Tamer Of Wolves

~¡Torpe!~ (Awkward!)

When I wake up, it's 6:00 in the morning the next day. My stomach growls loudly and I sit up. I stretch, relishing my freedom from Ian's grasp. At least this morning I don't have to be afraid that he's gonna come in my room when I'm showering, I think gratefully.

I flick the covers off of me and stand up. I walk slowly over to the window and open the blinds. It's still dark out.

Damn, did you have to wake up this early? I hear Aruba mumble drowsily.

I can't help it if I'm hungry, I say back, knowing she'd never choose sleep over food. No wolf does.

....Touché, she says it very quietly, not wanting to sound defeated.

I chuckle softly, but I tense up when a knock sounds at my door.

"¡Soy la limpiadora!" (I'm the cleaner!) A heavily accented Spanish lady yells from outside the door.

When I was 16, Forrest took it upon himself to teach me Spanish. He thought it would be imperative and that I might have to speak it out of nowhere. Boy, was he right.

"Un momento, ¡por favor!" (One moment, please!) I yell back, making sure I look appropriate to answer the door. My PJs are really just short-ass Sophie's and a camisole. Taking a deep breath, I open the door.

A middle-aged Hispanic lady is on the other side. Her skin is saggy and tanned, and she smells like cigarettes. Her hair is greasy and shines under the dimly lit lights, and her nails are manicured into claws. But hey, I don't judge.

She grunts in greeting and proceeds to push her housekeeper's cart past me and into my room. Smiling as warmly as I can, I greet her in Spanish. "¡Buenos días!" (Good morning!)

The housekeeper freezes. Spinning around, she gives me a look of pure astonishment. It's as if she's never come across any guest who could speak her language. "¿Puedes hablar español?" (You can speak Spanish?)

I nod, half laughing. "Sí, señora. Yo hablo español." (Yes, ma'am. I speak Spanish.)

She gives me as beautiful a smile as she could give me -again, I don't judge- and she turns back to pushing the cart into the center of the room.

As I watch her start to sweep the floor, I feel bad when I see how unkept I was last night when I just plopped down on the bed.

"Lo siento. El cuarto está muy sucio," I tell her almost guiltily. (I'm sorry. The room is very dirty.)

She gives me a hearty laugh, and stops sweeping to turn to me. "Está bien, señorita. ¿Cómo te llamas?" She asks me, changing the subject. (It's fine, ma'am. What's your name?)

"Me llamo Marina Osment," I say sheepishly. "¿Y usted? Cómo te llamas?" I ask back. (I'm Marina Osment. And you? What's your name?)

"Me llamo Flora Valésquez," she does a mini curtsy. (I'm Flora Valésquez.)

I curtsy right on back and she continues to sweep. "¿Dónde está el baño, Señora Valésquez? ¿Con las duchas?" I ask her, feeling my greasy hair and skin. Man, I feel disgusting, I think to myself. (Where is the bathroom, Mrs. Valésquez? With the showers?)

Mrs. Valésquez looks at me and points out the door. "Las duchas están cerca del vestíbulo del hotel. A la derecha," she instructs me. (The showers are next to the hotel lobby. To the right.)

I nod and walk over to my bed. I crouch down on the floor and scoot my backpack out from under the bed. I open it up and grab a pair of my black skinny jeans, a dark green tank top, a pair of ankle socks, my combat boots, and my showers supplies. Better leave the knife here, I decide as I hide my Bowie knife underneath a couple other articles of clothing in my backpack. I slide the backpack back under the bed and stand up. As I start for the door, Mrs. Valésquez taps me on the shoulder.