Page 17 of Fraud
“Looks like you could use another,” the hot bartender said, returning, as I’d hoped.
“Sure could. Hey, I could use a favor.”
That coy smile of hers had my mind racing, and suddenly I knew exactly what I needed to do.
“Anything.”
“Great.” I grinned. “I’m having a problem tracking down this client. I’ve never actually met them in person, and as you guessed, they like to party. I have a feeling the two of them might already be here, three sheets to the wind. Do you think you could help me find them?”
Her face scrunched to the side. “Well, I’ve seen my fair share of guys in suits tonight. Can you describe them?” she asked as she began fixing me another whiskey sour.
“That’s the thing, gorgeous. I’m not looking for suits. I’m looking for two women.”
“Oh.” Her voice deflated instantly, the distinct sound of jealousy replacing her flirting tone.
I continued, in hopes of salvaging the situation. “I don’t really know much about them, but the one woman is a real ballbuster—or so I’ve heard. Maybe mid-twenties. New Yorker?”
Her eyes lit up. “Carries a Birkin Bag?”
“A what?”
“A Birkin bag. It’s, like, one of the most expensive purses in the world. She came by the bar, asked for the manager, and had us put it in the restaurant safe. Can you believe that?”
I really didn’t care what kind of purse it was, only that she was here.
And identifiable.
“Could you point her out?”
“Sure,” she responded, placing my second drink next to me. “She’s on the dance floor. Or was. That’s why we locked up her precious bag. She and her friend—coworker maybe—they’ve been dancing for twenty minutes or so.”
I leaned forward, grabbing her face. I planted a huge-ass kiss on her painted red lips. “Thank you.”
She instantly blushed, licking her lips, as I pulled back.
“Anytime,” she answered seductively.
I had no idea what her name was, and I’d be lying if I said I cared to know. But, one thing I knew for sure, that bright red lipstick would be making an appearance all over my naked body tonight.
After soaking up a bit more whiskey, I headed for the dance floor.
Or, as I liked to call it, the seventh circle of hell.
As a rule, I generally tried to avoid places that had any form of dancing involved.
Fox-trot, waltz, krumping—I hated it all, and to top it off, I was bad at it. A deaf amputee would probably have better rhythm than me.
It was better for all mankind if I just stayed away.
Far, far away.
But, sometimes, in journalism, one was forced to enter situations that were deemed dangerous, maybe even life-threatening.
War zones, hostage situations…dance floors.
I deserved a Pulitzer for this.
The closer I got to the crowd, the louder things became. Catcalls, shouts, and whistling all flooded my ears as I circled, trying to find the dancing duo the bartender had told me about.
