Shimmy Bang Sparkle(68)

Mr. Alvarado smiled at Stella, his dentures bright and sparkling. He touched the stitches on his name badge, his old fingers tracing the threads. “Enjoy every minute with her, son. Life goes by so fast.”

And ding went the register again.



Mr. Alvarado’s advice was still running through my head as we drove from Arizona into California. Once we began to approach cities and towns, the burner for the job started buzzing. Cell service was back. And the sheikh had been posting.

Stella was in the passenger seat, holding Priscilla, and she grabbed the phone from the cup holder. She tapped at the screen and moaned. “It says, Morning, bros. Leg day at the Ritz gym. Check me out.” She turned down the volume on the radio and pressed play on the video. The clanks and bangs of the weight room were unmistakable. I glanced away from the road and saw the sheikh doing a dead lift. I mean, I guess technically it was a dead lift, except I could see that the ends of the bar were unweighted. Even still, he made a noise like he was at the bodybuilding world championships. Or like he was seriously constipated. I refocused on the road. “Spare me.”

Using her thumb and small, quick taps and swipes, she scrolled down the feed. “Here he is swinging a kettlebell between his legs. Caption, Wanna touch my bells?”

“Pass.”

Stella kept scrolling and finished off the last of her coffee with a slurp. “Squats?”

“Pass again.”

As she studied the feed, I noticed her posture change. She leaned in closer and moved her thumb up and down, like she was double-checking something. “This is interesting. Looks like he’s going to be having dinner at a place in San Clemente tonight. Gonna surf and turf it up with my peeps at Ricardo’s on Dana Point tonite.” She groaned. “He spelled it n-i-t-e.”

The idea of going out definitely appealed to me—I’d been mulling it over already. Yeah, the job was first and foremost. But just as important was treating her right and making her feel special. Even better if we were away from the Ritz cameras. I was going to a beautiful place with a gorgeous woman, and I was going to make damn sure I enjoyed every minute of it. Just like Mr. Alvarado said.

“Give them a call,” I said.

Stella stared at me with her thumb hovering over the screen. “Who?”

“The restaurant. Ricardo’s.”

She narrowed her eyes and tipped her head to the side slightly. “Why?”

I looked back out at the road and shook my head. “Just do it. Put it on speaker.”

She didn’t do it right away. I could see her sizing me up—lips pushed together, eyes narrowed. “What are you up to?”

“Call the damn number.”

“Whose pronoun is on the driver’s seat?” she said, pouting a little and pointing at her chest. “This girl. That’s who.”

“Stella. Call the damned number.”

Finally, after some all-for-show huffs and puffs, she did. The ringback tone filled the cab. It rang just twice, before it was answered by a recording. “Hello. Thank you for calling Ricardo’s Dana Point, the only Michelin-rated restaurant in the region. For hours, press one. For reservations, press two.”

I reached over and tapped the two on her keypad. An instant later, a guy answered. “Thank you for calling Ricardo’s. How can I help you?”

“Yeah, this is Mike McNamara. I’d like to make a reservation for two tonight.”

Stella’s mouth dropped open, and she rubbed her thumb and forefinger together, mouthing, Too expensive!

But I just shook my head. I didn’t care how much it was going to cost me. To see her, across from me, in a cocktail dress? To treat her like she deserved to be treated? I wasn’t going to miss that chance. No way.

“We have a table with an ocean view at eight o’clock, sir. How does that suit you?”

“Perfect. It’s McNamara, with an M-c. First name is Mike. It’ll be me . . . and my wife.”

When I said the word, Stella raised her shoulders and beamed.

“We’ll see you at eight,” said the guy at the restaurant, and I ended the call.

Stella tucked the phone underneath her leg and pressed her knees together as she cradled Priscilla in her arms, baby-style. Christ. “Well, I guess we have dinner plans.”

I nodded. “Yep. Our first date-date. We’ll be away from the cameras but still able to keep an eye on the mark. Win-win. Plus we get a nice night out.”

She inhaled and smiled, but then her expression shifted to something that looked a lot more like worry. “That’s not what worries me!” she said. “It’s . . .” she said, and swung her boots side to side, using the heel like a pivot. Shy, almost. Unsure. “I packed to be a bad girl, not to go out for a fancy meal in a fancy dress.”

I sniffed hard and looked out at the endless, unbroken road in front of us. “Then we better do something about that.”

She gave me a sassy pout. “You’re on. But only if I get to pick out your outfit too.”



Two hours later, I was standing in a department store in Palm Desert, wearing gray dress pants, a pair of Italian loafers that squeaked when I walked, a light-blue button-down shirt, and . . .

Suspenders.

When she’d picked them out, I’d said, “Oh, fuck no,” but as she stood in front of me outside the men’s dressing room, buttoning them into the slacks and making helpless groans and moans, I knew I didn’t have the strength to tell her no for real. At this rate, I’d be buying dipped fruit and suspenders for the rest of my life, and honestly . . .