I stop her, nearly screaming her name.
“Linda, please. Stop. Talking. I’m getting a headache.”
I clutch my suddenly aching left temple with one hand, rubbing the small mass underneath the skin as if it will soothe a pain that I know has nothing to do with my physical fatigue and everything to do with my mental one.
“I’ll call my parents about Herc tomorrow,” I tell Lin. “I’d love those house specifics in the morning, if you’ve got them.”
The pain in my temple throbs even harder.
“You know what?” I consider out loud. “Just call me in the afternoon; I’m sleeping in.”
“Ok, Elle, but there’s still details I’m dying to know about…”
“Bye, Linda.”
I hang up… hoping my overzealous partner-in-crime will forgive me in the morning for pulling a move I normally used on Lukas Griffin.
I’ve gotten way too comfortable with cutting calls in people’s faces.
I start to sit my phone down when it rings suddenly.
Still lying face-up in bed, I reach the phone mechanically towards my face, answering it.
“Linda, for the love of God, please… no more Super-Cock talk.”
A voice gasps softly on the other end of the phone.
“Miss Lexington.”
The voice is feminine, unfamiliar… and I bolt straight up in bed.
“Yes, hello? This is she.”
“Hello, Miss Lexington. I am so sorry for the late hour, but this is Regina Troutman of the Swing Low Dancery Company.”
Her pitch is polite—courteous, but there’s a solemn undertone to the start of this unfamiliar woman’s conversation, and though she hasn’t said much yet… I’m already starting to wish that maybe I actually were talking to Linda.
Super-Cock references and all.
The woman on the line keeps talking.
“I’m the personal assistant of Connie Kittredge, Miss Lexington.”
Mrs. Kittredge.
Shit.
How could I forget the name of the dance company that Connie Kittredge owns right here in Tampa?
I straighten up, clutching my cell with a surprisingly steady hand.
“I called to speak with you regarding the meeting you scheduled today with Mrs. Kittredge for lunch tomorrow.”
“Yes?” I ask shakily.
“Well, I’m sorry to inform you that Mrs. Kittredge has to cancel.”
My recently weary heart starts to race.
“Oh, I see,” I respond.
The hand that was rock-steady finally starts to shake.
“May I inquire as to the reason?”
The assistant is silent for several seconds.
“Miss Lexington, I’m not at liberty to say.”
I suppress a frustrated sigh.
That’s the second time I heard that line today. Is this a statement from a universal script that all executive assistants must memorize?
If so, then I’ve met my motherfucking quota for the day.
“I’m sorry… Regina, is it?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Look, I’m just going to level with you, Regina.
“I’ve had one hell of a day.
“I’ve been searching for a woman that may or may not exist that may or may not be working with a man that I think tried to kill me.
“I had a nerve-wrecking lunch meeting with a woman who could make or break my career as a dance instructor with the snap of her well-manicured fingers.
“I’m damn near homeless, staying in a hotel, and the man whose house I just moved out of might be responsible for getting me kicked out of this hotel because the two of us had security camera-witnessed, hot-as-hell, hallway sex right outside of one of the grand suites.
“Oh, and I just recently uncovered a secret rendezvous between that man’s neurotic ex and his current best friend.”
I finally take a deep breath after the enormous monologue, inhaling deeply before saying my next words.
“So, if you could please tell me why tomorrow’s important meeting that has been today’s only saving grace is cancelled, then I would really… really… appreciate it. Thank you.”
I say the last expression with finality, and silence greets me on the other end of the phone.
It deepens as I listen to my own heavy breathing—these weighty inhales and exhales that drown out even the hum of my own hotel room’s central air conditioning.
I wait.
Out of nowhere, the assistant begins to speak again.
She talks quietly, even though I am sure she is alone, as if Connie Kittredge were in her very room—as if raising her voice by just one decibel would be a fate worse than death.
It unnerves me… but I am simply too thrilled not to hear a dial tone from her hanging up in my line-crossing face.
So, I swallow my nerves down alongside a huge helping of fear.
“Ok,” she whispers fiercely. “Here’s the deal.
“Connie called me just this evening, telling me to cancel the meeting between you two for tomorrow. She was pretty adamant about it—not that it’s not customary for her to make last-minute decisions, but still…”
I lean into the phone as if the act alone will help me to hear Regina clearer.
“So what does this mean? I mean… can we reschedule or…? I can wait if we just…”
The assistant’s response is quick.
“I’m sorry, but you’d be waiting until pigs flew out of my ass.”
“So, next Tuesday, or…?”
I regret the joke immediately.
“I’m kidding,” I say quickly.
Regina actually giggles.
“Don’t worry about it,” she hisses over the phone. “I like your style, Elena.”
But then the giggles stop.
“I will tell you one detail… but please keep this to yourself so that I can “keep” my job.”
My voice is drastically low when I reply.
“You have my word.”
Regina sighs.
“Connie Kittredge received a call today.
“Turns out a woman she knows named Kat convinced her that it was not a good idea to do business with you. It almost sounded personal—really personal.
“So, if I were you, Miss Lexington… when it comes to finalizing a second meeting with Connie Kittredge, I have to be honest here…
“You’d have a better chance of seeing God.”
I can practically hear Regina shake her head through the cellular call. Her tone is full of empathetic warning.
“And even His calendar probably isn’t as booked as Mrs. Kittredge’s,” she finishes.
When the Chips Are Down
A true man of character knows his limitations – but doesn’t accept them.
–Unknown
DAY 6—6:06PM
Grand Hyatt Tampa Bay
ELENA
Jazz music is good music to drink to.
That’s what I’ve learned in my forty-uhhh…
I check the clock on my Hyatt nightstand.
… four hours of isolation.
I take another sip of my vodka—a subconscious/not-so-subconscious allusion to Mr. Super-Cock, and I replay the song on my hotel stereo, a sweet but sultry melody named A Mid-Summer Night’s Dream that momentarily chases away my nightmares—replacing them with alcohol-fueled, musically-inclined delusions of grandeur.
I pretend to play the trumpet in the chorus; I drum my fingers as if playing on piano keys.
My hair is partly wet, my Hyatt robe is half-on, and I swing my glass of liquor through the air as if it were a microphone, placing it to my lips to sing into it before tilting it upwards, letting swallows of smooth vodka slide down my anesthetized throat.
A throat temporarily numbed by liquor that I swear has been improving my usually awful vocal chords.
Clearly, I’m drunk.
And perfectly fine with it.
With a dusky sunset flirting at my bay
view window, I am the life of my one-woman party—hopping from my white chaise lounge chair to the even whiter bed, skimming my fingers along the grey dresser drawers as I belt out nonsensical lyrics to the instrumental cadence emanating from the radio’s over-bassed speakers.
There’s no method to my madness.
Without cause or patience, I yank out clothes and items from my suitcases, commenting crassly on each one as I “unpack,” poking fun at my own fashion taste as I fling dresses over my shoulder and chuck shoes at my carpeted floor.
“Awful,” I declare, taking another sip of alcohol.
“Disgusting.”
Each object I pick up is worse than the next, and I suddenly hate my wardrobe, taking my frustrations with life out on all that I currently own.
No wonder I can’t make anything work with anybody, I ponder irrationally.
I’m a mess—inside and out.
I haven’t been able to talk to Ana, can’t talk to Kat, and I have neither the patience nor the balls to call back Linda or Kathy, who are both desperate to determine my next move before my quickly-closing due diligence period is up.
By all accounts, I’m fucked…
So, I might as well get fucked up.
I down what’s left in my liquor glass, and I dial Ana’s number, hoping that I can catch her despite her recent absorption in her “unofficial” internship at Tripping Out!
I remind myself not to ask Ana about Lukas as the phone rings.
It isn’t until Ana picks up my call that I remember that I was never really good at keeping promises to myself, anyway.
“Elle,” Ana answers.
“Ana! Thank God. Took me forever to get ahold of you today.”
Ana sighs.
“That’s because I don’t have an office phone…”
She lowers her voice, whispering harshly.
“And you know that we have a ‘No Cellphones Policy’ at Tripping Out! I’m not even supposed to have my cell phone here, Elle!”
I toss a t-shirt back into my suitcase.
“Well, excuseeee me. I thought you’d be off work already, Little Miss Teacher’s Pet.”
Ana snorts roughly from the other end.
“I’m nobody’s Teacher’s Pet… but for the record, I do think I’m close to figuring out this whole ‘hack thing.’”
She starts to ramble.
“The thing I’m having trouble figuring out is why the hacker attacked the Voyager account. Tripping Out! has so many larger collaborations, so many more lucrative deals. Of all the partnerships that we have in the pot, why even bother with that one?”
She sighs, and I can already just imagine Ana’s little index finger tapping on her bottom lip.
“I know Griff and Chris had a hard-on for fingering Greg Sears, but I can’t tie him to the hack. I’m starting to think that it’s closer to home, you know? Someone with more of an inside track. And I haven’t exactly ruled out that two-bit bimbo, Trina, so I’ve been wondering…”
I can’t make out the rest of what Ana is saying.
Because I am still stuck on the name Trina.
Trina. Trina. Trina.
My drunk mind is repeating her name, and all I can see is her pretty, brown hair-framed face at Foxx and Kat’s engagement party.
I can still smell her sickly sweet Chanel-knockoff perfume—can still remember the feel of her golden dress straps as I tap her shoulder while she dances seductively in Lukas’s reluctant arms.
My thoughts jump, and suddenly the image of Trina at Le Petite Café emerges in my mind—reeling me fast into a flashback from only two days ago when she sat across from Mrs. Kittredge and me at the teashop.
I see it as if it is happening all over again.
I see her sit at the table of an oblivious Chris.
I see her lock eyes with me across the room.
And just as swiftly as the memory sweeps in, it breezes back out, returning me promptly into my phone conversation at the hotel room—with an anxious Ana still speculating aloud on the call.
I feel disoriented.
And for once all afternoon, it has nothing to do with the vodka in my system.
“Ana,” I interrupt, trying to gather my thoughts together. “I need to say something about Trina—something we’d started to talk about last week…”
Ana’s voice grows even quieter.
“What is it?” she asks. “Oh, shit,” she hisses vehemently.
She turns silent.
“Shit, I thought it was Foxx for a second. I have to go…”
“Wait… Ana!”
“Yeah? Elle, spit it out. What did you call me for in the first place?”
Call?
I called?
Oh, right.
My suitcases. The unpacking.
The rest of my stuff.
There actually was a reason I called Ana in the first place.
“Ana, I left a bag full of jewelry in the guest bedroom at Griff’s.”
“So?” Ana retorts.
“So… I need you to go pick it up for me.”
“Me? Why me?”
“Yes, you… I can’t be seen back at Griff’s house. I… I don’t want to talk about it. I just need you to go get it for me.”
Ana sighs, and I breathe easier, content in the knowledge that she’s going to relent.
But I speak too soon.
“Elle,” she says gravely. “You’re my big sis, and I love you. Hell, I might even call you my favorite sister if I wasn’t so worried about Kat walking into work and catching me say it, but… Griff—that is your problem, not mine.
“And if you want something, then I suggest you woman up and go get it.”
“Woman up?”
“Yes,” Ana states firmly. “Woman. Up.”
“Besides,” she continues with a hint of sadness in her voice, “it’s not like you’ll be likely to run into him.”
My brows furrow, drawing together in confusion as I try to sit calmly on the hotel carpet.
“Why wouldn’t I?”
“You don’t know? Wait… no, I guess you wouldn’t…”
Ana takes a deep breath.
“We think Griff may have gone out of town. He hasn’t been answering texts, phone calls, house calls, nothing from any of us. None of us,” she states emphatically.
“He’s been missing for the past two frickin’ days.”
***
The last tiny sliver of sunlight slips beneath the horizon, and the twilight that I had just danced in my Hyatt hotel room less than two hours ago is gone.
Location?
Lukas’s driveway
Current state?
Shitting-in-my-pants.
And the “double-O-seven”-mission style retrieval of my bag from Griff’s house is already falling apart… because one hour and thirty minutes later, I am still drunk, still nervous as hell about seeing Griff, and still sitting in the backseat of my Lyft car with no real effort to place one foot outside of the door.
The Lyft driver sighs as he’s been doing in thirty-second intervals for the last five minutes, and still, I don’t move.
My fingers are stuck to the back door handle as if submerged in rubber glue, and despite my best intentions, I can’t get them to budge an inch.
My body seems ready to go… but my mind is screaming at me “Hellsss no.”
My nerves are worse than they’ve ever been, and for the second time since I’ve been idling in the backseat of the Lyft car, I’ve considered bribing the little lemonade stand boy I saw packing up just around the corner.
I toy with the key to Lukas’s house, flipping it in my palm.
In and out, I tell myself.
Easy.
He’s not here…
You checked.
His car’s not outside, the lights are off, and the house is completely silent.
All you have to do is exit the car, run upstairs, and grab the bag. You don’t have to be 0-0-7. No sneaking required.
I t
ighten my hold on the car door handle.
“Come on, lady; I don’t have all day,” the Lyft driver groans.
I open my mouth to voice a retort when I realize it’s useless. I need the driver to stick around until the deed is done.
And besides… he’s right; I barely have enough money on my card to cover this trip, let alone the extra coins to waste on the car idling in the driveway.
I take a deep breath.
Finally, I open the door.
The front yard of Lukas’s house is eerily dark as I approach, and when I hit the front step, the conventional porch light above the door flickers on, bathing the outside entrance as well as me in a subdued but pervasive copper hue.
It is welcomed.
Especially as the sky swirls from a burnt orange color into black—the last remnants of the sun waving goodbye as nighttime steps into its place, ushering in with it a parade of purple storm clouds that thunder overhead.
I duck inside of Lukas’s house just as a drizzle begins to fall, and I pull the jacket on my shoulders tighter, squeezing the flaps against an air-conditioned breeze that hits me as I close the door behind me.
I disengage the house alarm quickly.
And then I stand there, soaking in my surroundings.
The A/C is as cold as the house’s atmosphere, the sterile feel of Lukas’s entryway hitting me like an icy blade as I take in the utilitarian furniture, the sharp edges of the quartz counters—the smooth, cold marble.
So cold.
So barren.
Especially without him here.
Lukas brings a heat to this beautiful but desolate house, and with all the passion that dances in his eyes and resides on the tip of his tongue, to me… Lukas is a living, breathing flame… and I am drawn in like a hopeless moth, begging to be burned.
I push aside the fire that settles in my belly at the thought of him, and I call out his name, double-checking that he’s not brooding somewhere near within the house.
I wander further into the foyer, shouting again and again.
Lukas!
But there is nothing.
No one is here.
At the realization, I dart up the stairs, checking briefly into Lukas’s large bedroom before retreating back into the hallway.
I shut the bedroom door behind me, and I slink into my “own” room, feeling my way around for the light switch.
Minute by Minute (Games & Diversions #3) Page 13
