Chapter Seventeen
The hotel was abuzz. Word in the break room was a huge star had arranged a last-minute check-in. To Drea, it was just another wet bar to set up. Mostly vodka, fresh cranberries, and enough caffeine-loaded diet drinks to keep a girl awake for twenty-four hours straight.
The penthouse had been set up to the guest’s standards, although why someone needed so many pink roses and candles was anyone’s guess. They looked so pretty, but all the different fragrances compounded the headache she’d had since leaving Cujo at the hospital. Damn him.
She gave the counter one last furious wipe to remove any spills from filling the ice bucket. The manager would be up shortly to do a final walkthrough.
Why hadn’t he been able to see she was trying to do the right thing?
Drea shoved the cart into the corridor, directly into the path of another penthouse-level guest, catching him squarely on the hip.
“Oh no. I’m so sorry, sir. I didn’t hurt you, did I?”
“Hold on, Sal,” the guest said into the phone before he looked at Drea.
Those pale gray eyes had haunted her since the last time she’d seen them. Trip Henderson was distressingly more intimidating without his cowboy hat. What the hell were the chances? “You need to watch where you’re going, Miss.”
Her heart beat fiercely, waiting for the moment of recognition.
“Of course, I’m sorry,” she said. Jackass. It’s not like she’d meant to hit him.
He glared at her for a moment, then turned and headed for the elevator.
“Bring the car around now, please. I have reservations at Nobu for ten.” His voice drifted away from her.
With a loud ping, the elevator doors opened and she watched him step inside. The doors closed and the floor number decreased until it hit “L.”
She looked at the key card that granted her access to all the penthouse suites. It burned in her hand. Quickly, Drea jammed it into her pocket before she got any stupid ideas. There was no way she was going to be the girl who picked the dead end instead of the shopping mall in the horror movie.
But … If Cujo wouldn’t let her help at the hospital, maybe she could be useful this way.
The hallway was empty, the door to Henderson’s room footsteps away. No. This was the dumbest idea. Yet, the plan formed quickly. Seeing him was a sign. She could be in and out of his room before anybody knew. There’d never be another chance like this.
What to do about the hotel cameras? They’d see her. Drea worried her lip. Screw it. What could they do? Fire her? It wasn’t like she was planning on sticking the job out too much longer.
She moved the cart around the corner, grabbing two bottles of water. Worst case, if someone did question why she went in his room, she could pretend she wanted to do something nice for having rammed him with her cart.
“Room service.” Drea held her breath, counted to ten, and knocked again. “Room service.”
She slid the card through the slot and the lock clicked. What in heaven’s name was she doing? She considered calling Cujo, but that would look worse on the security footage. Plus she wasn’t even supposed to have her phone. She stepped inside—no turning back now.
She hurried through the opulent hallway into the plush living area. Usually she took the time to admire the beautiful rooms that were bigger than her house, but today she had one purpose.
The complimentary fruit basket sat on the glass table, so Drea placed the water bottles next to it.
A computer sat open on a small table by the window, its desktop on display. Photographs of a ranch, racehorses, and young children playing on a beach shuffled randomly across the screen. She squiggled the mouse, and a password box appeared.
A man like Henderson wasn’t going to have a stupid password, like password or the numbers one through eight. And she was no hacker.
Disappointment wrapped itself around her like a wet towel.
Honestly, it was stupid to believe it was going to be so easy.
She stretched, catching the lamp with her arm.
It fell toward the curtains. Drea grabbed at it frantically, stopping it from hitting the floor.
Damn. She’d have a heart attack before the night was through.
On the floor, almost hidden by the long drapes, was a large black briefcase. The lines of right and wrong started to blur. Being in this room was wrong. Contemplating going through the briefcase was wrong. She should leave before she got herself in even deeper.
But if there was any chance she could help Evelyn, she had to look. She unsnapped the top and flicked through the contents. A few financial documents, some structural drawings, and an envelope of receipts. Nothing remotely like the files she’d seen on the drive,
Click. The rattle of the hotel room door made her jump.
Maybe it was housekeeping. But they’d call out first. She shoved the briefcase under the curtain with her foot, and looked around quickly.
Where could she hide? There was only one door to the suite, and she was too far from the living room to make it through the balcony doors.
She looked toward the bathroom. Maybe there would be a spot she could crouch out of sight.
The closet. She could hide in the bottom of one of those for sure.
Footsteps tapped on the tiled hallway hastening her dash to the closet, diving behind the door. Thankfully, Henderson wasn’t a lover of the hotel robes, both of them still on their hangers. Wishing she’d done more yoga, she curled up into the tiniest ball she could in the bottom of the closet.
What if Henderson cancelled his dinner plans? How long could she get away with hiding? What if she was stuck overnight? The robes swung gently around her as she grabbed the hem to try to stop it.
She listened carefully, struggling to hear anything over the rush of her blood pumping in her ears.
The door next to the one she was hiding behind opened. Drea held her breath. As a kid, closing her eyes to make herself invisible always worked. Drea shut them tightly.
“No, sorry, honey, was about to get in the car when some idiot opened a can of soda next to me. It sprayed all over my shirt.… Yeah … will do. The kids home?”
A shirt was yanked from the closet. Drea pressed the back of her hand against her lips to stop any noise from escaping.
“I will, honey. I gotta go. Car’s waiting. Bye.”
When the door to the hotel room slammed shut, Drea gasped for air.
What the fuck was she doing? This wasn’t her.
She wasn’t an undercover journalist. Or a cop.
She was a waitress with money problems. As soon as she got out, she needed to quit this job.
Get the heck out of the hotel, away from Henderson.
Once she extricated herself from the closet, her first call was to the supervisor’s desk.
With no second job, no Lynn to find, and quite possibly no Cujo, she was back to the empty feeling in the pit of her stomach.
An emptiness she wasn’t sure how to fill.
* * *
The following morning, ahead of her shift at José’s, Drea stood in Second Circle Tattoos. If someone had told her a year ago she would be spending time inside a tattoo shop, she’d have laughed in their face.
Her dad had been covered in cheap-looking ink, his arms a mess of faded blue.
She’d stared at the anchor on the back of his hand when he yelled at her.
For the longest time, tattoos had reminded her of feeling small, of being vulnerable, of being at the mercy of someone you wanted desperately to love you.
It was still early, the studio eerily quiet.
Lia was tattooing what looked like a baby’s footprint onto the shoulder of a young man, while a woman and a small child sat watching close by.
Guilt crept through her. She’d judged people with tattoos for so long, it was hard to break the habit.
Seeing the transformation in Harper as she got her tattoo, and getting to know Trent, Cujo, and the others at the studio had changed her opinion.
Not that she was going to get one anytime soon.
Harper was standing behind the desk, her back to Drea, checking something out on the laptop. The black vest she wore with part of the back cut away displayed the amazing broadsword Trent had inked on her to cover the scars her ex had inflicted. To think that was how they met.
“Hey, Harp,” she said. They were on the same shift today, although it was still too early to head over to José’s.
“Hi, Drea. How are you holding up?” Harper twisted her long, dark hair into a messy bun on the top of her head.
“I’m doing okay. Still got quite a bit to do, though.” The list of things she needed to do to close out her mom’s estate seemed to keep growing. She’d knock one thing off, and add another two.
Harper smiled sympathetically. “I can only imagine. If I can help at all, you only need to holler.”
“Drea.” Lia walked over from her station and hugged her tightly. “So sorry to hear about your mom. You okay? You need anything?”
“Thanks, Lia. I’m doing okay.” And it was the truth of it. She really was. The gaping hole in her heart left by her mom’s death was a reaction to the loss of a relationship they never developed. But finally her mom had found peace.
Drea watched as Lia cashed out the young man she’d tattooed.
The door to the office swung open. Cujo and Trent emerged, the contrast between them quite breathtaking. Cujo as blond as Trent was dark.
“Hello, ladies. Can I interest you in some ink this morning?” Trent kissed the back of Harper’s neck.
“I think you did enough already.” Harper laughed.
It felt strangely awkward. Trent was being openly affectionate with Harper, but Cujo was keeping his distance.
“What about you, Drea, going to sit for me someday?” Trent asked.
Drea smiled, but Cujo shoved him the shoulder. “Not gonna happen,” he said sullenly.
Trent looked at Cujo then Drea, and laughed.