Another photo text came in, this one of Theo’s middle finger. He hated when I called him Teddy. Almost as much as I hated it when guys called women bitches.
I turned to Trevor to tell him to get lost when the Pony Club’s back door banged open and the sound of raucous laughter, shouts, and shattered glass spilled onto the street. A huge bodyguard hurried out carrying the limp body of a woman, her leather skirt hiked up her thighs and her head hanging so that her blonde hair spilled over the bodyguard’s arm.
I gave Trevor a little shove out of the way and opened the limo’s passenger door. The bodyguard never broke stride but bent his hulking form over to lay the girl inside, on the long leather seat that ran opposite the door.
Trevor sucked in a breath. “That’s her! The blonde… The guitar-player for RC.” He looked at me like I was his hero. “You have them?”
The bodyguard reemerged from the limo and towered over Trevor, his hands balling into fists. “Is this your business?”
Trevor cringed and backed off. “N-no, sir.”
“Are you going to tell anyone what you saw here?”
“No. I sure won’t.”
“Good answer.” He turned back to me. “Take her home. Quick. Before the paparazzi show up. It’s a fucking riot in there.” He jerked his head toward the venue where the shouts were louder, punctuated by shrill cursing and more breaking glass. “I gotta get back.” He jabbed a finger into my chest. “You make sure she gets home safe.”
I saw the concern bright in the guy’s dark eyes boring into mine, then he was loping back to the venue. Sirens wailed in the distance, getting closer.
With the huge bodyguard gone, Trevor crept forward, peering into the limo. “Dude. Dude, she is smokin’ hot.”
I had to agree with Trevor’s assessment, but she was also passed out drunk. Women needed to be coherent and conscious for me to entertain even fleeting sexual thoughts. Trevor’s tongue was lolling out of his mouth, and I slammed the door shut, disgusted, cutting off his view.
“What are you going to do with her?” Trevor asked.
I paused at the driver’s side door to stare. “I’m going to take her home, asshole.”
Trevor held up his hands. “Jeez, chill out. I didn’t mean…”
I didn’t hear the rest as I climbed into the car and shut my door.
Trevor wasn’t going to keep his promise to the bodyguard about the girl in the backseat. No chance. And the news of whatever happened in the Pony Club was going to hit the streets anyway—the sirens were guarantee of that.
Just get her home, finish the job, keep to your routine.
I pulled the limo away from the curb. I hit traffic on the Strip and lowered the partition to check on the girl. Her skirt was still hiked up, showing a fishnet-clad thigh and part of a tattoo. More inked patterns snaked up the pale skin of her forearms, and a larger one covered her right shoulder. The rounded tops of her breasts were pushing out of the bustier-thing she wore. But I was looking for her chest to move, to show me she was breathing.
I wondered if I should veer to the Sunrise Hospital when the girl gave a groan and rolled to her side. I watched the streets in front of me while listening to her heave what sounded like a barrel’s worth of booze onto the limo floor. The smell of regurgitated liquor filled the confined space.
“Awesome,” I muttered. “This is why they pay me the big bucks.”
When she was done retching, the girl—the guitar player, according to Trevor—slumped back on the seat to moan softly, her eyes still closed, her white blonde hair sticking to her cheek.
I turned off the Strip, found a dark, empty side street, and pulled over. I climbed in the back where my fare lay sprawled on the long seat, stepping around the mess on the floor to sit near her head to brush the hair from her face.
I hated to agree with Trevor about anything but this girl was beautiful. Even passed out drunk and reeking of booze, puke, and cigarette smoke, she was stunning. Large eyes fringed with long, dark lashes, broad mouth with full lips painted a deep red, and dark, shaped brows that contrasted with her white-blonde hair.
I reminded myself I was there to make sure she wasn’t going to die on me, not waste time ogling her. I’d had a lot of pretty girls in my limos over the last few months. Lots of drunk pretty girls. This one was no different.
This girl—I wished I’d thought to get her name from the bodyguard—was breathing better and some color had returned to her face. Upchucking a fifth of liquor probably helped. Satisfied that she didn’t need a hospital—though I didn’t envy the epic hangover she was going to wake up to—I concentrated on getting her home so I could call it a night.
I drove northwest, to the Summerlin neighborhood. The big house was a pale peach color with white columns and a circular drive, and it was totally dark.
“Shit.”