Not Quite Forever (Not Quite #4)(9)
Author: Catherine Bybee

Against his better judgment, he was about to order another round of drinks when the lights in the room flickered and the PA crapped out with a loud squeak.

The lights returned but it was obvious that some of the power wasn’t back up.

The lead singer onstage tapped the mike only to move away and raise his voice from the useless amplifier. “Looks like that tropical depression is a little closer than the weatherman said.”

Walt remembered the news saying a low pressure system was headed over the Gulf, but he didn’t think it was anywhere close to Miami.

When it became apparent the power wasn’t going to come back up, Monica suggested they return to their room.

The hotel didn’t appear to have any power problems, but it did seem the volume on the main floor had dulled to a low roar.

“Holy cow!” Mary hummed as she stepped into the suite. “This is your room?”

Monica tossed her purse on the coffee table and crossed to the kitchen. The main room was nearly a thousand square feet, complete with a kitchen, dining room for ten, living room, piano, and foyer. Three bedrooms splintered off from the space, giving full panoramic views of the city. The penthouse was built for a family. Glen took one of the two additional rooms in the top floor apartment. Walt’s room was down the hall and half the size. Still, a penthouse suite wasn’t something he would ever spring for and yet couldn’t say no to when talking with the Morrisons.

“I told my sister we didn’t need this,” Monica said with a sigh.

“It’s bigger than my condo,” Mary exclaimed.

Dakota adjusted quickly. “It’s very nice.”

Trent moved to the massive window and opened the blinds. Outside, rain started to spray against the glass. Trent shoved his hands in his pockets and rocked back on his heels.

Walt moved to his friend’s side, looked at the ominous rain-filled clouds. “Looks bad.”

“I lived through my share of storms in Jamaica.”

“You think this is one of them?”

He shrugged. “The path of the storms don’t often veer off course by too many miles. They do pick up strength, however.”

“Honey?” Monica called from across the room.

Trent turned toward her.

“Want another drink?”

He waved her off. “I’m good.”

A denial of a drink this early in the evening made Walt pause. He’d taken care of many disasters after they’d happened, but hadn’t been a huge part of one while it was occurring. The second earthquake in Jamaica was as close as he came.

Walt was about to ask Trent if he thought the weather was going to get worse as a gust of wind and pelting rain slapped the window.

“Looks nasty out there.” Dakota walked up behind them.

“Weather like this seldom leaves behind anything good.”

“I suppose you’d know that better than most,” she told Walt. “How long have you volunteered with Borderless Doctors?”

“Little over five years.”

“You love it.” It wasn’t a question, simply an observation from someone he hardly knew.

“Restores my faith in humanity. There are people out there suffering and are willing to take any help they can get. People who’ve lost everything and want to help others simply because they have it better than the guy in the bed next to them. Those of us that go to do what we can, do it for the basic humanity of life.”

Dakota leaned against the large window and sighed. “And there are people like you willing to risk their own safety to help. That makes you a hero, Dr. Eddy.”

He snorted, was thankful he didn’t have a drink in his hand or he’d feel the burn of the alcohol in his nose.

“You laugh,” she said. “You know I’m right.”

“I get on a plane and fly to crazy places and do what I do. That doesn’t make me a hero.”

She lowered her gaze to her shoes before slowly lifting it back to his. “I’m the writer, Doctor. A hero is anyone willing to give of themselves without anything in return.”

His smile fell. “I get plenty in return.” The smiles of his patients, the knowledge he made a difference. It was why he went into emergency medicine.

Noise from the television filled the room and they both turned to see a crew of Florida weathermen and -women covering the storm.

“The tropical depression has now been upgraded to a tropical storm and is spinning off Cuba and picking up speed.” The reporter on the news stood against pelting rain, the effect of drops slapping against his otherwise perfect face, dramatic enough for the evening news.

“A tropical storm isn’t as bad as a hurricane, right?” Mary asked.

“Just shy of a hurricane,” Trent told her. “Makes a difference in smaller countries, but aren’t that dramatic here. Unless they linger and cause unexpected flooding.”

“Or power outages?” Dakota asked.

Monica moved beside her, placed a drink in her hand. “The hotel is prepared for this kind of thing.”

“As much as they can be,” Dakota said. “Anything past the what . . . the eighth floor . . . won’t have water if the power goes out. It takes power to pump water.”

Intrigued, Walt wondered if Dakota’s statistic was correct.

“You’ve been watching way too much of that prepper show, Dakota.”

“It’s either a fact, or it isn’t. Bottom line, here on the twenty-eighth floor, or us on the seventeenth . . . we won’t have water if the power goes down.”

Walt considered himself an observer in life. He watched, listened, and made executive decisions when the time came. Preparing for anything other than long stints at work wasn’t part of his life. If the storm got worse, those in the room could just leave if they needed to. Helped to have a couple of pilots with access to private helicopters and airplanes. Sure, he could add Dakota and Mary to that exiting mix, but what about the others in the hotel?

“We have drinking water and enough food to last awhile in the fridge,” Monica told them.

“And flushing the toilet?” Dakota wasn’t letting this go.

Walt found himself smiling.

Monica’s face fell into a frown. “I didn’t think of that.”

Dakota lifted her glass to Monica. “Fill the tub now. Worse case, you drain it in the morning.”

Glen looked over his shoulder. “That’s not a bad idea, Dakota.”

Rain continued to pound the massive windows in the suite, Monica disappeared toward the bathroom, and the sound of running water filled the room.