Doll House – Aspen, Scott (pt 8) – The Switch
The grip on his forearm was less a handhold and more of a clamp, a desperate anchor point in a sea of polished marble and hushed whispers. Aspen’s fingers dug into the wool of Scott’s sleeve, twisting the fabric into a tight knot of tension that threatened to pull the seam right off the stitching. They moved across the lobby floor, the soles of their shoes squeaking in a ragged rhythm against the high-gloss stone, a discordant counterpoint to the muted elegance of the space. The air inside the hotel tasted of stale vanilla and expensive floor wax, a cloying, manufactured perfume designed to mask the scent of transient lives and the secrets they dragged through the revolving doors. Scott adjusted the strap of his overnight bag, the leather biting into his shoulder with a …