Page 30 of The Worst Best Man
“Thanks for your time, Papi,” Frankie said, sliding off the stool.
“Thanks for your boobs,” he said enthusiastically.
“Yeah, yeah.”
She found Aiden and the kid pacing the sliver of front porch of the shop. Aiden was dialing. Antonio was munching on a fish sandwich.
She plucked her own sandwich out of the bag and grabbed one of the Cokes she’d stashed in there. “Call off the cavalry, Aide. We got a location.”
Aiden hung up the phone. “Where?”
“Rockley Ridge Resort,” Frankie announced, pleased with her investigative abilities.
“Let’s go!” Antonio said, waving them toward the van. “My uncle will wake up soon and want to go home.”
“The fourth sandwich is his,” Frankie told him.
“Thanks, Frankie. You’re a hell of a girl,” Antonio said, wrestling the wheel one-handed while clutching his sandwich in the other.
“Here. You might as well eat,” Frankie said, handing Aiden another sandwich.
“How’d you get him to talk?” Aiden asked, peeling back the wrapper and eyeing the fish.
Frankie looked everywhere else but his face. “I just asked, and he told me.”
“Bullshit,” Aiden said.
“I told him what information I needed, and he was happy to share,” she lied.
“So, you’re not going to tell me how you dragged the information out of him when he turned down a thousand bucks just a few minutes earlier?” Aiden pressed.
“I guess some things are worth more than money,” Frankie said innocently.
“Kid, you know anything about the Rockley Resort?”
Antonio whistled. “FAN-cy. Good security, too,” he said cagily.
Frankie whipped out her phone, praying it still had a charge. It was dead. “Shit. Gimmie your phone, Kilbourn.”
He handed it over, and Frankie opened the browser. “Why were you googling me? Creeper!” She slapped Aiden’s arm. His last tab was an image search of her.
“I told you. I’m interested in you, and when I’m interested in something, I do my research.”
“First of all, I’m a someone, not a something, buddy. Secondly, where do these pictures come from?”
“Social media mostly,” Aiden said, leaning over her shoulder to look.
“Excuse me, guys,” Antonio called from the driver seat. “I think you’re getting off track.”
Uncle gurgled from the backseat and dragged himself into a seated position. He cleared his throat. “Ah ah HEM!”
Frankie handed him the bag with the last sandwich and Coke.
Uncle nodded his thanks and dug in.
“Right. I’ll yell at Aiden later.” Frankie decided. She typed in the resort’s name and hit the news tab.
“Double shit. This is not good. Little Miss Trellenwy—what the hell kind of name is that? You rich people are the worst at naming kids.”
