CHAPTER THIRTY ONE: Calm Before The Storm

It’s ten o’clock AM. A talking alarm clock repeated over and over again until the sole occupant of the room stirred against her bed and threw a pillow to shut the obtrusive thing up.

“Mmmmm..” Alice Pieszecki moaned as she stretched her arms out across her king-sized bed. She rubbed her eyes sleepily as she opened up her mouth, allowing a hearty yawn to escape from her lips. It was ten in the morning.. so she had been sleeping for six hours now. “Man..” She groaned, after the physical exertion of last night, she knew that six hours wasn’t enough for her tired body to re-charge. “Oh God..” She mumbled as she noticed sunlight streaming inside her bedroom and assaulting her eyes. She was positively sure that the curtains were closed when she crawled into bed a few hours ago. “Shit..” She cursed in irritation as she squinted her eyes and shielded them with her hands.

After a few more minutes of just lounging in bed and unsuccessfully lulling herself back to sleep, she decided to get up and take a shower. “Ow! Mother fu-!!!” She yelped in pain as soon as she tried to sit up, her head slamming violently back to the pillow. Something was keeping her in place. “What the fuck?” She frowned as she brought her hands to her head, her scalp was aching as if someone had just pulled her hair hard.

What the frickin’ frack? Her eyes grew big as she felt her head with her hands. Someone had parted her thick blonde hair into five strands.. and each strand was braided and tightly tied to the small posts decorating the head frame of her antique iron bed. Alice Pieszecki was literally stuck to her bed by the hair. Holy shit, her mind screamed in horror, there was only one person capable of doing this. “Porter!” Alice bawled as she finally noticed the bright red sign that was taped to the ceiling.

You push, I pull.. your hair.

“Somebody heelllpppppp meeeeeeeee!!!”

Looks like a little blonde won’t be pushing Bette Porter’s buttons anytime soon.

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“Good mor–”

The room service guy at the Chateau Marmont stopped mid-sentence and froze from placing the breakfast platter down on the table as he gaped at bungalow seven’s rich young tenant.