Tate's jaw dropped when the door to his hotel room opened. The room was totaled. The mattress was sliced open, as were the pillows. Stuffing floated over Tate's shredded clothing and the remains of his spare camera equipment. The room smelled of urine and Tate's aftershave. Tate slapped a hand over his nose and mouth as he turned toward the bathroom, where he spotted his laptop turned on its end in the toilet.
Luke sneezed beside him before letting out a string of curses that were liberally salted with the words Kim, fuck, and asshole. The nasal quality of his normally rich voice spoke volumes about his health condition.
"I second those sentiments," Tate gritted out between clenched teeth. "We can't stay here."
