“Nothing better be missing,” Nichole snipes. “I thought this was a high-end club.”
The bouncer gives her a side glance. “Of course, ma’am.”
Mr. Muscles, realizing Nichole’s attention’s no longer focused solely on him, drops his hands from her hips and turns back to the dance floor. “You coming, baby?”
“Baby?” Chelsey mouths at her. “Oh Nic, you really pick ‘em.”
“Shut up, Chelsey.” Nichole rubs his arm gently. “You go on ahead without me.” She pinches his butt. “I’ll be out there soon.” To Chelsey, she whispers, “or never.”
“My purse is gone,” Stella says numbly.
“It’ll be found.” Nichole sounds confident. “Probably some drunk girl accidentally grabbed it.”
“Out of our VIP booth?” Chelsey rolls her eyes, “yeah right, Nichole. Sometimes you say the dumbest shit.”
“Bite me, Chelsey.”
“Let me speak to our GM,” the bouncer says. Holding in a button on the radio clipped to his belt, he speaks into his headset. “Hey Aras, we have a problem. You available?”
Stella can’t hear the response, but the bouncer nods at her. “Let’s go speak with him.”
“Will he file a police report?”
“If it’s not located at the end of the night. We do a thorough cleaning of the place and there’s a good chance it could turn up then.” The bouncer shrugs. “By the way, I’m Anthony. I didn't catch your name.”
“Stella.”
“Is that short for something?”
“Just follow me.”
“Where are we going?” She’s having a hard enough time concentrating in the haze of noise, lights, and drunkenness.
“To his office.”
“I think my husband and my best friend are up there.”
“On the second floor?” He seems doubtful.
“Yeah.” She trails him closely to ensure she doesn’t lose him in the deluge of people. Anthony points to a staircase, and she grabs the iron railing to ensure she doesn't trip.
“Why isn’t he down here?”
“I don’t know.” Stella shrugs. “He’s not going to be happy my purse is gone. All my credit cards will have to be canceled.”
“That’s a huge pain in the ass.”
When they reach the only office on the second floor, the rest a loft space, Anthony knocks on a closed door and waits until a male voice gives him the all clear before he enters. He ushers her to a similar couch like the one in VIP.
Before she sits, he makes the introductions. “Aras, this is Stella. Stella, this is Aras, the general manager and part-owner of The Shock Room.”
“My dear,” Aras reaches a hand out to kiss her hand, “please have a seat.”
His office is lavish, decorated with liquor bottles and expensive artwork. His gaze darts between both Anthony and Stella. “What seems to be the problem?”
“Is my husband up here?” She looks around as if Grant is going to jump out from a dark corner. “Or Lucy?”
Aras angles his head, “I’m sorry … your husband?”
“Yes, Grant. Grant Masen.” Stella explains, “I just saw him talking to you with my best friend.”
“No idea who either of those people are,” Aras shrugs. “Are you sure I was talking to them?”
“It could’ve been Aras’s brother, the other owner,” Anthony interrupts. “He just left.”
“True,” Aras agrees. “He comes in and out like he owns the damn place. Don’t even get me started.” Adjusting his gold pinky ring, he asks, “So what brings you up to the second floor?”
“My purse was stolen.”
“From where?”
“VIP,” Anthony says. “Booth number two.”
His eyebrows rise. “How?”
Anthony shrugs, “No idea.”
“Were you watching the booth?”
“Not my area, sir.”
Aras strokes his chin strip, the small patch of facial hair below his mouth, “Who’s in charge of booths one and two?”
“Marcos.”
“And where is he right now?”
Anthony shrugs, “I don’t know.”
“Can you send him up? This needs addressed immediately for Mrs.…”
Speaking into his headset, Anthony asks where Marcos is.
“McKinney.”
A voice on the end responds, “He was on a smoke break, sending him up now.”
“Great.” Aras turns to Stella. “So you set it down on the...?”
“I put it in the corner of the booth along with my friends’ purses.”
“How long were you gone for?”
“Does it matter?”
“We will just want to run the tapes is all, Ms. McKinney,” Aras says smoothly, “We have cameras trained on our VIP booths so this type of behavior is eliminated or at least punished.”
“Clearly it’s not working.”
“Let’s wait and not assume the worst, which I know isn’t easy to hear. It might just be that it was misplaced.”
Stella snaps, “I did not misplace my purse.”
“I wasn’t trying to imply…” Aras tugs on his chin as Marcos enters the room, head down, as if already shamed.
“Marcos.” Aras stands up, even though he’s tall and thin next to Marcos’s colossal form, he’s still an imposing figure in his pin-striped suit. You can tell he’s the boss by his cufflinks, his straight back, and his slicked-over hair that has too much gel in it.
“This young lady is celebrating tonight, and we’re displeased to hear her purse is missing from her VIP booth, booth number two.”
“Yeah, that’s my section.”
“And?”
“And there were six ladies in and out of there all night.” Marcos chews a toothpick as he speaks.
Turning to Stella, he confirms, “Are you with five others?”
“Yes.”
“Anyone different join the table?”
Marcos finally makes eye contact. “All the same group. Four came in first, then her and another woman came in after. Only ones in the booth besides the wait staff and a couple dudes.”
“Who’s handling bottle service tonight?”
“Candace and Kelley.”
“Okay, will you go get them?” Aras commands as Marcos turns to go. “And nothing else out of the ordinary?”
Defensive, he chomps on the wooden stick. “No one else was in that area besides the six ladies, a few guys, and the wait staff. I only left to take my smoke break.”
“But no one was watching then?”
“I guess not.”
“So someone could’ve entered…”
“Fine, if you say so,” Marcos nods his head in agreement. “In the few minutes I was gone, someone could’ve.”
“That’s all.” Aras turns to Stella's visibly upset form as she wrings her hands in her lap.
“We will get to the bottom of this, Mrs. McKinney.”
“I thought this club was better equipped to handle their clientele.”
“With all due respect,” Aras says gently, “we watch over our guests, but we don’t want to jump to conclusions.”
There's silence as they stare at each other. Aras breaks it by asking, “In the meantime, can I get you another bottle of champagne or a round of drinks?”
“No,” she says huffily, “just my purse.”
“Do you need transportation home?”
“Let me call my husband…” Shit, she thrusts a hand to her forehead. “My phone’s in my purse.”
“You can use my phone of course,” Aras points to his desk one. “I can step out if you like.”
“No, that’s not necessary, I’ll be quick.” Stella stands. “I could swear he was just here, he shouldn’t be too far,” Stella mumbles to herself. She’s amazed she has Grant’s number memorized, since every contact saved in her cell is foreign to her.
Except for him.
Grant’s cell rings, but he doesn’t answer.
&
nbsp; Frantic, she leaves him a message to call her, forgetting she doesn't have a phone.
Calling back a second time, she tells him to call Lucy’s number instead.
After Stella hangs up, Aras pats her shoulder, “I’ll be in touch about your purse.” His counterfeit smile gives her the creeps, “Just let us search first.” He hands her a piece of paper to fill out her contact information and the contents of her handbag. She gives him Grant’s cell to call with any updates.
“I’ll walk you back down to your booth.” Aras leads the way back out to the long, narrow balcony.
“It’s okay. I can find my way from here.”
“The stairs can be awfully dangerous in those heels.” He narrows his eyes at her footwear. “Would you prefer the elevator?”
“No, I’ll hold onto the railing.”
“I’ll assist.” Aras’s tone brooks no argument, and Stella supposes he doesn’t want a lawsuit on his hands if she falls and breaks her neck. The crowd parts for him, as if he’s the Red Sea, as if subconsciously everyone knows who he is. A path sufficiently cleared, Aras guides her to her table, which is now considered a crime scene in her mind and should be labeled as such, complete with yellow tape.
14
Stella
After Stella's led back downstairs, she watches Lucy answer an incoming call.
It must be Grant, the way Lucy's eyes dart over to her.
For some reason, her blood starts to boil as Lucy whispers into the phone. She doesn’t know why, probably a combination of her missing purse, the flippant response of the staff, and the fact that Grant and Lucy were upstairs together but she has no idea why.
Clenching her hands at her sides, she walks a few steps away from the conversation, getting angrier by the minute. Twisting her new wedding band in frustration, she observes the diamonds sparkle in contrast to her lackluster mood.
“I’ll ask,” she hears Lucy screech over the noise. “Hey Stel, where are you? Oh, Stel, Grant wants to speak to you.”
“I don’t want to speak to him.”
She cups a hand to her ear, “What?”
“Never mind.” She waves a hand, “tell him I’ll see him at home.”
Lucy disconnects, her eyes narrowed into slits.
The mood of the party has steadily declined from rambunctious to somber, and Stella gives each of her girlfriends a hug and a kiss before they scatter to their different rides of the night.
Lucy starts to ramble on about the night as they approach the valet stand. While they wait for the driver to pull up the SUV, Stella, uneasy about her slurred speech, comments, “Are you sure you’re okay to drive?”
“Yeah, I’m good.” Lucy tries to give her a high-five but misses, hitting her palm against her thigh. “I only had a couple.”
“I’m calling bullshit.”
“On what?”
“You being sober enough to drive.”
“I’m perfectly capable of getting your pretty ass home.” The driver rides up to them, putting the Escalade in park. Climbing out, he hands Lucy her keys. She tips him and motions for Stella to hop in.
“What were you and Grant doing upstairs?”
Stella watches a stunned expression overtake Lucy’s serious one. “Upstairs where?”
“The club we were at.”
“What are you talking about?” Lucy scowls. “Grant wasn’t at the club.”
“I saw him,” Stella says firmly. “Upstairs.”
“Impossible.”
“Why is that impossible?” Stella questions. “Both Chelsey and I saw you two upstairs. What do you know that I don’t?”
“Whoa, Mrs. Entrepreneur. I know your life's in your purse and you feel like you're missing a limb, but let’s take a couple of deep breaths.” Lucy sulks, “I didn’t even know they had a second floor.”
Stella grits her teeth. “You’re saying you both have twins?”
“I don’t know what to tell you,” Lucy gives her a strange look. “I just spoke to Grant and he’s at Persuasion, a dive bar near your house.”
“So I didn’t see you guys talking to a Middle Eastern man?” Stella struggles against her seatbelt like a disobedient child. “And I’m making it up?”
“Wait, what?” Lucy's baffled. “I don’t know what’s going on right now. You were drinking pretty heavily tonight, Stel.”
She mumbles ‘never mind’ and stabs at the button for her heated seat, shivering in her mini-dress. Lucy merges onto the 405 freeway towards Malibu, shooting a quick glance at Stella.
“Are you okay?”
“Just frustrated.” Stella crosses her arms across her chest, the goosebumps flocking down her arms and legs.
“A stolen purse is the worst,” Lucy agrees. “The main thing is your credit cards. Can I help you with canceling any of them?”
“No. I’ll do it when I get home.” Stella claws at an overgrown cuticle. “Grant’s going to be pissed about this.”
“It’s not your fault, so he won’t be.” Lucy raises an eyebrow. “Plus, he got you the booth, didn’t he?”
“Yeah, I guess, but he’s still going to freak out about some thief using our cards.”
“Just log in as soon as you get to your computer and put a hold on them.”
“Has anyone ever stolen anything from you?”
“Yeah,” Lucy mumbles, “my husband.”
Stella raises her eyebrows in shock, then sighs, leaning forward to turn the radio off, craving silence after the deafening noise at the club and the impressive migraine that’s building behind her temples. She doesn’t want Lucy to think she doesn’t care, but Lucy’s rarely forthcoming about her feelings. She tends to tamp it down and stay silent.
“Do you want to talk about it?” Stella offers.
“No.” Lucy grips the wheel, frowning over the steering column as she presses down hard on the accelerator, the Escalade jolting in protest.
“You might want to slow down,” Stella murmurs.
Slamming the brakes hard, Lucy glares at the stretch of freeway. “Sorry about that.”
The two of them sit in uncomfortable silence until Lucy pulls into the driveway of Stella’s beach house.
“Do you need me to come in?” Lucy asks.
“I hate that you have to drive back home in this condition,” Stella moans. “How about you crash here tonight?”
“Are you sure?”
“Of course,” Stella gives her arm a squeeze, “just park behind the left side of the garage.”
Stella checks the garage to see if Grant has made it home yet, but his stall is empty. Lucy opens the fridge, grabbing a bottle of water. “I feel like shit,” she moans. “I’m going to have an epic hangover tomorrow.”
“Ibuprofen’s in the bathroom medicine cabinet. And the guest room’s all made up.” Stella motions upstairs. “Go ahead and make yourself at home.”
“What’re you going to do?”
“Start canceling our credit cards.” Stella answers morosely, “and hope they haven’t resulted in a shopping spree.”
“Okay,” Lucy nods. “Goodnight.” Trudging upstairs, Stella can hear her shuffling around, heels clicking on the tile.
Feeling defeated, Stella grabs her laptop, which is charging on the dining room table, and parks herself on a wooden chair. Rubbing her aching neck, she accesses each account and signals a fraud alert. She doesn’t care what Aras said, she doesn’t want to wait until they do a final check of the club after they close. A person can do enough damage in a few hours with just one card.
Maybe they’ll become an SMK fan, she thinks wryly, her lipstick and gloss in a tiny compartment inside her handbag.
Grant still isn’t home, and worried, she dials his cell.
Voicemail.
Stumbling upstairs, she pauses at the guest room where Lucy’s sleeping, about to knock, when she realizes the lights are already off. She must’ve passed out hard.
Stella lies down, struggling with sleep, and tonight isn’t going to be
easy since she's on edge. Deciding to write Grant a note, Stella slips it next to his sink in the master, letting him know she canceled her cards so he doesn't wake her up to ask.
She slides an anti-anxiety pill under her tongue, letting the unpleasant taste dissolve in her mouth.
Half-asleep when Grant comes in later, she’s annoyed at him but unable to process why. He planned an incredible night for her, but she’s positive he was upstairs with Lucy at one point. Not to mention, a lecture about her belongings is sure to follow.
When she hears the shower in the master turn on, she rolls over, petulant, facing away from him towards the wall.
A rinse at this hour? Warning bells go off in her pounding head.
“You awake, Stel?” he whispers, slipping under the covers next to her, his warm hand against the bare skin on her back. She doesn’t answer, slowing her breathing so it seems like she’s asleep.
“Okay, night, babe.” He plants a kiss on her cheek.
Stella tries to sleep, but the alcohol and her nervous, jittery feelings consume her. Tossing and turning, Grant finally sits up, turning the switch of the bedside lamp on.
“Stella?”
“Yeah,” she mumbles, not bothering to roll over.
“You scared about your purse?”
“Yes.”
“I can’t believe some asshole would do that.”
“I know.”
“We’ll file a police report in the morning.”
She sits up, commenting, “I hate that man, Aras.” She waits for the name to cause recognition on Grant’s face, but it doesn’t.
“Who?” Grant frowns. “Is that the potential thief?”
“No, the club manager, wearing some gaudy suit and a gold pinky ring.”
“Hmm … did he offer any assistance?”
“Just that they would search the premises.”
“Okay, and no cameras?” He raises a brow. “That sounds weird.”
“No, they have them. Supposedly one on our booth.”
“You want me to call him in the morning?” Grant rubs her shoulder. “I’m sorry, babe.”
“About what?” She scowls at him. “That my favorite handbag is gone or that you couldn’t pick up the phone when it happened?”
“I was going to say because your celebratory night out turned into such a disaster,” Grant crosses his arms, “but yes, that too.”
The Perfect Stranger Page 9
