Page 81 of Cakes for the Grump
I grip the phone tighter.
He’s using that tone. The bossy, domineering one. But we are not at work. I don’t have to listen to it. And any shivering and nipple tightness through my dress is related to a sudden draft in the bathroom.
“Give me her phone number first,” I demand.
“Rita.”
“Luke.”
“Rita.”
“Saying my name won’t work. I’m highly trained in hostage negotiation.”
“No, you’re not.” He lets out a growl. “Must you be so frustrating all the time? I’m asking for your benefit because I want to know you’re safe.”
“I am—” Technically I can’t say safe. “It’s fine. Just please give me Sistine’s number.” Then I can ditch this drug and weapon-friendly party, go home, and berate my friends about leaving the sanctuary of one’s pajamas for a mystery venue where rich people wear animal masks.
There is another silence. I can imagine the steel blues of his eyes, the grinding of his teeth, the way his generous palms must be fisted on top of whatever king-size desk he’s manning at his business meeting. Or maybe it’slate and Luke is already in bed, leaning against the frame, hair rumpled and mood pissed.
My phone beeps. It’s a text.
“I messaged it to you,” he snarls. “Now tell me where you are and what is going on.”
“Nothing, we went to this party, got separated. But I’llcallhernowthankyouforthenumber.”
“Don’t you dare hang?—”
I end the call, forgetting to say bye.
Oops. Oh well.
If Sistine isn’t in trouble, I don’t want to rat out her evening proclivities to Luke. It’s not my place to do so. At least, not until I talk to her and learn more about what is going on.
Another call from Luke comes in.
I decline it and call Sistine instead.
She doesn’t pick up. I call several times.
And then, my night gets worse because I finally decide to leave the bathroom, and Elevator Man is still there. But he’s not alone. There is another topless server with him, this time a woman in a fox mask.
Fox Woman tells me I have a friend looking for me.
(Sistine?!)
Against my best judgment, I follow them. We’re in a gamblers suite, a smaller den of impropriety that is an offshoot from the main hall. Most people filter out when we walk inside, leaving two men behind. A bald man twists an olive martini in one hand. His burgeoning stomach is squeezed into a silk shirt.Sausage stuffed into a casing, I immediately think. His purple shirt has a few buttons open at the throat to allow furry chest hair room to poke out. Eyebrows are heavyset, and the top of both ears have a row of golden hoops pierced through the skin.
Elevator Man addresses him with a hawkish grin. “Dmitri.”
The other man is thin and oily. His face shines all over, but the top of his nose is the brightest. In contrast, his neck and the collarbones are all ruddy and irritated, as if he’s experienced too many sunny vacations stacked on top of each other. Deep wrinkles pull at the corners of his mouth. He has no facial hair to hide those, and even the hairs of his head are lifelessly blonde, thinning to the point of transparency in a few spots.
“Daniel,” says Elevator Man, going over to shake his hand.
These introductions happen within a few seconds, and at the same time, I’m turning around to dash out the exit because Sistine is nowhere in sight. Unfortunately, Fox Woman has shut the door and has set herself up as a sentry.
“Who is she?” asks Dimitri, pointing at me.
“I don’t know,” says Elevator Man, “but I’m about to ask her how she’s gotten a hold of one of our special invitations. She was upstairs trying to get the concierge to help her.”
