Last Hope, Book One: Onslaught Read Online Free

they entered the lift.
    “Good evening, ladies, sir. Which floor can I take you to?” Stephen Doring asked, his own opinion of the group concealed behind his workmanlike smile. When none of the three bothered to answer his question, he simply let the elevator continue up towards the restaurant.
    “Baby, come back to our room,” one of the blonde women said softly. Now that the doors were closed, the air was clogged with the sickly smell of mingling perfumes. Budd edged further away until his back pressed against the rear of the elevator.
    “You know I want to, but my girlfriend’s waiting in the Skyview. I’ll come and see you tomorrow morning.”
     
    That’s it. I think you’re getting to know me! What did I think of this guy? Go on, have a guess. Yep, you’re right. I thought he was a jerk…
     
    “Why do you want her, anyway? Two are much more fun than one,” the second woman whispered, although not quietly enough so as to be discreet. Her voice was almost a giggle, and as she spoke she turned her slim body, trying to shield the young man from view. Even so, after a flash of red-painted fingernails showed at her tiny waist, Budd was sure that she had slipped her hand into the front of his pants. She leaned in close and breathed into his ear.
    The man’s resolve cracked. “Stop the lift. Now,” he said, his voice quivering.
    The attendant did as he was asked and the elevator doors opened.
    The three hurried out, stifling their excited laughter and the man pressed the outside call button, drumming it with his finger.
    Budd noticed that the attendant was slower than usual to get the elevator moving again. His eyes were fixed on the two female forms barely concealed within their dresses.
    Eventually, the bell chimed and the doors closed automatically.
    “That was interesting,” Budd said.
    Stephen Doring turned to him, his job momentarily forgotten. “Imagine having one woman like that, let alone two.”
    Budd smiled. “In my experience, women who spend that much time on their appearance always look like being a lot more fun than they really are.”
    The elevator carried on up.
     
     
7
    “Sir, I am afraid that no headwear is permitted inside our restaurant. And neither is your bag. This establishment has strict rules. You will have to release them to me, and I will have them placed in the cloakroom.”
    Budd handed over the blue rucksack but hesitated with his Stetson. “You’ll be careful with her, yeah, pal? You’ll make sure she won’t get stolen, right?”
    “Sir, I offer you my word that no one will steal this, this hat of yours.”
    “Fine, then. Now, how long before I get some grub?”
    “What name is your reservation under, sir?” the maître d’ asked. He opened a large black notepad of bookings and picked up a black fountain pen from his wooden podium.
    “Er, I don’t exactly have one. I’m a guest.”
    Very slowly, the headwaiter closed the leather notepad and put down the pen. He straightened his waistcoat and brushed a fleck of dust from his trouser leg. “I’m sorry, sir. Guests are free to eat here at the Skyview Restaurant any time before 9:00pm, but after that a reservation is needed. I am afraid, sir, that the clock reads ten minutes past the hour.”
    “What’s ten minutes? My watch says it’s 9:00pm. The customer’s always right, you’ve heard that, ain’t you, buddy?”
    “Not when they are wrong, sir. My reservations have started to take their seats. I do not have room for ad-hoc hotel guests at this time of night. This is a highly-regarded restaurant, certainly the top one in London, and debatably in all of Europe. You will have to eat elsewhere in the hotel tonight.”
    “Just Europe, hey? How ’bout the States?”
    “Sir,” the maître d’ replied with a sigh. “That can be taken for granted.”
    “Oh, come on, pal. I’ve played the game and let you take my stuff. You can squeeze me in, right?”
    “I’m not sure you understand, sir. This restaurant