I swapped my day-clothes for one of Teddie’s shirts, poured myself another drink—limiting it to one finger of bourbon—and settled into the big chair by the window. The lights of the Strip stretched before me. Usually I found the view and my surroundings comforting—my home was my sanctuary. But not tonight.
Like a ballroom after the band had packed up and the last guest had gone, my apartment was nothing but a hollow shell, echoes of the party magnifying the emptiness. All the joy had left. The guests had gone to bed... and my heart had tripped off to California.
Sipping my drink, I tucked my bare feet under me, and wondered where Teddie was. What was he doing right now? Was he asleep? Was he looking out his window like me? Were we looking at the same moon hanging in the night sky?
He’d said something about a party tonight where they wanted him to play a set, so I hadn’t expected a call. But not talking to him, not telling him about my day, not hearing about his... didn’t seem right somehow.
Sipping my drink, I fiddled with a button on his shirt. Hanging by a thread, it needed fixing, but, if I owned a needle and thread, I didn’t have a clue where I might have hidden them. I was always a failure at the girl stuff. Thank God Teddie didn’t see that as a major shortcoming; his take on women was broader than that.
I took another sip of anesthetizing bourbon.
God, what a day! Beginning with Teddie leaving, not to return until I-don’t-know-when, segueing into a breakfast over photos of the inedible parts of Numbers Neidermeyer, and ending with being invited to preside over the destruction of a legendary Hollywood career, the last twenty-four hours really took the cake. Add a district attorney up to his ass in alligators who was trying to rush a murder indictment against the Beautiful Jeremy Whitlock, and my humiliation over that little weak spell in the limo—in front of witnesses no less—and this day was truly one for the record books.
I needed to talk to Teddie.
Reaching for my phone, I flipped it open and hit number two on the speed-dial before I talked myself out of it.
After five or six rings, I thought my call would be kicked to voicemail.
At the last minute a voice answered—a female voice. A young, giggly female voice. “Theodore is busy right now. He can’t come to the phone.”
Music thumped in the background as I thought I heard Teddie say, “What are you doing? Give me that thing.”
“Theodore, quit that. That tickles.” The female voice again, dissolving into a fit of laughter.
I heard scuffling noises, more laughter, then finally Teddie’s voice. “Hello?”
“I guess this isn’t a good time for some phone sex.” I kept my voice neutral even though my heart raced.
“Lucky! I’m so glad you called. This day has been fucking amazing!”
Scuffling noises came over the line, as if he’d covered the microphone. But he didn’t cover it fully and I heard him say, presumably to the young woman “Quit that. Go away. I’ll be right there.” Then back to me. “God, honey, they loved my stuff!” He sounded half looped, riding on an incendiary mix of euphoria and too little sleep. He wasn’t drunk, that much I knew—he never mixed business and alcohol. However, the rest of what he was up to was a bit murky.
“I’d love to hear about it, but you sound busy.”
“I’ve got so much to tell you! But I gotta go. They want me to play some more.”
Play some more, I bet.
“Can I hit you back later?” he asked.
I heard the girl in the background pleading with Teddie to quit talking. “If that’s music-speak for call me later, sure.”
First Romeo, now Teddie—everybody was speaking Martian and I felt old. And even more alone than before, if that was possible.
I folded the phone, disconnecting the call, thought for a moment, then flipped it open again and punched the red button until the thing powered off. Even though I felt like flinging it across the room, I set it carefully on the side table. Since I had refused to spring for a landline, if I shattered my cell off the far wall, I’d effectively cut off contact with the outside world—not that I wanted any right now—but tomorrow was another day.
Curling up in a ball in the big chair, I pulled an afghan over me and hugged myself tight as I stared out at the lights of the Strip.
Well, that call had certainly made me feel better.
A hand on my shoulder gently shook me.
“Lucky? Did you sleep in this chair?”
A male voice. Not Teddies. I tried to concentrate. Last night. Images, soft and blurry, hiding behind the veil of a screaming headache.
“Honey,” the voice seemed to be attached to the hand that shook me harder, more insistent now.
I eased one eye open. Light—an arrow of pain. I snapped it shut again. Then I remembered—Jordan, Rudy, bourbon, Teddie... more bourbon.
“Lucky, are you okay? Why did you sleep in the chair?” Jordan sounded horrified.
“My bed was too big and empty.” My voice sounded whiney, like it didn’t belong to me. Putting my feet on the floor, I bent over. Elbows on my knees, I buried my face in my hands, as the world whirled, then slowly righted itself. “The sheets were cold, and Teddie was off at some party in L.A. with some giggly female.” One eye shut, the other a slit, I looked up at Jordan. “Giggling is so... unattractive.”
“No, so female.” Reaching down, he grabbed my arm and tried to pull me to my feet. “Most men find women who giggle alluring.”
“So said the world’s authority on male/female attraction,” I groused, as I stood and let him lead me toward the kitchen, then instantly regretted my harsh assessment. “Sorry, that was uncalled for.”
Patting a stool at the counter, he smiled. “I still find women attractive, you know. However, right now, you look a bit worse for wear.”
“Worse for wear? You’re being kind.”
“Maybe, but I love you enough to try to hide the truth.” He helped me onto the stool, then satisfied I wasn’t going to keel over, he moved around to the kitchen side of the counter “So, what is this about Theodore?”
Why do I have this annoying habit of opening my mouth before engaging my brain?
“Don’t look at me with owl eyes,” Jordan said.
Clothed in one of the thick white Turkish robes from the Babylon, his hair tousled, and a shit-eating grin on his face, he looked good enough to eat.
“Come on, give it up,” he said. “If you do, I’ll fix you my famous hangover cure—time-tested, it’s one hundred percent guaranteed.”
“You play dirty.” Still excruciating, my headache reduced my field of vision to a small circle of clarity. I felt half-sick—no, more than half. Absolute misery, that’s what I felt, in both body and soul. “Start working on your concoction. I’ll tell you anything you want to know.”
Jordan fell to work. He grabbed apples and lemons from the fridge, sugar from the pantry, and a bottle of Napoleon from my secret hiding place in the back of the cupboard beside the sink. “Teddie? Don’t tell me you finally took pity on the boy and gave him a tumble?”
“You knew, too?”
He snorted as he squeezed the lemons, then tossed all his gatherings into a blender with some ice. Then he hit the switch, and almost dropped me to the floor.
Reflexively, my hands flew to my ears.
“Sorry,” he shouted over the noise, looking far happier than I thought he should. After an interminable time, he cut the switch and poured some of the thick concoction into a mug. “Honey, everybody knew but you. Drink up. Hair of the dog and all of that.”
I took a tentative sip, igniting a craving on some visceral level. Draining the whole thing in one long session, I thrust the empty mug toward him. “More.”
Jordan complied and I sipped, more slowly this time, as I filled him in on my recent adventures in love.
When I had finished, he didn’t comment immediately. Instead, he looked at me for a moment as if trying to find the right words. When he finally spoke, his words w
eren’t the ones I expected to hear. “Quit fighting yourself, Lucky. Let it happen. Life’s like Disneyland and love is the best ride in the park.”
“The one that snaps your head around, then breaks your back?”
I set my empty glass on the counter and pushed myself to my feet. Thankfully, the world had stopped spinning.
“Well, if I’m not going to get any sympathy, it’s time to get a move on. The circus awaits.”
CHAPTER NINE
AS promised, Jordan’s concoction proved to be a miracle cure—I actually felt half-human, which was better than I felt yesterday. Forrest again manned his post—he worked almost as many hours as I did—and he gave me a questioning look as I stepped out of the elevator.
I waggled my fingers at him as I strolled by. “Beautiful day, isn’t it?”
“Yes, Ma’am.”
I couldn’t read his expression, but it didn’t matter. We paid Forrest a lot of money to pretend to be deaf, dumb, and blind.
Today was the perfect day to walk to work. Breathing deep, I drank my fill of the cool morning air as I stepped out of the building and started on my way. The warmth of the sun felt good on my face. I felt like Goldilocks and her porridge—this day was just right. If I picked up the pace, I would be shucking my sweater soon.
The Babylon loomed in front of me, a ten-minute walk, no more. Putting my brain on autopilot, I relaxed and enjoyed being outside, in the real world. I had no idea what to think about Teddie, so I didn’t. Even a condemned man is entitled to last words.
A lone hawk circled high above, riding a thermal. A dog of indeterminate breeding whined at me as I passed, but didn’t bark. One of my neighbors in a blue pickup pulled out of the parking lot in front of his apartment building and waved. Life stirred, but the streets were quiet—it was still early.
At the next corner, I turned left, heading for the Strip. Curiously, the street was named Albert Rothstein Way—I’d never noticed that before. Was the sign new?
Cutting across an old construction staging area to my left would save me a minute or two. Whistling “I’m Gonna Wash That Man Right Outa My Hair” and swinging my Birkin to the rhythm, I headed that way.
Halfway across the sand lot, I heard an engine rev as a car turned the corner behind me and accelerated. The street was short and dead-ended into the back of the Babylon. What idiot would gun his ride on this tiny stretch of asphalt? Curious, I turned and glanced back.
The car jumped the curb and headed straight for me! For a fraction of a second I could only stare at it, unable to process what I saw as it barreled down on me. Finally, adrenaline kicked in and jump-started the whole fìght-or-flight thing.
I turned tail and ran.
I knew it was futile, but I ran anyway. In the vast field of sand, there was nowhere to hide. I could hear the car right behind me. I didn’t look. I kept running until I thought my lungs would burst.
At the last minute, the car veered and raced by me. A cloud of choking sand enveloped me, stinging my eyes. Breathing was out of the question. Gasping for air, I stopped. The car raced away. I could see the dim red of its taillights through the sand, but nothing more.
Damn! I hadn’t even gotten a good look at the driver. Male or female, I couldn’t be sure. And the car? Something small, nondescript. Yellow, maybe. Sort of a cream color.
That was really going to narrow it down. Brilliant, my dear Watson, absolutely brilliant.
Searching for a shoe I had lost, I retraced my steps and berated myself. What an eyewitness I was! I found the shoe and slapped it on my foot, then stalked toward work.
The perfect day shattered, I was more than a little bit steamed. Running me down would’ve been child’s play. So, the driver hadn’t wanted to kill me.
He wanted to deliver a warning. And this one wasn’t written in crayon.
Well, consider me warned... and really, really pissed.
Reaching pavement, I kicked off my favorite Ferragamo flats, dumping out the sand before reinstalling them. I brushed myself down, then shook the sand from my hair. God knows what I looked like, but it would have to do until I made it to civilization and running water.
Unfortunately, the reporters saw me before I saw them. They swarmed me halfway up the entrance to the Babylon. My eyes grew slitty, and I kept walking, even as one brazen young thing stuck a mike in my face.
“Ms. O’Toole, first, according to Norm Clarke’s column in the R-J this morning, you sneaked into the airport and whisked away Jordan Marsh, who hasn’t surfaced since. Then Mr. Kowalski is seen doing a hot and heavy with Reza Pashiri at a music industry shindig in West Hollywood last night. Is there trouble in paradise?”
Her words hit me like a punch to the solar plexus. “You guys are here because of me? I’m the news?” Man, if the Big Boss got wind of this, my ass was a grape. He paid me big bucks to keep stuff out of the papers, not make headlines myself.
“Honey,” I continued, “If I’m what you think passes for news in this town, then you better start looking for another line of work. Go bark up another tree.” I pushed past her, and tried to force my way through the throng that seemed to be growing exponentially.
I hadn’t made much progress and was starting to panic a bit as people pressed all around me, firing questions, when I. heard a strong male voice shout, “Everyone, back off. If you don’t leave now, you will be thrown off the property and not welcomed back.” Dane!
Like Moses parting the Red Sea, the Texan strode toward me, the reporters and other gadflies clearing out of his way. “Well, you certainly made a splash today, Ms. O’Toole.” He grabbed my elbow and led me toward the front entrance.
“You have no idea.”
Escorting me across the lobby, he deposited me in an open elevator. Reaching in, he pushed the button for the mezzanine. “Call if you need rescuing again.” He stepped back as the doors closed.
Sticking a hand out, I held them open for a moment. “Dane?”
“Yeah?” His eyes, now the deepest shade of emerald, held me spellbound.
“Thank you.”
He pretended to tip a hat, breaking the spell. “In cowboy school, I aced the course on rescuing damsels in distress.”
* * *
GIVING my office doorknob a twist, then an angry shove, I threw the thing open. It banged off the wall. On the bounce-back, I shoved it again.
Not looking the least bit alarmed, Miss Patterson gazed at me over the top of her reading glasses.
“Where is it?” I growled, as I glowered at her.
“On your chair. I circled the best parts,” she chirped.
As I read through the good Mr. Clarke’s column, I marveled at his pipeline—something happens and five minutes later he knows about it. Of course the line boys had put the bug in his ear about
Jordan and me. But I couldn’t fathom where he got the photo of Teddie and Reza Pashiri. And so fast, too.
There is nothing like seeing your lover in the paper kissing someone else to jump-start your day.
Add that to the car thing, and being accused of cheating with a Hollywood Hottie, and today was already worse than yesterday. And it was only eight o’clock in the morning! The day was still young! What else could go wrong?
“Lucky, your mother is on line one. She doesn’t sound happy.”
* * *
MY life flashed before my eyes as I sagged into my desk chair. The light for line one blinked at me, challenging me, goading me. In one angry swipe, I hit the button, grabbed the receiver, and pressed it to my ear.
“Mother, did you have a good time last night?” I tried to sound chipper—I don’t think I succeeded.
“Don’t patronize me, Lucky.” Her voice was as hard as tempered steel.
“Patronize? What are you talking—”
“Where have you been?” she shouted. I had to hold the phone away from my ear. “I’ve left a million messages.”
“I’ve been home, sleeping with Jordan Marsh. That is, if you believe the newspapers.
” Putting my feet on my desk, I settled back in my chair. “And, since I was in the throes of unbridled lust, I turned my cell phone off. Any other questions?”
Silence greeted that announcement. Score one for the home team.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Mother huffed. “But something must be done. Right now! All these people are out front and they’re running off my business.”
“Having fun getting to know the network affiliates up close and personal?” I couldn’t keep the smirk out of my voice. “One could have predicted that the prospect of appearing on the national news would have a chilling effect on your clientele.”
“This is not funny.”
“From where I sit, it is. Remember, Mother, you wouldn’t talk this adventure over with the Big Boss. You dove in headfirst without checking for rocks.”
“You don’t have to gloat.” Her voice had lost its fight. “I admit, I didn’t think it through. This whole thing hasn’t turned out quite the way I planned.”
“Nothing ever does, Mother.”
“I need your help. We can’t get a moment’s peace as long as our virgin is in residence. People are climbing the trellises to catch a glimpse. I need you to come get her.”
“What do you propose I do with her?”
“I don’t know—keep her at your place or something.”
If I didn’t know better, I would say my mother sounded harried. I sorta liked it—Mona the control freak, suddenly out of control. “My condo is booked solid. Any other ideas?”
“You’ll think of something. You always do.”
Before I could answer, Mona rang off.
* * *
EIGHT fifteen on a Thursday morning and I was already shell-shocked. I had completely lost my edge and life was spinning out of control. Even though the line was dead, I still held the receiver.
Miss Patterson found me like that, staring into space. “What happened to you? Are you all right?”
“You are kidding, right?” Slowly, I replaced the receiver. “How about you?”
Lucky Stiff (Lucky O'Toole Vegas Adventure Book 2) Page 15
