Page 98 of Double Down
Unknown number
Because I’m a nice guy…a reasonable one…I’m giving you two days to convince them to do the right thing. After that, firebird, the gloves come off.
Don’t disappoint, princess.
24
Conrad
I don’t makeit up to the penthouse. I don’t even make it close to our space. As I’m sending a text to Mav to meet me and Storm in Atticus’s room, my phone lights up with a call from the front desk.
Sally Dupree, the day manager, never calls me unless something is on fire, and even then it would just be to report it after the flames have been extinguished and the guests settled.
The woman’s been here since before I could walk. When I was younger and wandering around the hotel behind the grown-ups, trying to be part of everything important before I was ready for it, she taught me to stop and listen before I spoke, to watch and observe before I jumped in with both feet.
If she’s calling me instead of handling something herself, it’s not a spark. It’s a blazing fucking inferno about to incinerate everything.
She’s seen every problem under the sun walk through those doors, and she has the spine of a damn battleship. If something has her rattled, then it’s bad.
“Conrad,” she says, voice low but sharp, “you need to come to the front desk. Now. We have…an emergency.”
“What kind of emergency?” I ask, already hitting the down button on the elevator instead of up to the penthouse.
“The kind where a woman in a hat big enough to have its own zip code is threatening to sue us for ‘facial deformation.’”
Sally’s voice is a whisper. I have an image of her covering the phone with her hand, as though to hide her conversation from any listening ears.
I pinch the bridge of my nose, trying to stop the migraine building behind my eyes. “Say what now?”
“She says the spa gave her bad Botox.”
I stop walking. “We don’t do Botox. We have never had Botox. The liability is too high. And we would need an MD on staff.”
“I know this! The spa manager knows this as well, and she swears that nothing has changed, but this woman doesn’t care. She’s loud, and she’s not alone. She is causing a scene, and…well, you’ll see. Just please get down here. Now.”
The line disconnects.
When I step into the marble-floored entryway, I spot her instantly. NFL-worthy shoulder pads and Italian leather heels. The large, hot pink hat perched on brassy-toned hair is a crime against both fashion and personal space, and the sunglasses are so large they could double as welding goggles.
The lobby is busy. It’s eleven in the morning, with couples checking-in and others checking-out beneath the halogen hum of the twinkling chandelier that hangs over the fountain. Guestsmill about, hands curled around overpriced lattes as they make the plans for the day. It should be the kind of organized chaos I love, the kind that flows and puts more money in my bank accounts.
Today that flow is fucked, as every single one of them gets a front-row seat to this circus. More than one person has their cell phone out, no doubt recording for social media.
At the concierge desk, a new hire goes pale. I catch her eye and tap two fingers on the counter three times as I stroll by—our shorthand for breathe, smile, and script. She inhales, and her shoulders settle. Sally drilled that into me at sixteen: “Apologize. Offer. Act. In that order, sugar.”
I shoot a quick message to PR to have them scrub the hotel name from any videos being posted.
PR pings back instantly—a junior representative wants to clap back on socials. I tap out a swift reply, CC-ing it to legal. “No statements. This needs quiet suppression only, not hostility. Use geo/keyword scrub. Three lines and three lines only—‘We don’t offer injectables,’ ‘Guest wellbeing is our only priority,’ and an ‘Independent review is underway.’ Legal can review.”
Then I step into the middle of the drama.
The spa manager is standing stiffly beside the woman in the hat, her arms folded like she’s holding herself back from strangling her. I run through what I remember of her dossier mentally.
Bonnie Drayton has been ten years in our spa, has managed to keep five estheticians through two recessions and my father’s budget cuts. Her jaw ticks, but not from fear. Offense.
Pink Hat sees me and turns her volume up.
“Are you in charge here?” she demands.
