Amar let an apathetic sigh escape his lips and fill the room every so often. He was growing profoundly fascinated with the detail put into the four walls that surrounded him. Vertical carpeting or whatever in heck it was.
In other words, he was bored to the extent of death, and he looked forward to nothing more than his phone vibrating in his pocket. The feeling that would have otherwise irked him beyond belief was now something he longed for.
And so when it did, he muttered a small, "Jai Shree Ram!" alongside a heavenward glance before picking it up.
"Amar Akhtar," he introduced himself, standard issue opening line, suppressing the grin that threatened to spread.
"A, I'm going to hit it," Bric said from the other side of the line with a small sigh, and Amar's face lit up like a little boy at the sight of wrapped toys under a pine tree.
"On three. One, two-,"
In the moment she uttered the number three, Amar's attention was averted, the phone pulled away from his ear. The room had been plunged into a sudden darkness, causing the emission of what Amar would have referred to as expensive screams as the result of posh panic as a substitution for the EDM.
Amar felt a smile creep upon his lips as he slipped his phone into his pocket, post hitting mute. Of course, his sight remained perfectly fine. Steering his way through the fear-stricken crowd completely unnoticed as the crowd remained meddling for their phone's flashlights, he set for the very centre of the enormous room.
Dodging Chloe M. and her fits of what Amar deduced with a snicker as hammy fear, he bent to place the gas canister packed with carbon monoxide gently on the floor, right by her foot, easing his way back up to resume his previous posture immediately after. He'd hid it by a drinks counter in advance to the gala, knowing that he wouldn't have time to sneak it back in when the need arose.
He then strode out of the hall and into the narrowing corridor before whispering, "Hit it," back into the un-muted receiver end of the phone to Bric after sliding it out of his satin-rimmed pocket, as a cue to release the gas.
At the sound of the canister popping, the crowd grew even gaudier.
Not too soon after, his pace picked up as he broke into a pant-inducing sprint for a cab.
He was almost out the doors when the galling reminder of Tom's voice in his head hit him like a brick wall. The fucking bag.
Shit. Now he would have to turn around.
Spinning on his heel so quick it burnt, he dashed back in the direction he came, and passing the janitor's closet, his shoulder dropped - his wrist flicking as his fingers grabbed the straps of the grey duffel he'd left on the opposite side of the hall. Without faltering for even a second, he did another 180 and took off again as he slung the bag over his blazered shoulder, maintaining a steady pace until his feet hit the streets of starry-nighted New York once again.
"Wayward Motel, please. And step on it," he growled softly in between coughs, his body slamming into the back of the seat after with no time to recoil since the car had already then jerked to a start, speeding off into the night.
I can hear them sayyy, sung the crackling audio over the rickety speakers that hung at every high corner along the surprisingly well-lit corridor, filling his ears as he set foot onto the sticky, carpeted floor - lint from over the years caught in the what-would-have-once-been-yellow yarns. Amar figured the song would play on and on, never stopping or flipping to the next tune on the vinyl - or heck, it may have even been cassette. He let out a measly sigh. Out of all the lowlife, run-down shabby joints to choose from - this was the one they chose to take shelter and find solitary in.
"Hi! How can I help you?" chirped the unnaturally enthusiastic girl from behind the counter, waking Amar's dazy head up. Amar's eyes dropped to scan her nametag. Molly Trecher.
"Molly, hey, I have a reservation?" he inquired, rather shifty. He was worried someone would pop out of their room and ambush him, recognising him as the only other Bollywood actor to hit it as big as Priyanka Chopra in Hollywood. Thankfully Molly here didn't seem to know who he was. "I'm Gino-,"
"Gino After," she beamed with a nod, reading his name off the screen of a desktop - the only damn thing that looked about right for this century in the entire motel.
"Aftar. Pronounced Aff-thar," he corrected her, tilting his head and squinting a little - a result of annoyance. He was merely playing a character but still the Caucasian's inability to pronounce something Asian stressed him. "But yes, yeah. Are my, friends? Here yet? Jason and Janet?"
Her eyes seemed to grow even wider - if that was even possible - at the sound of the familiar names. "Yes, they are, actually, they just popped in and said to tell you to call when you got here, and then they left for the rooftop. Mighty view, you should check it out sometime! Meet your buddies up there now, why don't y-,"
"Yeah, I think I will," he forced a smile. "How much would that be for now?" he asked, impatient to get this whole dealing overwith.
"40 dollars for now, you can extend your stay anytime! Wayward Motel always has rooms, and besides! I hear celebrities are in town! You might just bump into one here!"
Amar shook his head sceptically at her optimism, his eyes narrow as he handed her the cash. "Right, yeah. Might just bump into Ben Affleck or Charlize Theron at a joint like this, yeah. O-K," he said, his voice thick with sarcasm, snatching the rusty room key off the counter as soon she slid it towards him, his impending steps then heading straight for the single-doored elevator down the hallway.
"Well, enjoy your stay, Mr. Af-tar!" she hollered from her front desk after he was out of sight, to which Amar growled, "Piss off," under his breath.
