Chapter 2: The Man With The Falcon Tattoo

Cynthia POV.

He was the most handsome man in the dimly lit bar full of rowdies and loners, boisterous groups, and silent seniors. I was drunk up to my nose but could still see his face. He had the same eagle tattoo on his wrist as the man who had consoled me and offered me a paper towel hours earlier.

And that did not make me feel any better.

The kindest man I had met today—the only kind soul who offered me some comfort—was gulping down a spiked drink from his ‘pals’.

And I just sat there and watched silently.

I took a long hard look at his face again. He was good-looking all right, with messy auburn hair. Emerald green, perhaps, from what I could make out, even though the place was dimly lit and there was smoke all around. He also had very sharp features—high cheekbones, a chiseled jawline, and light stubble.

From what I saw of him when he stumbled back from the bathroom, he was at least six-foot-two. His muscular forearms were really attention-grabbing, with bulging veins that appeared to be sculpted and not made of flesh and bone. He was also young, about my age. But his eyes looked devoid of any emotion. They were cold and dark as if made of glass. They saw nothing, felt nothing, and conveyed nothing.

His blank stare began to dim as seconds ticked by. The drugs in the drink must be at work, I thought. Gradually, he started appearing dizzy and disoriented.

I let out a sigh. But I kept silent.

“C’mon, dude! You are sloshed. Let us help you.” The two heavy-set men who spiked his drink appeared to offer him ‘help’. They pulled him up and supported him while he stumbled across the bar to the exit.

“Yeah, I am wasted,” he mumbled, dazed.

I felt a sharp stinging blow in my heart. A pang of guilt, perhaps. Or a genuine concern for the only nice soul I had met all day. He had no idea his ‘buddies’ had spiked his drink. And he was now leaving with them to go God-knows-where.

What if they ended up hurting him? Or did something worse? No, I could not remain a mute spectator anymore. I had to act.

Did I know the guy with the eagle tattoo? Of course not. I barely saw his face when he comforted me on the roadside a few hours ago. But he did something that nobody had done today. He was kind to me.

That alone merited a response from my side to alleviate his present distress. So, I followed the three of them on foot from a distance, dragging my battered suitcase along, unsteady on my feet. I watched them turn a street corner and walk toward a hotel.

The Crystal Town Astoria. The most rundown hotel in the city. A place as seedy and dingy as one’s worst nightmare. A den of vices, sex workers, and shady characters. Its name was a direct contradiction to its reputation and appearance.

The two heavy-set men dragged the half-passed out eagle tattooed guy inside the hotel. I quietly snuck in and stood behind them at the front desk, suitcase by my side.

“Room 201, the usual,” whispered one of the guys to the man at the front desk. They exchanged what looked like a glance of tacit understanding as if they were familiar with each other and their motives. The man at the reception handed over the key card to them.

I waited for them to enter the elevator. As soon as they were gone, I approached the front desk with trepidation.

“Room 203, please,” I uttered softly. And then hastened to add, “If available, of course.”

The man at the reception said nothing. Didn’t smile. Didn’t greet. Just took a cold hard look at my face and suitcase and handed over the key card silently.

I heaved a sigh of relief.

This was my first time in this seedy part of town. My first time in this notorious hotel. My heart was pounding. The effect of chugging down too much booze in too short a time, as well as dragging a heavy suitcase for the past few hours.

The hallways of the hotel were dimly lit. Dimmer than Billy’s Tavern. They appeared to be a part of another world dominated by shadows and stench of sweat and booze, something I was not familiar with. And yet, there I was, navigating the poorly lit hallways of the seediest hotel in the creepiest part of town.

I didn’t take the elevator because I didn’t want those men to notice me. So, I took the stairs and reached the floor from the other side, dragging my suitcase along. Just as I was about to step out onto the hallway in front of Room 201, I heard whispers. The two men were talking to each other.

I stood my ground and hid behind the wall, holding my breath. I wanted to overhear their conversation.

“So far so good,” said one. “He is totally zoned out.”

“Half the job done, ain't it?” remarked the other. “Now, all we need are a couple of hookers and half a dozen pics.”

“Our orders are to call the media and let them take the pics,” the first man whispered. “Let the media guys do the job for us. We just gotta arrange the hookers and call the boss.”

“Can’t wait to see tomorrow’s front page headlines. ‘Rising tennis star Sinacore Williams caught with prostitutes in a seedy hotel downtown.’ It’s going to be fucking perfect.”

“The future of tennis hires sex workers for a midnight practice session.” The two laughed like hyenas and walked toward the elevator, perhaps to arrange for those prostitutes.

I stood dumbfounded. What were those two guys up to? They were certainly not plotting anything good for their ‘friend’. Were they friends at all? Could I help him?

Sinacore Williams. I had heard the name before. In fact, I had read about him online and watched him play on TV. He was supposed to be the newest and youngest rising star in the world of tennis. A gifted prodigy who was destined to make Crystal Town and his country proud.

I distinctly remember watching his match on TV the week before. Experts said he was destined to be the top tennis player in the world before Fall. And win a Grand Slam or two by then without breaking a sweat.

What was a champion sportsman like him doing in a seedy place like this? Drinking himself silly at Old Billy’s? And hanging out with these suspicious guys who were not his ‘friends’.

I made up my mind then and there. I will do my best to save him from whatever plan those two meat-heads have cooked up. Not only because he was the brightest sporting talent in Crystal Town, but because he had been kind to me earlier.

And that alone was enough to demand my intervention. I couldn’t just leave him like this knowing I had a chance to stop it from happening.

Before I could figure out my next course of action, I heard footsteps coming in my direction. Those two hyenas were back. And they stood right near the staircase, inches away from me.

“Informed the boss,” said one. “He is calling the media as we speak.”

“Why did the boss wanna do it this way?” asked the other. “We could have taken care of him easily. Could have wasted him big time.”

“Nope. Boss doesn’t wanna draw attention to himself. No violence. All he wants is to win. And this was the easiest way. Get Sinacore hammered and have his picture taken with hookers in a shoddy hotel room, which will have his reputation ruined and tarnished forever.”

“The golden boy of tennis loses tomorrow’s match due to a severe hangover and night of shame.” They laughed wildly and departed again.

That was the last straw. I could not take it anymore. His competitor was out to destroy his name, all to win a tennis match tomorrow?

I entered Room 203 using my key card and kept my suitcase inside. I closed the door as silently as I could, tiptoed to Room 201, and entered it slowly. The door was closed but not locked. Those two ‘buddies’ must have felt it safe to not lock it from outside, or because they knew the prostitutes were on their way. The media were minutes away from ruining a promising career and a bright future.

Sinacore had passed out after all. He lay on the bed motionless, like an uprooted tree trunk, arms and legs askew, snoring softly. His messy hair fell around his face, framing his strong features.

“Get up!” I tried to pull him by his arms onto his feet. But it was all in vain. He was too heavy, too tall, too stoned, and too oblivious to his surroundings.

“They will be back any moment. We need to leave. Now!” I yelled at him.

He didn’t respond.

Ding! Ding!

That was the sound of the elevator doors opening and closing. They were coming back. There was no time to lose. Nowhere to escape. Nowhere to hide except…

…Room 203.

With great effort, I wrapped my arm around Sinacore’s shoulders and hoisted his body off the bed, grunting. I don’t know how, but I managed to support his heavy frame as I dragged him from the room to mine. When we reached the door, I punched in the key card as quickly as possible, dragged him in, and dumped his immobile body on the bed.

I slammed the door closed behind me, heart racing. Seconds later, I heard footsteps outside. Noisy and loud, frantic and fast. Someone was running here and there.

Those two men’s footsteps were frantic—no need to guess why. I pressed my ear to the door to listen.

“Hey, lady! Have you seen the guy in Room 201 leave?” they yelled at someone in the hallway, presumably the hotel maid on duty. “Where is he?”

“No idea,” came the faint reply from the maid.

The footsteps moved toward the staircase at the other end of the hallway and gradually vanished.

It felt eerily quiet after some time.

With my ear pressed against the door from the inside, I figured the hallway was empty. But that was little solace to me. There was no way I could drag a semiconscious Sinacore out of this room, through the lobby, and onto the street without getting noticed.

I took a deep breath. “It seems you have to spend the night here, Cynthia,” I told myself. “And sneak out tomorrow once Sinacore is sober.”

That appeared to be the only option available at the moment.

With my mind made up, I turned around to get going on my next course of action. My eyes widened as I stood frozen in surprise and disbelief.

A pair of cold glassy emerald eyes were staring at me from the bed. Sinacore had woken up, and he was sitting up with his gaze focused on me.

Oh, no…

“Hi! I’m Cynthia,” I muttered under my breath, my heart thumping harshly in my chest.