Page 17 of Psyop Kings

“Miss, I’m going to have to ask you to leave,” the gruff guy says. “Don’t make a scene.”

I scoff, but the meaty hand that clutches onto the back of my neck has the sound dying in my throat. A quick glance over my shoulder tells me it’s one of the security detail.

So much for being stealthy.

The man guides me out of the ballroom wordlessly and then deposits me into the lobby. “Don’t try to come back in or I’ll be forced to get the police involved for harassment.”

I shoot the man a withering glare, but he’s unmoved. With a sigh, I make my way to the elevator. Another man in a hotel uniform hurries after me, catching the door before it closes behind me.

“Ma’am,” the man says. “Someone asked me to give you this.”

I take the folded note and stuff it into my purse along with Megan’s picture. It’s probably a stupid threat from the security guy. I mash the button to my floor and then impatiently wait to get to my room. Once I’ve reached the sanctity of my room, I strip out of the dress and get back into my jeans and T-shirt.

“What a waste of time,” I grumble as I plop down on the edge of the bed.

I open the flap on my purse and pull out the note to read it.

Meet me at the Irish pub on the corner at midnight. I might have information on your friend.

My heart skips a beat.

Holy crap.

What if I find Megan after all?

Romy

Present Time

I’m not dreaming.

This is real.

Last night I went to meet the person who wrote me the note and now I’m in a freaking hole in the floor of only God knows where.

Think.

How do I get out of here? Who put me here?

Despite the dark, confusing, terrifying state I’m in, the small act of the man opening the door and pointing a gun in my face is exactly what I needed to find clarity. The smell of my own pee soaking my jeans helps put things in perspective too.

His small moment of intimidation was a gift.

I’m not crazy.

This is not all in my head.

At midnight, I’d walked into the Irish pub down the street from my hotel in anticipation of meeting the person who’d written me a note. While waiting, a handsome man sidled up at the bar next to me and struck up a conversation. There was something familiar about him.

Think.

Since I have nothing else to do but rack my brain, I begin trying to place the man—Theo—to see where I knew him from. Was he a celebrity? Someone from LA I’d met? An associate of Dad’s from New York?

Brown hair.

Tuxedo.

Wait. He was wearing a tuxedo, which is an odd choice of clothing for a casual bar. That means he was at the event.

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