Chapter Thirty-Nine
THIRTY-NINE
OK, he handled that like a boss. His pretend fiancée was busy distracting the president of the white supremacist biker club, the taco truck was almost ready for business, and now all he needed to do was make it into the orgy room—or whatever it was they used that room for (definitely orgies).
With a steadying sip of beer, he went into the room that held the clown painting, fully expecting to find a myriad of people in a state of undress.
There were a lot of people on the couch, some of them making out, some of them just talking, some of them standing around and drinking. One guy was really yelling at another guy about hockey. Shepherd almost went over to them because he, too, was always up for yelling about hockey.
But besides the orgy that he had prepared himself for not currently taking place, something else was missing from the room.
The sad clown painting.
And where it should have been—where the safe they were planning to blow open in a moment of confusion was supposed to be installed—was a completely empty wall.
Slightly whiter than the rest of the room due to the protection provided by the painting.
But besides a scratch mark left behind in the middle of it—like a werewolf’s slash—zilch. Nada. El zero.
“Shit!” Shepherd yelled. “Fuck!”
All the bikers in the room collectively stopped and looked at him.
He exhaled, furious, and stormed over to the hockey yellers. “Marchand was the best thing that ever happened to the Panthers! Get your head out of your ass! Fuck the Bruins!”
“Yeah!” the yeller yelled in agreement. “Fuck Boston!”
“Fuck Buston?” the other yeller yelled in disagreement. “I’m from Boston!”
“Then fuck you!”
“Fuck you!”
Someone threw a punch. The bikers and the bikettes on the couch started shouting as the fighters landed on top of them.
Someone else started taking money for bets.
Shepherd ducked out in the chaos, looking for Ginny.
The one time he remembered to leave his phone at home, and the entire sky was falling.
Ginny was sitting on her cooler, legs crossed, sipping her drink and talking to a woman wearing tiny denim shorts and an even tinier leather vest. The woman was also drinking a wine cooler.
They were laughing—Ginny with her head back and a giant smile on her face, the woman with a cigarette between her lips.
Shepherd nonchalantly walked behind the woman, signaling to Ginny with his eyes. And his hands. And his open, gaping mouth.
Ginny put her hand on the other woman’s arm. “Excuse me, little girls’ room. Help yourself to more wine coolers!”
Before she could speak to him, Shepherd grabbed her by the elbow and pulled her into a nearby corner. There were still tons of people around. He maneuvered her back against the wall, stood in front of her, and lowered his face to her ear.
She giggled. “Your breath tickles, Shepherd.”
“Ginny!” he hissed, willing his brain to focus on the problem at hand and not at her nearness. “The painting is gone and there is no wall safe!”
“What do you mean there’s no wall safe?”
“I mean”—he pressed his forehead against hers and focused on breathing—“the painting is gone. There’s no safe behind it. Just wall. Solid, mocking wall. This wasn’t in the plan, Ginny. We are wildly off plan!”
Ginny grabbed onto his vest with both hands. “OK.” Her breath smelled like alcoholic strawberries. “OK. This is solvable.”
“We’re in a biker clubhouse with enough C-4 in a cooler to blow the roof off and a taco truck across the street set to catch fire at any second. Solvable, my ass.”
“No. No. Listen. Charlie was certain the money was behind the clown painting, right?”
“Yeah?”
“Maybe it is behind the clown painting. Like, in the backing? I’ve seen gangsters do that in TV shows before.”
Shepherd looked her in the eyes, his breathing shallow. “So, if we find the painting—”
“We find the money.” She nodded. “And then we won’t need the C-4.”
He huffed. “We still have to get out of this hell hole, Ginny. Don’t get too far ahead in the plan.”
“I thought you said we were off plan.”
“It’s another plan, now. It’s Find the Sad Clown and then, unfortunately, Haul Ass.”
Ginny hopped up on her tiptoes and kissed his cheek. “To hauling ass.”
Ginny took his hand and tugged him away from the wall. “Let’s pretend we are looking for a quiet space to hook up.”
Shepherd said, “Yeah. Good idea. The orgy room had a fight break out in there over hockey or something. I don’t know, I didn’t start it.”
“What a suspicious way to say that.”
He clicked his tongue. “Not my fault someone said something bad about Marchand.”
She led him through the crowded common area, past a rowdy game of billiards, a kitchen overflowing with people taking jello shots. “There were some bedrooms up here,” she whispered. “And an office. It’s gotta be in the office, right?”
“How the hell should I know where bikers stash their sad money clown?”
Ginny stopped walking. They were relatively alone in a small hallway. She turned to him with her hands on her hips and her eyebrows raised. “You’re the chronic worrier with a plan for everything. Put yourself in their shoes. Where would you hide your painting filled with cash during a party?”
Shepherd glared at her. “Chronic worrier” was a rude way to put it.
He was her employer, for God’s sake, and her fake (maybe real?) boyfriend, and is that what she really thought of him?
Did she think he wasn’t capable in a crisis?
Is that why he was still in the fake-boyfriend category?
He was great in a crisis! He had to be, since most of his life up until now had been one crisis after another and—
“Shepherd?” Ginny held his hand, her fingers cold in his. “Any ideas?”
He exhaled in defeat. “Yeah. Under a bed. Probably with some old clothes stashed on top of it.”
Ginny tapped his nose with the tip of her index finger. “That’s my guy.”