🔴Red Lamp Inn: Cycle Four (Part 1)

Comfort you can count on. Rooms you won’t forget.

🔴Red Lamp Inn: Cycle Four (Part 1)

Comfort you can count on. Rooms you won’t forget.

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📍 CAM– NIGHT 22

I hate this job.

Man after man. Filing in all day.

Degenerates, husbands—no well-balanced men in these packs.

Most don’t make eye contact.

Some crack jokes like that makes it normal.

Some just hand over the cash and nod.

I don't ask questions.

Management’s rule.

But today.

The guy from across the street walks in.

The one who straightens signs.

Sign Guy.

I’ve seen him out there — quiet shoes, glasses, tucked shirt.

Walks like he’s counting his own steps.

He came in behind Cleo. He stood the perfect distance behind her and her client. Like exactly the perfect distance.

“Room 9,” he says.

Not “any room.” Not “whatever’s open.”

Room 10 just got booked. He saw it.

Name on the card said Elliot.

I wanted to ask something.

I should’ve asked something.

I didn’t.

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📍 CLEO – NIGHT 22

They love a damsel in distress.

That’s how I reeled a new one in today.

A longing look into the stars.

Brushed my hair back like I didn’t know anyone was watching.

He pushed right past the other girls.

Practically ate out of my hands.

I didn’t even touch him.

Just tilted my head.

Smiled like I wanted to be saved.

By the time we hit the lobby, he was ready to book a suite.

That’s when I felt it—

Not a stare.

A shape.

Somebody behind us.

Not too close.

Not too far.

Just enough to mean something.

I looked up without looking up.

You know that glance—

where you check if the person behind you is someone you don’t want to deal with.

Sign guy?

Tucked shirt.

Eyes forward.

Not watching me, but not not watching either.

I didn’t say anything.

Didn’t even let it change my face.

I let it pass. I couldn't let the thought ruin my coming performance.

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📍 APT 2B – NIGHT 22

ELLIOT

The TV in the room stayed off.

The room was poorly decorated.

The upkeep was poor.

Crimson red lamp, and sheets.

The floor—once probably red—had faded to brown in the high-traffic areas.

I brought my own blanket.

I didn’t want to suffer through the motel’s version of “clean.”

I logged the time.

9:12 p.m.

A muffled voice came through the wall.

Male. Indistinct. Laughing.

Then hers. Still muffled. Enough clarity for a tone.

Higher than the window version.

Slower than the walk-up version.

A previously unheard performance variant.

I laid down.

Didn’t take notes.

Just listened.