Finlay Donovan Is Killing It(Finlay Donovan #1)(16)

I slid my hand over his ass. He shut up, his squinty eyes widening with surprise as I gave it a squeeze. Oh, god. What was I doing?

“Right,” he said with a sudden curiosity as the fingers of my other hand closed around the champagne flute. “Of course, I remember.” Something hard began to press into my stomach, and I was pretty sure it wasn’t his belt buckle. What a creep. Quickly, I slid the flute across the table until their positions were reversed. Then I dropped down into the empty side of the booth, eager to put a barrier between us as I reached for the closest drink.

“Mind if I join you?”

Harris maneuvered himself uncomfortably into the bench and eased himself down, his eyes glued anxiously to the bathroom door behind us. “Um … I don’t know if—” I tipped the flute to my lips and drank half of it down in one swill. It wasn’t strong enough to wash away the ickiness of what I’d just done, but the shocked expression on Harris’s face took the edge off.

I dangled the glass from my fingers. “You weren’t waiting for anyone, were you?” I sat up, clasping a hand to my chest. “Oh, no! I hope it wasn’t that poor woman in the bathroom. She was on the phone arguing with someone. It must have been her husband. She was really upset. I saw her leave through the back door.”

Harris’s face fell. He scowled as he reached for his glass and drained it, staring absently in the direction of the emergency exit at the end of the restroom corridor.

Oh, crap, I thought to myself as his Adam’s apple bobbed with his final swallow. How long did these things take to work? I set my flute down. My lipstick marked a distinct red shape on the side of the glass, and my fingerprints dotted the stem. If he passed out here and a hospital did a toxicology screen, this would look very, very bad for me.

“Hey, Harris,” I said, casting anxious glances into the booths around us. I leaned over the table and whispered, “What do you say we get out of here? Go somewhere more … private.” I jerked my chin toward the door he’d been staring at, relieved when a perverse smile spread over his face. I had parked behind the Dumpsters out back, as far from the front doors and windows as I could. His address was written on Patricia’s note in my purse. If we could get him to my van, I could take him home to sleep it off. Then I could burn the note and forget the whole thing had ever happened.

Harris flagged down the waiter with a raised finger. “Check, please.”

He worked his tie loose as we waited, a sheen of perspiration shining along his hairline and a frown pulling at his cheeks. “So remind me, how do we know each other?”

“Oh, uh…” I dug back through my memories of his social media profile, but my mind was frozen with fear. I couldn’t remember the name of a single group he’d belonged to. “We were in that … you know … we did that special thing,” I said, with a dismissive wave of my hand, “with that Northern Virginia … finance group.” I lowered my voice to a conspiratorial whisper, hoping he’d fill in the blanks. “The one whose name I can’t—”

“You work for Feliks?” He darted anxious glances around the room.

“Yes!” I said, clapping my hands together. “That’s exactly how we know each other. I work for Feliks,” I repeated absently, eyes glued to the door to the ladies’ room, hoping like hell Harris’s date didn’t come out.

“Oh,” he said, rubbing his breastbone as if he had heartburn. He looked a little queasy. “What exactly is it you do for Feliks?”

My knee bobbed under the table. “Oh, you know, this and that.” Harris shook cobwebs from his head, his gaze growing glassy and unfocused. I kicked him under the table. “Stay awake, Harris,” I said cheerily. I craned my neck, searching for the waiter. How long did it take to bring a damn check?

“That was some pretty strong champagne,” he said, his head loose on his neck. “I’m feeling … a little funny.” His speech had slowed, the edges smearing together into a drunken slur. He blinked, his eyelids growing heavy. “What’s your name again?”

“Theresa.”

“Right, Theresa,” he said as the waiter finally appeared, balancing a tray of drinks as he slid the black leather bill folder onto the table and quickly disappeared again. Harris’s chin sank lower, and I was grateful the waiter hadn’t stopped to chat.

“Let’s go, Harris.” I stood up, checking to make sure no one was watching as I pulled him to his feet. The Lush was packed, too many bodies crammed together for anyone to notice, and Julian was busy pouring drinks behind the bar. Harris leaned against me as I grabbed his wallet from his back pocket, fished out a hundred-dollar bill, and left it on the table to cover the tab. Wrapping his arm around my shoulder, I steered him clumsily through the back hallway toward the illuminated EXIT sign, flinging the door open wide enough for both of us to pass through.

By the time we reached the parking lot, Harris was noticeably heavier. My heels wavered under me as his head slumped toward my shoulder. Heaving him higher, I aimed us toward the dumpster, making a slow, wavering line toward the shadow of my van behind it. The employee lot was dark and quiet, and I propped Harris against the side panel, holding him in place with my body to keep him from falling over while I fished my car keys from my bag. His hands roved over me, sloppy and restless. One of them groped around under my dress, and I recoiled when his wet tongue slipped inside my ear.