Page 138 of Ship Outta Luck

TheSantu Espirituis there. My father, for all his many faults, left me a roadmap to it, and I did it.

Realization dawns, my eyes widening. I stare at myself in the mirror.

What if he dumped the sub there on purpose? What if he trustedmeto do the right thing? To be the person he raised me to be, even if he wasn’t the man I imagined?

Regret coils tight around me.

Still. I found it. The what ifs thundering through my skull pause, and I hang onto that feeling of victory, wrapping myself in it like armor.

I reapply mascara, opting for waterproof, just in case, and nearly succeed in stabbing myself in the eye when a fist raps against the door.

“Room service,” a muffled voice sounds.

I swallow, nerves jangling. Just room service.

Slowly, I place the mascara on the counter, staring at the reflection paling in front of me. There’s no reason for them to be back.

My heartbeat thrums in my neck, my head.

No. It’s probably just room service. I’m being paranoid again.

Dean left Thompson here. Besides, the narcotics sub and everything in it have been scooped up and processed, safely locked away. No one has any reason to want anything to do with me now.

Carefully, I walk over to the door, peering out the peephole. A uniformed shoulder and beyond that, a bouquet of roses, a bottle of champagne and a saran-wrapped plate of chocolate-covered strawberries is all I see.

“I didn’t order anything.”

“Oh, well the card here says it’s from a… John Brandon? I can just leave it here.”

“Oh. Okay then.”

John Brandon, ha. What a terrible cover name.

There’s no sign of Thompson in the hall. Surely, if this was a threat, Thompson would’ve stopped it.

“Okay, have a good night, miss.” The uniformed man walks down the hallway, favoring one leg. He leaves the cart sitting in front of the door, brimming with all the sentimental things.

It’s so cute and unexpected of Dean I can’t even stand it.

Hesitantly, hoping, I turn the handle, the door softly clicking as I open it. I step into the hallway on cloud nine.

An arm crashes into my body, and I’m thrown back into the room. I wheeze from the impact, my chest aching with the force of the tackle.

Shit.

My hand snaps back as I try to break my fall, landing on the first room service cart and the half-finished bottle of wine.

“Unf,” I say.

It’s the same man in the uniform. But now, now I can tell he’s the one we ran over in my car. The same eye I rinsed with tequila stares at me now, furious.

The Russian hitman. Smuggler.

Bad guy.

Whatever.

Gun in his hand, a towel over it and his forearm. If I wasn’t crumpled on the floor, I’d be half convinced he was performing in some laughably bad action movie.

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