Page 9 of Full Tilt
“What are you going to do with her?” Trevor asked.
I paused at the driver’s side door to stare. “I’m going to take herhome,asshole.”
Trevor held up his hands. “Jeez, chill out. I didn’t mean…”
I didn’t hear the rest as I climbed into the car and shut my door.
Trevor wasn’t going to keep his promise to the bodyguard about the girl in the backseat. No chance. And the news of whatever happened in the Pony Club was going to hit the streetsanyway—the sirens were guarantee of that.
Just get her home, finish the job, keep to your routine.
I pulled the limo away from the curb. I hit traffic on the Strip and lowered the partition to check on the girl. Her skirt was still hiked up, showing a fishnet-clad thigh and part of a tattoo. More inked patterns snaked up the pale skin of her forearms, and a larger one covered her right shoulder. The rounded tops of her breasts were pushing out of the bustier-thing she wore. But I was looking for her chest to move, to show me she was breathing.
I wondered if I should veer to the Sunrise Hospital—my home away from home—when the girl gave a groan and rolled to her side. I watched the streets in front of me while listening to her heave what sounded like a barrel’s worth of booze onto the limo floor. The smell of regurgitated liquor filled the confined space.
“Awesome,” I muttered. “This is why they pay me the big bucks.”
When she was done retching, the girl—the guitar player, according to Trevor—slumped back on the seat to moan softly, her eyes still closed, her white-blond hair sticking to her cheek.
I turned off the Strip, found a dark, empty side street, and pulled over. I climbed in the back where my fare lay sprawled on the long seat, stepping around the mess on the floor to sit near her head to brush the hair from her face.
I hated to agree with Trevor about anything, but this girl was beautiful. Even passed out drunk and reeking of booze, puke, and cigarette smoke, she was stunning. Large eyes fringed with long, dark lashes, broad mouth with full lips painted a deep red, and dark, shaped brows that contrasted with her white-blond hair.
I reminded myself I was there to make sure she wasn’t going to die on me, not waste time ogling her. I’d had a lot of pretty girls in my limos over the last few months. Lots ofdrunkpretty girls. This one was no different.
This girl—I wished I’d thought to get her name from the bodyguard—was breathing better and some color had returned toher face. Upchucking a fifth of liquor probably helped. Satisfied that she didn’t need a hospital—though I didn’t envy the epic hangover she was going to wake up to—I concentrated on getting her home so I could call it a night.
I drove northwest, to the Summerlin neighborhood. The big house was a pale peach color with white columns and a circular drive, and it was totally dark.
“Shit.”
I got out of the limo and rang the front bell, hoping someone’s personal assistant or maybe another security guard was around. Nothing. I tried the front door on the off chance it had been left unlocked. It wasn’t.
I went back to the limo and fished out my cell phone from my pocket and called A-1’s dispatch. Tony Politino was working the lines.
“Tony? It’s Jonah. I need the contact number for the Rapid Confession job.”
“You gotthatjob?” Tony let out a wolf whistle. “Lucky bastard.”
“Not as lucky as the cleaning crew,” I muttered.“You got the number or not?”
“Hold up…”
I rubbed my eyes and waited until Tony came back on.
“Jimmy Ray. He’s their manager,” he said. He droned the phone number. “And hey, sneak a few pics for me, right? The blonde? She’s fucking smoking.”
I glanced at the girl sprawled on the back seat. An insidious thought crept in. Icouldtake a few pics of her, sell them to a gossip rag and make a killing. I’d lose my job, of course, but with the money from the photos I wouldn’t need it. I could spend all day, every day at the hot shop and never have to worry if my installation would be finished on time for the gallery opening in October.
It was a nice fantasy except for the small fact that I’d never forgive myself for being such a lowlife scumbag. That I’d evenentertained the idea was repulsive. I chalked it up to tiredness, along with the heavy pang of dread that lurked behind every waking thought, ready to ooze out if I let it. The fear that told me I was running out of time and the installation would be left forever unfinished.
“Keep to the routine,” I muttered.
“What’s that, bro?” Tony asked.
“Nothing, thanks for the number.”
I hung up on Tony and called Jimmy Ray, the band manager. I remembered him—he stuck out like a flashy used car salesman in my memory. A skinny, middle-aged guy who dressed and acted like he was a decade younger, trying to be slick. He talked to the women in the band as if they were his meal ticket instead of human beings.
