’d been waiting in line encouraged him to skip to the front, thrown into a panic that an unkempt man was allowed in their presence.

“I’m sorry for dripping cake all over your red carpet,” Hughie said as he passed them. “The network was celebrating my sixtieth birthday.”

“Happy birthday, Mr. Roman,” the friendly valet manager said.

“Can you get my car?” he said excitedly, despite the ordeal he’d experienced. “It’s the white gold Lamborghini with the license plate HUEY1.”

The manager scrolled through his iPad until he had located Hughie’s record. He replaced his happy birthday smile with an apologetic pout. “I’m afraid there’s a minor issue with your vehicle, sir.”

“Don’t tell me you scratched my car.” Hughie threw his hands in the air. “It’s a five hundred thousand dollar car. You can’t just treat it like you would a Mini Cooper Electric.”

“No, Mr. Roman.” He picked up his walkie-talkie, confirming something with the garage. “Maybe we can chat in private in my office?”

Hughie longed for a drink. He shouldn’t have to be bothered by the problems of others. He had enough troubles of his own. “I’m sorry, but I have another party to go to. You need to tell me what happened here, not in your office.”

“Sir, your Lamborghini’s been repossessed,” the valet manager informed him as close-lipped as possible. “They left a number for you to call to settle your debt if you wish.”

It’s not like he hadn’t expected it to happen at some point when he’d stopped paying off the ninety-one thousand he still owed. It was still turning out to be the worst night of his life. Despite the exasperated looks everyone had given him earlier as more cake remnants fell off him, Hughie directed himself to the ballroom. At least there would be free booze there for the remainder of the evening.

Before he succumbed to his pitiful fate, a knight in shining armor stopped him. “I can give you a ride home. I still have the limo. I’ll take you wherever you want.”

Read The Hotel Cairo now digital and Kindle Unlimited:

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Read "The Hotel Cairo" now on digital & Kindle Unlimited

Are you a larger-than-life but flawed queer man of a certain age? You are welcome here! The Hotel Cairo embraces your heart and wit. Check in now…

Hurry! Its majority shareholder recently axed 60-year-old soap actor Hughie Roman schemes to sell the aging but still enchanting hotel to the highest bidder to get back his Hollywood dream. Not if Fabian Flores, the hotel’s 44-year-old manager, can stop him by winning him over with love. Love is Welcome at the Hotel Cairo, that is, an invitation to same-sex couples to wed in its magical setting in a conservative state which, in the past, denied them as petty as a wedding cake.

Unlike the lovers that the Hotel Cairo woos, Hughie and Fabian don’t welcome love because of heartbreaks from the past and doubts about the future. They’ll fight their developing feelings tooth and nail even while others try to get between them, like Fabian’s fiancee, the hotel lawyer, James, Hughie’s TV nephew, Herbie, and co-owner, Xenia, who has her own plans for her deceased ex-husband’s legacy. Fortunately, a heavenly male escort named Hunky Hector lends his voice of reason in their bedlam.

The Hotel Cairo is an LGBTQ+ romantic comedy novel about embracing love no matter how old or jaded you become. Told through the eyes of a desperate, newly divorced Hughie and an equally determined but altruistic Fabian, not even a wedding cake will be safe from their explosive courtship.

Formerly published as Love’s Not Welcome at the Hotel Cairo.