Lucky(22)

“Oh,” said the man, looking surprised she was speaking to him at all. “It’s okay. It’s an interesting book.”

“Here for a conference?”

“Yes. Small business expo. You?”

“Salon professional and beauticians’ conference.”

His phone was beside his hand on the bar. On the lock screen, Lucky could see an image of a wide-hipped blond woman in sunglasses, standing on a beach, holding two kids by the hands, smiling. She could picture his life all at once: When he came home from his business trips, he was tired, but the wife was exhausted. Tapped out from taking care of the kids, when he was tapped out from trying to make a living. They argued. He felt unappreciated. She did, too. Both of them had probably fantasized about a moment like this, in a hotel bar with a stranger. No consequences, because no one would ever find out.

“It’s my first work trip,” she said. “I’ve never really been anywhere. And…” She blinked quickly, then reached up and dabbed at the skin under her eyes. “Never mind. Sorry. This is so embarrassing, crying in front of a stranger.”

“No, it’s okay,” he said, leaning in. “What’s wrong?”

“Just, it’s not going well. It’s—” She drew a shaky breath, then signaled to the bartender. “Can we get two shots of tequila?” She gazed at the man again. “You’ll have one with me, right? I so badly need a little perk-up, and tequila always does the trick.”

The bartender plunked the shots and a saltshaker in front of them. The man hesitated, but said, “Oh, why not,” and they both tilted them back. “Now, what is it that has you so upset?”

“You probably wouldn’t find it very interesting.”

“Try me.”

“Well—what’s your name?”

“Tim.”

“Tim, I’m Lisa. I sell beauty supplies to salons. Boring, right?”

“I’m sure there’s something interesting about it.”

“Okay, fine. There is, actually.” She leaned close. “You see, there’s this whole technique to using the deep conditioners. A special head massage technique. And honestly? If you do it right, not only does it feel great for the client, and they only ever want to have you as their hairstylist, but it helps the product penetrate better, meaning your hair actually is softer and healthier, and less resistant to styling, more resistant to damage…” She trailed off. “Sounds like I’m giving you the sales pitch here,” she said, gazing into his eyes.

“This might be the tequila talking, but I love a good head massage, Lisa,” he said.

“Well, Tim.” She inched a little closer. “If you love a good head massage, I’m your girl.”

By the third tequila shot and the second head massage, she had his wedding ring, watch, and wallet. No kissing required.

“This is the most fun I’ve had in a long time,” Tim said, growing serious, unaware that anything was missing yet, clueless and happy.

“Thanks,” she said.

His hand was close to hers, and she let her pinky rub against his. “Where did you come from, Lisa?” His voice was husky.

“Wisconsin,” she replied. “I’m just a regular old girl from Wisconsin.”

“You are no regular girl.”

They gazed into each other’s eyes. “Come to my room,” she said. “Give me a five-minute head start so I can… slip into something more comfortable.” She giggled. “Sorry, cheesy, but true—and then meet me at room five-oh-five. I’ll leave the door open for you.”

“I can’t wait, Lisa. And I can’t believe my luck.”

She stood, grabbed her backpack, and sashayed from the bar, shooting one last come-hither look at his besotted face.

She took the elevator down to the lobby. In the restroom, she slid off her stilettos and dress, carefully peeled the lottery ticket from the inside of the skirt and put it back inside her bra, pulled a T-shirt over her head, and put on jeans and her baseball cap.

Outside the hotel, she could see the lights of the city bus. She put her head down and ran for it. She deposited her fare and sat down in a seat close to the back, her face turned away from the window, just in case.

The bus started moving. After a few blocks, she felt safe. She reached into the front pouch of the backpack and felt the cool metal there: his watch, wallet, and wedding ring. What was he going to tell his wife had happened to his stuff? Perhaps he’d tell her he’d been robbed. And he would never make this mistake again—and probably wouldn’t feel too guilty about it, either, because he had already paid for it. He had done something bad, or wanted to, at least—and something bad had happened to him in return.

He’d get over it.

The city bus traveled along the route she had checked earlier, until she could see the bright lights of the EZ Pawn. She walked in and laid the watch and the wedding band on the counter. The woman behind the register picked them up without a word and took them into a back room. She emerged a moment later. “We pay $23.50 per gram of 14K, $22 if you want cash on the spot. And this ring is six grams, so $141, or $132. And the watch you can put on consignment, and we’ll split $200 fifty/fifty with you. If you want cash for it now, we’ll give you $50. And hey, what about that necklace you’re wearing? That looks like it might be worth something.”