Lucky Score

by Deborah Coonts

  “Half of Security was working on the lock project. I checked.”

  “Good thinking, but not the answer I hoped for.”

  “A bit too tidy, don’t you think?” Stupidity knew no bounds, but a smart guy like Ponder sure was making a lot of mistakes. Yeah, he was so high he didn’t know where he was, but still.

  She turned to go, then turned back around. “Oh, and Ponder had enough Fentanyl in his system it should’ve killed him.”

  “Self-administered?”

  “Couldn’t say.” She wore a mask of worry under her bravado.

  I rested a hoof on her arm. Not exactly the reassuring squeeze I was going for. Would the indignities never cease? “Romeo? How is he?” I didn’t know how much he’d been able to tell her. What would she think of my choices? Would she think me a traitor as well?

  “Jeremy told me Romeo was with Reynolds at the station. Do you have any idea what is going on?”

  I wanted to lie, to tell her I had all the answers, but there were times to bluff and times to show all your cards. Laying my hand out, I folded. “Clueless.”

  Like a young shoot in the desert sun, she wilted.

  “Go home,” I said using my indoor voice, keeping it low and light.

  “I can’t. Too many memories and fears all shouting in the silence.”

  “Then go to work. The night is just getting a start on crazy.”

  I watched her until she had safely exited the suite. Since she’d gotten rid of the horrid boyfriend she came to the job with, I hadn’t seen a hint of stupid in the girl. But rarely was so much temptation, all free for the taking, gathered in one room, although I felt certain her opportunities on any given day far exceeded mine.

  Jordan tugged my arm. “Anything interesting?”

  Since he’d pulled me back within earshot of our panty pushers, who would recognize my voice, I didn’t answer, sipping from my sippy cup instead, but the Champagne was getting warm. Even Veuve didn’t have the same pop without the proper chill. Jordan pulled me to a stop, and he launched into his spiel once again to anyone within earshot.

  “Not interested.” The sharp words shut Jordan down.

  I knew that voice.

  Fox.

  I whirled, scanning the armada of the scantily clad that pressed in around us. Fox had to be the guy in jeans and an attitude. As he swam his way toward us, pushing people out of the way with each stroke, his scowl grew deeper, his face redder.

  He wasn’t what I expected. Tall, hard muscles bulked beneath his black Babylon Security uniform—he was every bit the measure of a could-be NFLer. He even had his game face on. As he came closer, I stood my ground. His cologne arrived before he did—a nauseating overabundance of Aramis and anger. Some of the partiers caught his scent. Perking up, they honed in. One, a very handsome man, even had the audacity to reach out and squeeze a butt cheek. He got slapped for his interest. He seemed to like it.

  As if Fox sensed me under the silly costume, he gave me a stare—hard eyes, too. I hadn’t liked his attitude or his voice, and now the rest of the package gave me a very bad feeling.

  I raised my hooves and backed away.

  He lifted his chin and moved on, snaking through the crowd until I could track his progress only by the parting of the human sea to let him pass. He headed toward the kitchen—there was a service entrance there. I jiggled my cow head that direction. Jordan ignored me. I looked for Teddie. He’d bailed. The soft notes of a piano sounded from across the room, accompanied by a smooth, melty tenor.

  Great. Not exactly the stick-by-my-side Galahads I thought they’d be. Of course, I hadn’t voiced any expectations, so, when invited to a party…party.

  Or not.

  Trying not to call any more attention to myself, I eased through the crowd. I didn’t hurry—Vivienne could track Fox once I could get out of this extra skin. For the whole of my life, I thought our brains separated humans from the rest of the animal kingdom, putting humans on the top rung of the ladder. I was wrong—it was our thumbs. As a cow, I couldn’t grab my phone much less dial it.

  I’d about run out of “excuse mes” and “I’m sorrys”, and I’d only been able to fight my way as far as the bar. The amused looks were getting old and if one more person, male or female, touched, fondled or pinched without permission, I refused to be responsible for what happened next.

  “Oh shit,” Stella whispered as I passed by.

  For a moment, I thought she’d figured out my ruse, but instead she looked over my shoulder toward the front door.

  “He’s looking for us, I can tell. And he’s got the bitch with him.”

  I swiveled to get a look—it took some adjusting as I was scanning the surrounding area through two tiny holes too far apart. When I caught sight of who she referred to, even my heart tripped, and I knew he wasn’t looking for me.

  Beau Boudreaux with Mrs. Sky Ponder hanging on his arm, clinging like a lover, looked over the crowd with a serious case of furious. Perhaps my father’s assertion of an affair was true. Lust coursed between the two of them like an electrical current from one of those globes that made your hair stand on end and sent bolts of static electricity arcing toward anything with a positive attraction.

  His beady eyes, like tracers, looked for targets. They landed on the girls next to me.

  Stella gasped. “See?” She could barely get the word out.

  “He’s pissed and coming this way.” Even Olivia’s composure cracked, a tiny fissure, but the crack was there.

  “Why? We did exactly what he asked.” Stella had found a squeak of a voice.

  “That bitch, O’Toole, must’ve told him we ratted.”

  Offended to my core and without one erg of restraint left, I whipped off the cow head before I really considered the ramifications. “Seriously? I let you two skate, and you think I’d give you up to Boudreaux? For Chrissake, the guy laid out his girlfriend with a left jab! A colleague in another hotel caught it on tape. Next time, you better think a bit more carefully who you get in bed with.”

  The two hookers seemed confused at my rather epic analogy as they stared open-mouthed.

  “You three. Stay right there!” Beau shouted. “You bitches are mine.”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  G REAT, ONE cow lumped in with the collar-and-leash girls. Nobody could say we lacked animal magnetism.

  The girls gave me their best deer-in-the-headlight impersonation.

  That was my cue. “Follow me!” The gig was up, so I dropped my head and bolted for the kitchen. Beau blocked the front entrance—I only hoped Fox or someone his size wasn’t guarding the rear. Anyone else I felt sure I could take. The girls waited a fraction of a second—enough time to kick off their heels and then grab them by the sling straps.

  The door swung out, almost hitting me. A server carrying a large tray backed through the service entrance. I dodged—thankfully he was young and nimble, with fully intact reflexes. His eyes wide, his mouth forming a silent “O,” he went to his left, and I went to mine. A head fake and I felt my hair brush the underside of the tray. The waiter, with both hands on his prize, whirled out of the way, slinging only a few cold shrimp and a crab claw.

  At the back hall, I took a hard right; then, seeing the light through a crack in the elevator doors, I dove. My hoof made it, holding the doors open. Only a few inches, but they were enough. The girls gathered me up, then the three of us pried the doors open and dove inside. On my knees, I pressed the button for the basement about a million times. With my heart stopped, I stared through the open maw, expecting Boudreaux to burst out of the Secret Suite any millisecond. Finally, the doors started to close.

  None of us moved until the elevator started its descent. I sat with my back pressed against the sidewall. The girls offered me two hands. It took both to lever me up.

  “You didn’t sell us out?” Olivia said as she adjusted her G-string, then gave her breasts a plump. My mother had always preached the gospel of presentation. Maybe she had a mother like
mine dishing the same advice, the daughter applying it liberally, unlike Mona’s daughter. But I doubted she had a mother like mine.

  Mona was a one-off—one of the few graces the Fates had bestowed.

  But now was not the time to vilify my mother. We didn’t have long, and we needed a plan. First safety, then explanations. Think, O’Toole. How do we get out of here?

  A voice filtered down from above. “Ms. O’Toole?”

  For a moment, my heart stopped. Had God answered? She never answered. Then oxygen hit my brain and focus returned. Tonto had ridden to the rescue. Vivienne! “Lock the elevators on the top floor now!”

  A couple of seconds, maybe three. “Done. One car left before I could hold it. Should I stop it?”

  “Who’s on it?”

  “One of the football players.”

  “Does he have a broken nose and two black eyes?”

  “Yes, he’s pounding the walls. Looks pretty mad. There are a couple of customers, not players. They look terrified.”

  “Damn.” I couldn’t leave them trapped with Boudreaux, his anger redlining. “Let it go. But try to get security to meet him in the lobby.”

  “A team is on its way, but the timing might be tight.”

  There was that timing issue thing again. At least mine was getting closer. “You can’t leave him locked in an elevator with innocents.” The lawsuit would arrive at my desk before I did.

  “Agreed. I’ve been looking for you. You haven’t been answering your phone.”

  “I thought I felt my udder shudder.” My world settled; my focus returned. The me I used to be had finally decided to put in an appearance! About friggin’ time! My shoulders went back as I pulled myself to my full dignity, even though I was dressed like a cow. I had this. I extended my right hoof to the girls. “I could use a hand.”

  Stella showed her pluck with a weak smile. “I’d be delighted.” She managed to peel back the hoof to reveal all five digits, my thumb now being my most favorite.

  Even though she watched through the eye-in-the-sky, Vivienne, showing stellar potential for the management-training program, did not comment on my attire. Whether that was worth a raise or my undying appreciation, I had yet to decide.

  I rummaged in my udder while Stella worked on releasing my other hand. My phone eluded me. Finally, my hand closed around it. The elevator slowed for arrival. “Vivienne, Beau Boudreaux, the football player with the anger management issues, is following us. Please do everything in your power to slow him down. Throw him in the drunk tank, but it’ll take several details. Then, if you can locate Mr. Fox, kindly do the same with him. But try not to let the two of them kill each other, although, I wouldn’t be totally opposed.”

  She didn’t respond.

  “I’m kidding about that last part. I’d like the opportunity to kill them both.” As the doors started to open, I stepped to the door as it eased open.

  The garage level. One floor down from the lobby where Boudreaux would end up.

  The lights buzzed and flickered. Rows and rows of cars stretched from where I stood toward the garage entrance, which was protected by a sliding metal gate I’d been told even a tank couldn’t penetrate. Exhaust fumes lingered, just strong enough to identify. Other than that, the place was a tomb—a tomb with no real means of escape and nobody to come to our aid should we need it.

  Bad choice. Too risky. I punched the button for the lobby level. At least we’d be surrounded by people, not that they’d be much help, not at this time of night and its normal level of required inebriation. Security would be close but perhaps too few. How many security guards would it take to contain an out-of-control pro-football player? That sounded like one of those lightbulb jokes. And just like when confronted with the jokes, I didn’t have an answer this time either other than more guards than we’d have, which was answer enough.

  My escape route, such as it was, would take us by the elevator bank from Babel and the Secret Suite—the one currently carrying Boudreaux.

  The only upside was, from there, it would be a straight shot to the front door.

  “You guys ready for one more dash to safety?”

  Both women nodded, not that they had a choice or anything.

  “When the doors open, we’ll be in the service hallway, but we’ll have to make a run across the lobby to the front doors. We need to get away from here and stash you somewhere safe. Got it?”

  Once we got out the front door, that’s where my plan ended.

  Once again, the doors slid open. My heart hammered. What would be waiting on the other side? This was the live version of a game show where choosing the right door meant escape versus capture like something out of Hunger Games.

  Not sure where Boudreaux fell on the IQ bell curve, I paused and looked up and down the hallway before motioning the girls to follow. Servers pushing carts, housekeeping staff balancing towering piles of crisply folded linens, a symphony of customer coddling with nary a misstep.

  In two strides, we shot through a gap in the stream of service personnel and crossed the service hallway. At the double doors leading to the area behind the reception desk, I crouched, bending at the waist. “Make yourselves small. These doors will put us behind the reception desk. Keep behind the desk as best you can. If someone looks, they could see us from the lobby. There won’t be much room, but we’ll need to move quickly.”

  Unless the elevator had stopped at multiple floors, Boudreaux had to be in the lobby. The question was, had security been in time and in sufficient numbers to detain him? Security, assuming they had made it, wouldn’t pull their guns—not so quickly and not in the lobby on a crowded weekend night. An unruly guest or risk shooting an innocent? No contest.

  Like a sick conga line, the girls and I snaked out into the small space behind the desk. Four stations to make it past then around the end of the desk, then a streak across the lobby and…I didn’t know what, but it would come to me—I was a pressure performer. Lately, my skills had been slipping, but I ignored that fact.

  Consumed with excited guests, all wanting to get into their rooms and then jump into the fray, the reception staff didn’t notice us. Sergio worked the last station—yes, I’d let him stay on the job. Innocent until proven guilty and all of that. And, with the way Romeo had been skulking around pretending to play for the other team, Sergio could well have been unwittingly recruited. Why wouldn’t he believe Romeo, detective extraordinaire and one of my inner circle?

  Once again, an excuse, not an explanation. He should’ve checked with me. Yeah, Miss P was right: I’d gone all soft and squishy.

  We’d made it past the first two stations unnoticed, and I was starting to breathe normally when a voice froze me. A bellow of anger. I cringed and hunkered down. One of the girls behind me reached out and grabbed my cowhide, fisting her hand in it.

  “Boudreaux,” Stella whispered. I didn’t ask how she knew his bellow, but the answer would prove interesting and most likely appalling.

  “Don’t you touch me!”

  Boudreaux all right.

  “I’m looking for three bitches, one of them your boss. Those three owe me. Get out of my way.”

  I wondered how I’d gotten on his shit list. Despite the broken nose, last time I’d seen him he’d been all sweetness and light, or his version anyway. I’d be willing to bet he’d gotten wind of my little chat with Frenchie Nixon.

  For now, luck beamed our way—he hadn’t seen us, and someone was trying to slow him down. I started breathing again. Security must’ve made record time. Reinforcements. This plan of mine that wasn’t a plan just might work.

  But the savage in his tone had a primal effect accelerating the heartbeat, and raising the hackles. That whole fight or flight thing steered dangerously toward fight. Out of answers, hurting and pissed, my ass backed into a corner by everyone, I wanted a fight; no, I needed one.

  But first, I needed an exit strategy—the girls would not be collateral damage. This was my fight and mine alone.

&n
bsp; Sergio worked the last reception terminal, Ginger the one between us. Boudreaux and his drama had captured Sergio’s attention. I tried to attract Ginger’s attention instead—she remained focused on her guest. Nothing worked so I crab-walked my way close enough to tap her on the leg, a fairly exceptional leg in sheer hose.

  Startled, she yelped and jumped back. Not the desired effect.

  With a finger to my lips, I shushed her and motioned for her to bend down. She nodded as she put two and two together to get at least close to four. “Call Paolo. Have him meet us out front immediately.”

  She grimaced. “Your nose is bleeding.”

  “Paolo. Now!” I inched behind her, leading my conga line toward the end of the counter and a short dash to safety, in theory.

  Sergio sensed movement. Thank God, he didn’t yelp as he swiveled a look in our direction. His eyes widened, but when I shook my head, he got the drift. Returning to his job, he pretended all was as it should be. With a lift of his chin and a worried grimace, he tried to convey what was happening and, from his expression, it didn’t look good. The sound of a scuffle. Angry voices. Interested onlookers.

  I preferred to think positive. Any distraction would provide a bit of cover…if we could get as far as the front door unnoticed.

  We snaked past Sergio. Feeling pretty good, I risked a peek around the corner.

  Behind me, a voice rang out. “Ms. O’Toole! What are you doing?” The voice seemed louder than necessary, or maybe I wanted more quiet than usual.

  I looked up, following the voice to its owner—Ginger.

  Frantically, I waved her to quiet. Sergio leaped toward her, then clapped a hand over her mouth.

  She slipped out of his grasp. “Ms. O’Toole!” She paused for effect and a glance across the lobby.

  The crowd quieted as her raised voice drew attention.

  “What are you doing here behind the desk?”

  “Let me at her!” Boudreaux.

  “Run for it,” I hissed over my shoulder. The girls didn’t hesitate. I wanted to stop and beat the truth out of Ginger. That would be suicidal, but so tempting. Even without confirmation, I’d bet my virtue I’d found Boudreaux’s and Fox’s inside man—and she’d just cycled out of Security.