Full Tilt (Full Tilt #1)(8)

“Awesome,” I muttered. “This is why they pay me the big bucks.”

When she was done retching, the girl—the guitar player, according to Trevor—slumped back on the seat to moan softly, her eyes still closed, her white blonde hair sticking to her cheek.

I turned off the Strip, found a dark, empty side street, and pulled over. I climbed in the back where my fare lay sprawled on the long seat, stepping around the mess on the floor to sit near her head to brush the hair from her face.

I hated to agree with Trevor about anything but this girl was beautiful. Even passed out drunk and reeking of booze, puke, and cigarette smoke, she was stunning. Large eyes fringed with long, dark lashes, broad mouth with full lips painted a deep red, and dark, shaped brows that contrasted with her white-blonde hair.

I reminded myself I was there to make sure she wasn’t going to die on me, not waste time ogling her. I’d had a lot of pretty girls in my limos over the last few months. Lots of drunk pretty girls. This one was no different.

This girl—I wished I’d thought to get her name from the bodyguard—was breathing better and some color had returned to her face. Upchucking a fifth of liquor probably helped. Satisfied that she didn’t need a hospital—though I didn’t envy the epic hangover she was going to wake up to—I concentrated on getting her home so I could call it a night.

I drove northwest, to the Summerlin neighborhood. The big house was a pale peach color with white columns and a circular drive, and it was totally dark.

“Shit.”

I got out of the limo and rang the front bell, hoping someone’s personal assistant or maybe another security guard was around. Nothing. I tried the front door on the off-chance it had been left unlocked. It wasn’t.

I went back to the limo and fished out my cell phone from my pocket, and called A-1’s dispatch. Tony Politino was working the lines.

“Tony? It’s Jonah. I need the contact number for the Rapid Confession job.”

“You got that job?” Tony let out a wolf whistle. “Lucky bastard.”

“Not as lucky as the cleaning crew,” I muttered. “You got the number or not?”

“Hold up…”

I rubbed my eyes and waited until Tony came back on.

“Jimmy Ray. He’s their manager,” he said. He droned the phone number. “And hey, sneak a few pics for me, right? The blonde? She’s f*cking smoking.”

I glanced at the girl sprawled on the back seat. An insidious thought crept in. I could take a few pics of her, sell them to a gossip rag and make a killing. I’d lose my job, of course, but with the money from the photos I wouldn’t need it. I could spend all day, every day at the hot shop and never have to worry if my installation would be finished on time for the gallery opening in October.

It was a nice fantasy except for the small fact that I’d never forgive myself for being such a lowlife scumbag. That I’d even entertained the idea was repulsive. I chalked it up to tiredness, along with the heavy pang of dread that lurked behind every waking thought, ready to ooze out if I let it. The fear that told me I was running out of time and the installation would be left forever unfinished.

“Keep to the routine,” I muttered.

“What’s that, bro?” Tony asked.

“Nothing, thanks for the number.”

I hung up on Tony and called Jimmy Ray, the band manager. I remembered him—he stuck out like a flashy used car salesman in my memory. A skinny, middle-aged guy who dressed and acted like he was a decade younger, trying to be slick. He talked to the women in the band as if they were his meal ticket instead of human beings.

Jimmy Ray answered the phone on the fifth ring but talking was impossible. Loud music blasted from behind him, and the chaotic sounds of a hundred voices shouting and screaming almost drowned him out.

“Hello, what? What?”

“Mr. Ray,” I had to shout. “I’m your driver.”

“What? I can’t hear a f*cking thing.”

“I’m from A-1 Limousine—”

“Who the f*ck is this?”

I rubbed my eyes. “Elvis. Elvis Presley. Rumors of my death have been greatly exaggerated…”

“Look, whoever this is, I’ve got a damn catastrophe on my hands. Call me back.”

More shouting and then it all turned muffled. The guy had probably put the phone in his pocket without hanging up.

I ended the call on my end and checked the time. Just after two a.m. On the darkened street, no lights heading my way, no one coming home. I glanced inside at the nameless girl.

“What am I going to do with you?”

The urge to take her back to the Pony Club and hand her back to the bodyguard was a strong one, but that poor bastard probably had his hands full.

I shut the passenger door to the limo and got back behind the wheel. This whole scene felt seedy and wrong. I wanted to get her someplace safe and while taking her to my apartment wasn’t exactly kosher, it was better than seeing her splayed out and drunk in the back of a puke-splattered limo.

“I hope you realize this is highly irregular,” I told her as I navigated out of the Summerlin estates. “Totally not in the employee handbook. In fact, I seem to recall watching an educational video about this sort of thing, How Not to Get Sued Into Oblivion. Step one, don’t take your fares home with you, especially if they are of the blacked-out drunk and female persuasion.”