Certified Male

by Kristin Hardy

  “Elvis has left the building?”

  “Funny.”

  “The series on search engines is over?”

  “You’re a regular laugh riot.”

  “Okay, how about this?—I’ll say ‘I’ve filed my interview.’ Jerry will like that because he’s the interview.”

  Gwen studied the painting before her, an unholy excitement buzzing through her veins. Tonight could end it all. Tonight she could find the stamps and finish this business. “I like it.”

  “Good. You know how to search a place?”

  “I’ve read my share of police novels,” she told him. “I know the procedure. Besides, it’ll be easier because it’s not his home, it’s only a hotel room.”

  “True.”

  “And stamps aren’t like gems or coins. There are only so many places you can hide them.”

  “Well, if you want to be sure, we can go upstairs and you can practice your searching techniques on me.” He pulled her against him for a kiss.

  Gwen laughed up at him, her hands on his shoulders. Then she sobered. “Thank you for doing this. I’m really not sure how I would have done it on my own.”

  “I think you would have figured it out. Nina’s a pretty tough cookie.”

  And Gwen wasn’t. She needed to remember that. Whatever chemistry was between them existed between Del and Nina, not Gwen and Del. She gave him a quick peck and made a move to separate.

  “Hey.” He scooped her closer. “I don’t think we’re finished yet.”

  Nina wouldn’t be, Gwen reminded herself. Nina would take all she could get. And so should she—before it ended.

  FLASHING LIGHTS AND ROCK music filled the club, the bass throbbing until it vibrated Del’s bones. Chrome glittered on the rack above the bar, outlining the edge of the stage, on the vertical poles that the dancers swung and twirled around.

  In this environment the naked bodies of the women dancing were just another part of the glossy show, the relentless spotlights above the stage picking out one pair of pneumatic breasts after another.

  Del took a swallow of his overpriced bourbon and squinted down into the glass. Maybe he should just start downing them like Kool-Aid. It would be one way to make the evening less painful.

  He worshipped the female body as much as the next guy. Especially certain female bodies, he thought, remembering Gwen’s curves. But sitting in a club with a roomful of horny guys staring at a cavalcade of cartoonishly well-endowed, untouchable women twisting onstage was hardly his idea of a good time. He preferred a little quality one-on-one time with a woman he could connect with mentally as well as physically.

  Still, he’d promised Gwen two hours, minimum, and that was what he was going to deliver.

  Jerry nudged him. “How about that redhead, she hot or what?” The redhead grabbed the pole and did something Del would have sworn was anatomically impossible. “She comes offstage, she’s going to be dancing right here, partner,” Jerry boasted, slapping his thighs and signaling the waitress for another beer.

  “Knock yourself out,” Del said and took another swallow of bourbon. “Just don’t expect to get your rocks off.”

  “Hey, man, it’s all about the fantasy,” Jerry said.

  Sure it was about the fantasy—guys like Jerry had the fantasy that they were going to get off with the women dancing and the women had the fantasy that they were going to empty out the guys’ wallets. He had a pretty good idea whose fantasy had the higher likelihood of coming true.

  He thought of Gwen, hot and silky against him, and his cock stirred. Now that was his idea of a turn-on. Consoling himself with the knowledge that he’d end his night with Gwen, he checked his watch and eased back in his seat.

  THE ELEVATOR STOPPED AT THE concierge level. Gwen wiped her damp palms on her denim miniskirt and waited for the doors to open. It would be okay, she told herself. Sure, the concierge level had an attendant at the lobby bar, but that person’s job was to take care of the guests, not to police them. She had a key, after all, so who was going to stop her as long as she acted as if she belonged? It was just like playing Texas Hold ’em, she reminded herself—bluff, bluff, bluff.

  When the doors opened, she squared her shoulders and walked out onto the floor.

  A young, blond attendant stood behind the bar in a vest and bow tie. “Good evening.”

  Gwen gave him a brilliant smile. “Hi.”

  He smiled back at her, dazzled.

  She walked by without stopping, trying to read the numbers on the doors without appearing to look too much. Act like you belong here.

  She saw it on the right, just a couple of doors in from the lobby. Holding her breath, she slid the card key into the lock and pulled it out. With a little electronic peep and a smooth metallic snick the door unlocked. Relief made her weak. Telling herself the front-desk clerks hadn’t recoded Jerry’s lock the night before was one thing, being sure was another. She slipped inside and stood in the dark, waiting for her heart rate to level.

  The light switches were by the door, just like every other hotel room. When the lights came on, though, it was clear that this room wasn’t like any old hotel room. It wasn’t a suite, it was a sybaritic palace. What seemed like half an acre of plush carpet covered the living room area, running from where she stood, past a built-in bar to a wall of windows. A glance into the bedroom showed her that it was just as large. How she was ever going to search it all in an hour, she had no idea.

  Methodical. The thing to do was be methodical. She knew what she was looking for, knew that it couldn’t be tucked into the bottom of a toothpaste tube. It had to be in an envelope or fold of cardboard and it had to be somewhere clean and dry. No matter how big the rooms were, there were only so many hiding places in them. It would be easier because she wouldn’t have the kitchen area to go through. Or much of one, she amended, glancing at the built-in bar, with its glossy black marble counter and backlit bottles of liquor.

  She started in the living room, moving around the perimeter from the door, checking the back sides of the art, the mirrors, the undersides of the lamps and side tables, the back of the armoire that held the television. She pulled out every drawer she could find, checking the backs and undersides. The area behind the bar had a surprising number of them, not to mention bottles of liquor and boxes of snacks. None of them were opened up, though, so she figured she was okay.

  She turned the couches and chairs on their sides, checking to see that the bottom fabric hadn’t been cut or disturbed. She checked under cushions, along piping, between the springs in the back of the couch. Puffing a bit, she checked under and behind the television. She checked the corners of the carpet to see if it had been pulled loose.

  No envelopes were to be found.

  NIGHTS COOLED OFF QUICKLY IN the desert, Del thought, taking a deep breath of the chill air.

  “Fucking dipshit bouncers,” Jerry groused, brushing sidewalk grit from his hands. He picked up his cell phone from where it had fallen from his pocket onto the ground.

  “Rules say no touching the lap dancers,” Del said mildly.

  “I didn’t touch her.”

  “Jerry, you had your hands on her tits.”

  “She liked it.”

  “You figure that was when she was smacking you or when she was calling for the bouncer?”

  “Assholes,” Jerry mumbled. “Throw me out on the street. I was spending good money in there.”

  “And I’m sure they loved you for it.”

  “You coulda backed my play, y’know.”

  “Sorry, buddy.” Del gave him a friendly pat on the shoulder. “I make it a habit to avoid fighting bouncers with scar tissue around their eyes. It’s not a real healthy pursuit.”

  “Yeah.” Jerry stumbled a bit on the sidewalk, though it was perfectly even.

  “So, what now? Want to stop somewhere else?”

  “Nah. We go into another bar and they’ll just pull the same bullshit. Let’s go back to the hotel.”

  Del pull
ed out his cell phone. “Gotta check my messages,” he said briefly and dialed his voice mail. He listened a moment, then cursed for form. “Frigging editors think they own you,” he muttered, skirting a man handing out handbills in front of an arcade. Dialing Gwen’s cell phone number, he prepared to give her the code to flee.

  And his phone beeped and flashed No Signal.

  A shiver of alarm whisked down his spine.

  14

  GWEN STEPPED INTO THE BEDROOM and checked her watch. The bathroom hadn’t taken long. She’d used a little over forty-five of her allotted ninety minutes. A half hour or less for the bedroom and she’d be out. Systematically she began checking under the mattress, under the box springs, on the back of the headboard, searching for an envelope taped in place. It wasn’t underneath or behind the armoire, though she wasted precious minutes wrestling the piece away from the wall.

  Did the fact that it was empty mean that he didn’t have the stamps with him or that he’d hidden them somewhere else? It didn’t pay to think the latter. She needed to search everywhere she could to be sure.

  So she opened up the doors of the armoire, pulling out the first drawer with a sigh.

  “WHY DON’T WE DUCK IN HERE and get a couple of bourbons?” Del nodded at a cocktail lounge as they walked through the casino.

  Jerry shook his head. “Hell, forget that. I got a suite with a bar. We go up there, put some triple-X on the tube and have our drinks there.”

  “Wouldn’t you rather go see some live bodies?”

  “Not if they’re gonna toss me. Besides, I’m out of fives.” He pulled his key out of his billfold. “I’m gonna go on up. You coming?”

  Del pressed redial on his phone, but he couldn’t get a line out. He glanced at his watch. An hour and a half, they’d agreed. An hour and a half after the start, she’d be out. It hadn’t been quite that long, though. Now, it was always possible that she’d been hyperquick. She could have finished already, be riding the elevator down or even safely back in her room with the stamps. She could be safely out of harm’s way.

  Or she could be knee-deep in Jerry’s things.

  They were coming back without warning, earlier than he’d promised. If she were in the room, there’d be no good excuse and no telling what might happen. At best, security and arrest. At worst?

  With a sense of increasing desperation, he followed Jerry onto the elevator.

  GWEN SLID THE LAST DRAWER back into the armoire. Carefully setting the swinging upper doors back where they’d been, she backed away and gave a final check to the room. She’d taken care to put everything back in its initial position. Not that Jerry would even know, given his obvious tendency to throw things around and generally make a mess.

  She wouldn’t give in to dejection. Just because she hadn’t found it didn’t mean it wasn’t there to be found. She just hadn’t looked in the right spot.

  Gwen walked back into the living room, mentally ticking off all of the places she’d checked. She glanced at her watch. An hour and twenty minutes. She could afford five more and still have a margin for error. Time for a tour of the room to see if she’d forgotten anything.

  She walked slowly and carefully, stopping occasionally to double-check a possible hiding place. Then she passed by the bar, with its glossy marble counter. She glanced behind it and stopped. The refrigerator. She’d checked behind the televisions and behind the safe, but she hadn’t checked behind the refrigerator in the bar.

  And time was rushing by.

  She hurried back behind the polished peninsula. Quickly she crouched in front of the refrigerator, sliding her hands into the nook that held it. It was a close fit, impossible to fit both hands.

  Swearing, she struggled to grip it in the narrow cabinet and shift it enough to check one side at a time. She moved it half an inch, then an inch, easing her hand back. She felt smooth metal and polished wood. She inched her fingers back a bit more—

  And touched paper.

  Adrenaline sprinted through her. It might be just a piece of paper that had wound up there. It probably was. But maybe, just maybe, it was an envelope.

  She licked her lips and bent to push the refrigerator again.

  And something knocked against the outer door.

  Her heart leaped into her throat. Wildly she looked around for a hiding place, then realized the lights were still on. She could hear it now, the rustling of someone working to get a key into the slot. Her heart slammed into her ribs as she careened across to slap down the light switches, cringing at the sound of Jerry’s loud and drunken voice outside. She ran back to the center of the living room and stood like a hunted creature at bay. Not the bathroom, not the closet.

  Outside the card key snicked into the lock.

  And she dived behind the counter of the bar.

  “HERE WE GO,” JERRY SAID drunkenly. “Is this a room or what? Just need a coupla chicks up here and we’re in business.”

  Jerry’d become more hammered as his last drink from the club had hit, Del observed. Unfortunately he appeared to be one of those drunks who hit a certain level of inebriation and just stayed there, soused but alert to a point.

  And focused on a goal.

  Jerry stumbled to the couch and fumbled for the TV remote, staring at it blearily. “Hey, we need a coupla beers over here. I’ll take care of the ennertainmen’.” He managed to get the television on and squinted at the on-screen menu, trying to focus.

  “I’ll get the drinks.” Del walked past the couch toward the bar, every atom of his being on alert. He couldn’t see a sign that she’d been there, but he knew she had. He wondered if she was still in the room—there was a better-than-average chance that she was. He scanned the room, looking for likely spots.

  And froze at the sight of a silver cell phone sitting on an end table.

  “Scopin’ out m’digs, huh?” Jerry said from behind him.

  Del looked over his shoulder at Jerry on the couch as he walked toward the bar. “I thought you were working on the entertainment.”

  “Friggin’ remote don’ work.” Jerry’s voice was petulant and slurred.

  Jerry’s alcohol saturated vision didn’t work, more like it. “Let me grab a couple of beers, I’ll see what I can do,” Del said over his shoulder. He deviated off course just enough to scoop up the phone, the back of his neck tingling as he waited to hear Jerry say something. Jerry was quiet, however, preoccupied with the remote.

  She was still here, Del thought wildly, ticking off a list of possible hiding places—the shower, the closet, under the bed. He walked behind the bar.

  And stumbled to a stop.

  “Trouble walkin’, thass it, y’cut off,” Jerry mumbled.

  “You better hope I can walk well enough to get your beer to you,” Del threw back distractedly, staring at Gwen curled up in the furthest corner of the little U behind the bar. He pulled open the door to the little refrigerator mechanically, yanking out a couple of beers and setting them on the bar as his mind raced through his options.

  One thing wasn’t an option—getting Gwen out the door undetected.

  “You growin’ the hops back there?” Jerry looked blearily back from the couch.

  Del turned to pick a bottle of Wild Turkey off the shelf behind him. The harder the liquor, the quicker he could put Jerry under, he calculated, mixing himself a weak bourbon and water and doubling Jerry’s. “Beer’s for wimps. How about some good old Kentucky bourbon?” He crossed to the couch and handed Jerry his drink. Grabbing the remote, he sat himself. “So, let’s see, we want to check out some movies here?” He punched some buttons.

  “Hey, turn on Beach Babes Gone Wild,” Jerry directed him. “It’s got that Misty Mancos in it. She’s hot.”

  Del had an idea, but to carry it out he’d have to keep Jerry occupied. Porn and alcohol sounded like the ticket, and if Jerry passed out, so much the better. Del waited until the film was in full swing and half of Jerry’s bourbon was gone before making his move. He rose. “Gotta hit the h
ead.”

  He crossed to the guest bathroom, off a small hallway just before the door to the bedroom. Focus, he thought as he flipped on the light and fan. Every second counted. As soon as he closed the door, he began unspooling toilet paper, bunching it into a wad bigger than his fist. When he judged he had enough, he shoved it down into the toilet, packing it in the drain. It would work, he hoped, and pushed the flush handle.

  “Shit.” He didn’t entirely have to fake his outburst as the water flowed up over the edge of the bowl and onto the floor. “Goddamn it,” he complained, bursting out into the living room.

  “What are you bitchin’ about?” Jerry looked over from the television, where two stupefyingly endowed women were wrapped around one another.

  “Your plumbing. The damned thing is pouring all over the floor. Get in here and look at this.”

  Jerry levered himself off the couch and stumbled over to the bathroom. “Ah, shit, what a mess.”

  “Hey, not my fault.” Del stood at the door and glanced back to see Gwen peeking over the counter. He jerked his thumb toward the door and stepped back into the bathroom and closed the door. “Maybe if we flush it again.”

  “No, don’t—” but Jerry didn’t get a chance to finish the sentence as the water overflowed again. The noise effectively masked the faint click of the door, which Del was pretty sure he heard only because every fiber of his being was attentive for the sound.

  The sound of Gwen getting to safety.

  GWEN PACED AROUND HER ROOM, too amped on adrenaline to even sit down. Nearly an hour had passed since she’d stumbled through the door. Still, her system stubbornly refused to level. She’d tried to pour herself a drink but her hands had shaken too badly. Had Jerry heard anything? Was Del all right? It had all turned out to be a nightmare, especially since she’d walked away with nothing.

  During the nerve-wracking walk from Jerry’s room to the elevators, she’d fought to remain relaxed, taking her time even as every fiber of her screamed to run to the exit. A smile and nod to the concierge, as though she had all the time in the world. When the car came, she’d stepped on board, heart thudding, giving in enough to press the ‘close door’ button.