Chapter 3
CHAPTER THREE
T he band was maybe halfway through their set.
After dropping off my phone with Jules to charge, I walked around the edge of the dance floor.
The bouncer rooted himself in my path before recognizing the get-the-hell-out-of-my-way look that works surprisingly often.
I hauled myself up the staircase on shaky legs.
God, I felt like twice-warmed takeout. Maybe I was getting the flu.
The grocery store shift from hell was rubbing bone, but my next shift wasn’t until the day after tomorrow.
Blissful sleep of the dead was in my future—well, hopefully not totally dead, just the good kind of sleep. Damn it, how could Gentry be dead?
A guy in a ripped T-shirt sporting an orange Signet lanyard gave me a cursory glance as I walked down the short hall.
The walls were the standard splotchy black, but the place had a funky stink to it, like unwashed socks crusted in fresh dirt with old grass clippings heaped on top.
I swung open the door to the dressing room, and Clove-smoke was leaning over another man in a chair.
He had one hand on the guy’s shoulder, and was licking the man’s neck with an impossibly long pink tongue.
I was right. His pants were leather.
The blond guy in the chair grimaced, but he didn’t look tied up. I had no clue why he wasn’t getting up. It was weirder than his expensive black business suit.
“Uh, sorry to interrupt, but Mr. Suit doesn’t look like he’s having a good time, so maybe back off?” I said, lifting my chin, ready for a fight.
Mr. Clove-smoke slowly straightened up to a gargantuan height.
The guy could easily play basketball. His full lips widened into a smile or a growl.
I couldn’t tell which because of the goddamned sunglasses.
My driving instinct to run over and rip them off was curtailed by the rising hairs on my arms as the temperature in the room dropped.
Clove-smoke rushed at me with the fluid motion of a panther, sending my heart into my throat.
But he stopped an arm’s length away, his shoulders squared as if he expected me to move out of his way.
I froze, imagining running fingers along his bristled jaw and over his velvet rose bottom lip.
Then his scent of spicy musk mixed with stale smoke punched me. Bile burned up my throat.
Choking, I doubled over and, with a gut-wrenching screech, spewed cheddar cracker slime over the guy’s scuffed black boots.
He glanced down, then up, his eyebrows rising above the frames of the sunglasses.
“Holy crap, that’s never happened before,” I said, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand. I didn’t dare look at him as I grabbed a sketchy towel someone had tossed on the back of the couch.
“You mean, the other times you missed the boots?” His accent made his words elongate, the S’s smashing together like a serpent hissing. English was not his first language. Maybe Russian? I glanced at him, and his glasses reflected my wide-eyed cringing.
“Yeah, other times,” I said, using the towel to wipe down the front of my shirt. My stomach clenched as I glanced at the suited man, who hadn’t moved. “You okay?”
“Help me,” Mr. Suit squeaked, his brown eyes glassy with tears. I whirled back to face the towering leather god who was standing in a pool of my vomit.
With a flourish, Clove-smoke ripped the used towel from me, then turned and tipped his sunglasses down at Mr. Suit. The guy jumped out of the chair.
“Thanks,” Mr. Suit rasped at me as he lunged for the door. I grabbed his jacket as he passed, and he turned then and hissed in my face like a snake.
Stunned, I glared at Clove-smoke as he stepped aside to let Mr. Suit leave. “What the hell was that about?” I choked out.
“Nothing you need to be concerned with.” His voice sent shivers up my back as he mopped vomit from his boots with a gloved hand.
“Who was that guy?” I asked, desperate to look anywhere else but, of course, looking right at his boots.
“It would be better for you if you stopped asking so many questions,” he snapped, peeling off a glove and sticking a finger between his lips.
Before I could react, he reached out and dragged the wet finger down my cheek. I teetered against the wall, ready to rip off my skin.
He tossed the towel at me as he strode to the door. The rag landed on the floor with a splat, but I let him leave because I was too icked-out to mess with him .
T he rancid stench of urine and stale beer slapped me as I lurched into the bathroom off the dressing room. Retching, I hurled into the toilet until it felt like my empty stomach would come out of my mouth.
How could I be sick? I didn’t have time to be sick.
I sorted through memory slides of Save-Mor customers. It would have had to have been a couple of days ago. There’d been kids with runny noses… one had coughed twice.
Resting my back on the cracked panel of the shower stall, I closed my eyes.
My head throbbed, and my throat was raw.
Flu? Food poisoning? The muffin and coffee at lunch had tasted fine going down.
But the churning skin-tingling weirdness was concerning.
Like there were waves under my skin, and I was vibrating.
God help me, I was considering whatever had killed Gentry. I felt bad but not dying. Besides, I hadn’t seen him in months.
Wondering what dying felt like, I stared at the brownish-yellow stains on the wall, imagining a groupie being hauled away on a stretcher.
That was not going to be my fate. Using the sink, I dragged myself off the floor.
The image in the mirror was horrifying—stringy hair and bloodshot blue eyes with smudged eyeliner.
Only the cold-water tap worked, which suited me fine.
I strategically splashed water on my face, but when I rinsed my mouth, I almost threw up again.
My hair smelled vile. I washed the burgundy tips, then swept my hair into a loose ponytail. I looked like hell, but the cool air on the back of my neck had eased my queasiness. What I’d give for a shower and clean clothes.
I straightened up, and the room spun. My jacket didn’t smell great, but good perfume fixes everything.
I had a sample vial in my purse. The plastic top bounced off the side of the sink and rolled underneath.
I considered leaving it there, but perfume was a luxury, and I particularly loved the plum and spices in this one.
Under the sink, a bubble-wrapped packet had been taped to the pipes.
I ripped it off and straightened up but splashed perfume down the front of my black tank.
Fumbling, I dropped both the cap and the packet into the sink.
Excellent. Now I smelled like a drunk in a cheap brothel, and the cap had disappeared down the drain.
I picked at the tape around the packet to get enough off to cover the perfume vial. Nestled inside the plastic was a massive silver ring with serpent heads and symbols. Its clear, cracked red stone glimmered like it was under a weak black light.
Fantastic, down half a perfume vial, up a piece of ugly, damaged jewelry.
I jammed the ring back into the tape ball and shoved it into my purse.
Jules could drop the ring into the lost and found.
I carefully tucked the perfume into an inner purse pocket.
My violet candy rattled, and I popped one in my mouth.
The perfumed-floral sugar coated my tongue, and I prayed it would settle my stomach.
Sweet jeezus, I felt awful. But turning my back on Tyre’s clean cash was stupid.
I leaned on the sink, silently chanting, “I can survive two more hours.” Today was my day off. I could die on my own time.
The dressing room door swung open, and the band spilled into the room as I staggered out of the bathroom.
“Hey whatcha doing in here?” the shirtless lead singer asked. His waxed chest glistened with beaded sweat, and he looked me over as if I might be his on-the-house hors d’oeuvres. My stomach churned, and I used the back of the couch for support.
“I’m your waitress, Bettina. Can I take your order?” I asked, smacking invisible gum. The drummer laughed out loud, but the rest of them remained mystified. “Your pizza order? What is it?”
“Oh… oh!” The lead singer’s eyebrows rose, then a flush crossed his nose. It was almost sweet.
“Two extra-large sausage, cheese, peppers, a large Hawaiian, and a big Caesar. Extra dressing,” the drummer replied. “Did someone throw up in here?” he added, looking around. I was impressed he could smell it over my perfume, but I took it as my exit cue.
Lurching out of the dressing room, I ran headlong into Mr. Clove-smoke. Rock-hard arms held me up, and I inhaled sweaty leather with animal-like fur? The weird scents blended with my eau-de-cheap brothel and the lingering clove smoke.
“Are you all right?” His voice was deep and gravelly but soft.
He was technically holding me up, but his arms around me were bizarrely comforting. I suppressed an urge to rub my face on his jacket, but weirded out by that, I pushed him away.
“Hands off,” I warned. He didn’t budge—pure unyielding Adamantine. His grip tight enough to challenge me. I was not usually a weakling, and my height and weight gave me substantial power. I put heft into a second push, and he stepped back.
Sparkly things crowded my vision while chills goose-fleshed my arms. Shaken, I stumbled down the hall. The stage’s stair railing narrowly saved me from a face-plant. I crossed the dance floor barely making it to the bar. The heavy pounding bass was not helping my headache.
“Pizza order,” I shouted to Jules over the music, leaning on the counter like the crutch it was .
She looked up and came over. “You okay, Harlan?” she shouted, pushing a pad at me.
“Still alive,” I yelled back, scrawling out the order.
Jules finished filling a beer and slid my cell at me. “You don’t look so good. Why not take a load off, and I’ll call you?” She nodded at the booths.
“How long for this?” I shouted over the music.
She flashed six sets of five fingers. Thirty minutes.
I gave her the thumbs-up and slunk back to Tyre’s booth.
My phone showed a call and a text from the police department.
Even focusing on the shattered screen was too much effort, so there was no way I was dealing with cops.
I threw the phone back into my purse and put my head down on the table like it was pre-school nap time.