Ink Flamingos (9 page)

My whole body felt like jelly, despite the fact that my brain had kicked slightly into gear. I say slightly because there was a definite mind/body thing happening here that wasn’t something I was used to. But a little neuron of sensibility flickered, and I pulled away from Harry.

“Someone’s taking our picture,” I said, although my voice didn’t sound like it came from me at all, rather from somewhere across the room.

“It’s just somebody’s birthday over there,” Harry whispered, his fingers gently turning my face toward him and then kissing me.

I forgot about the flash and everything else as I lost myself in his kiss.

I
t was as though everything was illuminated, brighter, clearer than usual. All my senses were at their peak; I’d never felt like this before.

Harry pulled away and stared at me, his eyes mesmerizing. I don’t know how long we sat like that, mooning at each other, not speaking, but the slap of the check on the bar next to us and the menacing look of the bartender indicated that perhaps it had been just a tad too long.

Harry picked up the check and reached into his back pocket, producing a wallet. I expected that he would now explain how he didn’t have any cash on him, would I pick it up this time, but when he opened the wallet, it was full of bills. He grabbed a couple, two fifties, and put them on the bar before sliding off his barstool.

Two fifties? I didn’t even have two fifties on me.

“Come on, Brett,” Harry said as he helped me off the chair, his arm slung over my shoulder, his fingers still dancing on my skin.

“Where are we going?” I asked as we ventured out into the mall, which was closed up except for a couple of other restaurants and bars.

“Where do you want to go?” he asked, nuzzling my neck for a second.

Okay, I admit it. I wanted to go home with him. Probably not a good idea, although I really didn’t think taking him to my house was a good idea, either. I pictured Tim waiting up for me, waiting to ream into me about my pathetic sleuthing attempt this evening. No, Harry did not need to be a part of that scene.

“Let’s just get your car and see where we go,” Harry said when I didn’t answer him as we pushed open the doors and stepped outside.

The chilly air slapped against my face, and I knew that I was in no condition to drive. I said as much.

“I’ll drive, then,” Harry said easily, as though it were the only solution.

I peered into his face. He didn’t seem to be feeling the way I was, although I had seen him drink his tumbler of absinthe along with me. Maybe he was used to it. Maybe he had it all the time, so it didn’t affect him like it did me.

I still wasn’t sure I wanted him to drive my car.

“Maybe we should take a cab,” I suggested. “Where do you live?” There, I’d said it. I’d told him directly that I was willing to go with him tonight.

Harry winked at me. He knew.

We were halfway over the bridge that led to the Bellagio. The yellow lights on the Eiffel Tower and the Arc de Triomphe blinked against the black sky across the way at Paris. The pink neon signs at the Flamingo flashed.

Suddenly, I thought about Bixby.

And I stopped.

“No, I can’t,” I said softly.

“Can’t what?”

I merely shook my head and leaned my elbows on the railing, looking down at the Strip below, watching dark shadows of people passing by, the sounds of their laughter wafting up and into my ears.

“What did you think you were going to do?” Harry asked, leaning next to me, his arm rubbing up against the Japanese koi on mine.

Maybe he hadn’t really suggested anything and I’d been mistaken. Maybe I read him wrong. And I felt like a fool.

But when I turned toward him again, his lips found mine and it was happening all over again.

The flash startled me, and I pulled back, white dots in front of my eyes. “What was that?”

Harry shrugged, straightening up. “Tourists, I guess. Taking pictures.” He indicated the Eiffel Tower.

I knew that. I also knew I needed to get home. “I’m going to take a cab,” I announced, starting down the stairs, the outlines of the palm trees so sharp I could almost feel them cut me.

I was moving fast; Harry had to jog to keep up with me. I stopped at the corner and held out my arm like I used to do in New York City when I wanted to hail a cab. But they kept passing me, ignoring me.

“You’d do better going up to the Bellagio and having the doorman get you a cab,” Harry said.

Okay, so he really
was
thinking more clearly than me. I didn’t respond, just started back toward the Italian palace that doubled as a resort casino. The fountains weren’t dancing now, but the lights were shimmering across the water. The wide driveway led to an elaborate entryway. All the doormen seemed to be helping actual guests.

The lights from inside winked at me, much as Harry had just moments ago, and I went through the revolving door and stepped into the lobby. Hanging from the ceiling were glass flowers of all shapes and colors, forming a mosaic that bounced against my brain like a pinball, they were so sharp and clear.

“Is it always like this?” I asked Harry as he stared, too.

“I think it was commissioned.”

“What?”

“The glass flowers,” he said.

“No, that’s not what I meant. It’s the way I feel. You know, the absinthe.”

Harry grinned. “You’re high. Everything is clearer than normal—it’s like colors are jumping out at you. Yeah, it’s always like this.”

At least it wasn’t just me.

I whirled around. “I have to get a cab,” I said and went back out through the revolving doors.

A doorman bowed slightly, as though I were some sort of royalty, although most likely he thought I was a hotel guest, who would have as much money as said royalty if the lobby were any indication.

“Can I get a cab?” I asked him.

“Certainly, miss.”

At least he didn’t say “ma’am.”

A yellow cab pulled up, and the doorman opened the door for me. I slid in across the seat, and just as the door was starting to close, it opened again and Harry plopped down next to me.

“Figured we could share,” he said, shrugging.

“I’m in Henderson,” I said.

“Henderson?” the driver asked.

Harry nodded. “You first, then I’ll take it from there.”

He had that wad of bills, so I supposed he could afford it. “Sure,” I said, giving the driver my address.

The cab started with a jolt, throwing me against Harry. He used it to his advantage and held on to me, his lips finding mine again. I settled in against him and closed my eyes.

 

He was still kissing me. It wasn’t a dream. I pulled away and saw the cab was outside my house. I straightened out my shirt and reached in my bag. Harry waved me off. “Go. I’ll take care of it, okay?” And he kissed me again, lightly this time, before opening the door for me and letting me get out.

The cab pulled away before I got to the front door. All the lights were on. I glanced at my watch. It was almost two. Taking a deep breath, I slid my key in the lock and opened the door.

Tim stepped out in front of me. “You’re home.”

I tried to act nonchalant. Anything except drunk. I went into the kitchen and dropped my bag on the kitchen table. “I can stay out if I want,” I said belligerently.

I heard him sigh behind me. He wasn’t angry. It was something else, but I couldn’t tell what.

“Why were you out drinking absinthe with that guy? And kissing him? His hands all over you?”

It was concern.

But how did he know?

“Were you following me?” I asked, anger rising.

Tim shook his head and pointed to the laptop, which was open on the table. “Take a look.”

I peered at the screen. It was that blog. Skin Deep. Ainsley Wainwright’s blog.

And there were pictures of me. Me and Harry. At the bar. Drinking absinthe and kissing like we would never kiss ever again. Kissing again on the bridge. Getting into the cab.

It took a few moments to sink in. Maybe because I was still high. But when it finally dawned on me, I faced my brother, my heart in my throat.

“She was following us.”

I
remembered now. All the flashes going off. Thinking that it was tourists, like it usually is in Vegas.

“I was checking it out again, waiting for you,” Tim said, “when the first picture popped in.”

I looked more closely at the posts. The time they were posted. She was posting them when she took them. “Camera phone?” I asked, my brain surprisingly clear now.

“Seems that way.”

I told him how I’d seen the flashes go off. He frowned. “Camera phones don’t usually have a flash,” he pointed out.

True. So maybe those flashes really
were
tourists. Ainsley Wainwright was much more discreet.

“So you didn’t see her?” Tim asked.

I tried to think, but the absinthe got in the way. “No. It wasn’t until I’d already had one drink, and, well, that stuff is pretty potent.”

“Why were you drinking it at all?” Tim asked, a tiny bit of anger seeping into his tone.

“It seemed like the thing to do at the time,” I said. “How was I to know she was going to be taking pictures of me drunk?”

“And hanging all over that guy,” Tim added.

It was a really good thing I’d come home. It would’ve been far worse if I’d stayed with Harry. At least I’d had some sense tonight.

I looked back at the computer screen. “I wonder why she’s taking pictures of me,” I said, not wanting to get into the whole Harry thing right now. “She already took pictures of me without my knowing about it. This is sort of like stalking, isn’t it?”

“Yeah, it’s sort of like stalking,” Tim agreed.

“But why? I never met that girl till today.”

“You knew Dee Carmichael.”

It took me a second, but I saw where he was going with this. “And she’s dead. After pictures of her tattoos showed up on this blog.” I paused. “You know, all the pictures on this blog are just of the tattoos. Not the person. You can’t make out who it is, only the tattoo. But the pictures she posted earlier of me, and now these—they’re of me. You can see me. My face. Not just my tattoos.”

I could see by Tim’s expression that he didn’t know the significance of that, either.

“Should I be worried?” I asked him.

“Cautious,” he said. “Be cautious.” He leaned over and gave me a kiss on the top of the head. “Go to bed now, and we’ll talk more in the morning. You look like you need some sleep.”

Sleep was now the last thing on my mind, but he closed the laptop and shut the light out. I went into my bedroom and changed into a pair of pajama bottoms and a big T-shirt, then climbed into bed.

I must have been more tired than I thought, or maybe the absinthe was wearing off, because I fell asleep almost immediately.

 

Tim had left me a note on the table when I awoke.

“Had to leave. We’ll talk later.”

I looked out the window into the empty driveway. My car was still in the parking garage at the Venetian. Had he not seen me get out of a cab last night? We’d been so distracted by the pictures on the blog that I’d forgotten to tell him I’d need a ride to work.

He’d made coffee, at least, so I poured myself a cup and sat at the table. The laptop was still there, so I booted it up. Maybe I shouldn’t look at it again, but I wanted to. Maybe I’d get some sort of clue about why she was doing this, now that I had a clearer head after sleep and coffee.

The page hadn’t even popped up when I heard the doorbell.

I got up and peered out the window. A metallic orange Pontiac sat in the driveway.

I glanced down at my pajamas and T-shirt that had a cartoon lobster on it and the words “I love Cape Cod” underneath. At least I was covered up.

I opened the door.

Jeff Coleman grinned when he saw my T-shirt, but he didn’t say anything about it. He pushed his way in, and I shut the door after him.

“Tim called you,” I said, my powers of deduction hard at work.

“Said you needed a ride. I’m your ride. Just dropped my mother over at the community pool.” Jeff had gone into the kitchen and around the table to see the laptop. “Tsk, tsk, Kavanaugh. You really want to be doing that with Harry Desmond? He’s a loser.”

In the light of day and with a head clear of absinthe, I tended to agree. But then I remembered something.

“He’s unemployed, right?”

“As far as I know.”

“Well, he’s getting money from somewhere,” I said, telling him about the wad of bills in Harry’s wallet.

Jeff was quiet for a second as he contemplated that. “I can check around,” he said. “Maybe he’s working, and we’re not aware of it.”

“He’s always at my shop these days,” I said, not wanting to get into how Jeff could “check on things.” He had connections I’d be better off not knowing about.

“What’s this chick’s angle?” Jeff asked, changing the subject and pointing at the picture of me and Harry in the bar. “I mean, I don’t get why she’s all hot and bothered by you. Unless, of course . . .” His voice trailed off and a leer crossed his face.

I slapped his arm. “Get your mind out of the gutter.”

“Your mind was most definitely in the gutter last night,” Jeff said, his finger on the picture of Harry and me kissing on the bridge.

So sue me.

“And absinthe, Kavanaugh? Really? You should know better.”

“I already got read the riot act from Tim, so leave me alone,” I said, embellishing a little. Tim had been concerned, not angry. He’d told me to be cautious. “Why did you leave, anyway? I mean, you were so dead set against me going out with Harry in the first place, but then you left me alone with him.”