Chapter 22
Ismeralda
Never eat three candy bars in a row. I just did that and now am feeling slightly sick. Or maybe it’s the smell of cleaning fluid that’s causing the nausea. My bout of stress-eating filled the time but didn’t alleviate my anxiety at being stuck in this dark, smelly closet.
I have no way to gauge how long I’ve been locked in here, but I’m pretty sure that Gabe and I should have left for the bookstore a while ago. My publisher and agent are going to be furious when I don’t show. And I hate to disappoint all the fans who came to meet me and get their books signed.
These thoughts, along with the renewed energy from the candy, cause me to resume my search for a light switch. I stumble around the room like a drunken sailor, tripping over a broom, bumping into a bucket and a mop, but finding no switch.
“Gah!” I yell at the top of my lungs, spouting out my frustration. With the laundry machines still rumbling in the next room, it’s doubtful anyone heard that.
Slumping back onto the concrete floor—so lucky there’s no light to see just how filthy it is—I collapse in defeat. Assuming the person who shoved me in here is my stalker, she really made a mess of things. If her goal was to make my fans furious, she surely accomplished that.
But why? My Glam product review isn’t even in the book, so why does she want to interrupt my book tour? Sales of my book, along with my reputation, will probably plummet once word is out that I didn’t keep my commitment. If she wanted to hit me in my wallet, she’s going to achieve her goal.
I’ve wondered over the last few weeks whether the stalker is Kat Von Steenberg herself. However, I doubt she’d stoop to hanging out in a Denver hotel and shoving me in a closet. That simply doesn’t seem like her style. I met her once at an influencer event and she was glamorous, warm, and personable. Although that was prior to my bad review of her Glam makeup products. Still, she doesn’t seem the type to get her hands dirty. The stalker’s identity has me flummoxed.
Will the New York store still want me to do the signing there? It’s the last leg of the book tour, but I was looking forward to it, enthralled by the prestige of having a book signing at the largest bookstore in the nation.
There I go again, focusing on growing my celebrity image—something I’m not sure I even want anymore.
Gabe must be out of his mind and so very furious at me. I’m sure he’s sporting his Grumpy Gus demeanor right now. Is he frantically searching for me? But what clues does he have to go on? Unfortunately, no one other than the gift shop cashier saw me, and I didn’t even give her my name. Ugh!
He told me not to go anywhere without him and yet I ignored him, lulled into thinking that the stalker gave up and I was safe. Berating myself for being so stupid, I yank another candy bar from my pocket and chow down on it, even though I’m no longer hungry. This stress-eating is going to add five pounds to my frame, which I don’t need. Thankfully I know all the tricks for making chubby cheeks look slimmer. Some effectively applied blush and a contour brush will do the trick.
Wallowing in self-pity, I polish off the fourth candy, then quickly rummage around and find that bucket in case I throw up. The nausea is now coming in full force, and I belatedly wonder if it’s due to the Outlaws Plate rather than the candy.
I take calming breaths and fan myself with a roll of paper towels, the nausea bringing on a bad case of the sweats. Even if I still can get to the bookstore in time, I feel horrible.
Why did I eat all that candy? Why did I eat that breakfast plate at the dubious diner? Why didn’t I heed Gabe’s instructions?
The nausea rolls through me, and I breathe through my nose, trying to overcome it. I need something to take my mind off the situation. Pulling a basket off the shelf I’m leaning against, I discover it’s filled with those tiny shampoo bottles the hotel gives out for free. I start counting.
One, two, three, four . . .