Karen Olson - Pretty In Ink

He noticed.

“When we get upstairs, I’ll take care of that,” he said, his voice all husky and sexy, and for a second I dipped my toe in the water, but then got out of the pool.

I nodded, though, to keep up appearances.

He pushed the button for the elevator, and the doors slid open like they were waiting for us. Bixby put his arm around me and let me go in first. I shimmied around as he punched in seven, which I assumed was his floor, and then, just as the doors began to close, scooted out and watched him disappear. I think he was so surprised that he didn’t realize he could’ve just opened the door again. I saw the little numbers above the elevator door climb.

With my messenger bag slapping against my hip, I high-tailed it between cars and down the pavement, skipping down the open stairwell that led to the ground floor and outside. In the distance I heard the ding of the elevator. He was coming back down for me.

I came out onto the circular drive, the fountain spouting all that water, but I didn’t have time to lament it. I ran along the roadway and out to the Strip. I thought I heard someone shout my name, but I couldn’t stop to turn around. It would slow me down.

When I hit the sidewalk, I almost crashed into two Hispanic guys who tried to hand me those little cards advertising the ladies who would do anything for a price. Like I’d be interested. I waved them off as I picked up speed and dashed between the tourists who were gazing at the Venetian, which was just across the street.

I wanted to go to the shop in the worst way. I wanted to sit in my room and close my eyes and smell the ink and feel the machine in my hand.

But I couldn’t. DeBurra would track me down and cart me off to police headquarters again. Or worse, Bixby would show up. I had no idea what his agenda was, and I didn’t want to find out.

The light had turned, and the walk signal indicated I could cross the street. Glancing left and right as I did so, wondering where Jeff Coleman had gone-I could have used a ride-my legs feeling more leaden with each step, I dug into my bag and pulled out my phone, hitting speed dial.

Three rings, then, “Brett, where are you?”

I sighed with relief. “Joel, I need a car.”

“Where’s yours?”

“No time for that now,” I said, knowing if I told him what had happened at Chez Tango it would take way too long to answer his questions. “Can I borrow the Prius?” Not exactly a getaway car, but it would have to do in a pinch.

“Sure, but-”

“I’m going to the parking garage now. I’ll meet you at the elevator, okay?”

“Sure, but-”

I hung up and went through the hotel doors into the Venetian lobby, this time not even paying attention to the décor. I was on a mission. I had no idea where I would go once I had Joel’s car, but I’d figure it out. I still needed to track Charlotte down.

I rode up in the elevator. I eyed the passageway that led to the Venetian Grand Canal Shoppes, waiting for Joel. I paced a little, making a woman loaded down with shopping bags a bit nervous; I could tell from the way she kept hitting the elevator button.

Finally, Joel came through the glass doors. Instantly he enveloped me in a hug. Now, as I’ve said before, I’m not a hugger, but it did feel good.

I pulled away, and Joel was smiling at me.

“Can you give it to me in a nutshell?” he asked, holding the keys out.

I took them. “Okay, Charlotte wasn’t at Chez Tango, but half the building exploded while I was there, Frank DeBurra showed up and wanted to take me in for another marathon interrogation, and then Bixby picked me up and took me to his place. Which so happens to be at the Windsor Palms, where Wesley Lambert had his little ricin-making lab. So I took off. I need to find out how Tim is, because he and DeBurra beat the crap out of each other over Shawna. And I need to find Charlotte.” I clutched the keys, hoping he’d be okay with me taking the car now. It all sounded a little crazy, and I’m not sure I would have offered my car for the cause.

But Joel just nodded. “You don’t have to go far for that.”

“For what?”

“To find Charlotte.”

“What do you mean?”

“She’s inside. At the shop.”

Still holding the keys to the Prius, I said, “Let’s go,” and went through the doors and into the walkway that led to the Venetian Grand Canal Shoppes. Joel lumbered along-to side me, every few steps patting my back. If I hadn’t needed it, it might have been annoying.

“Has she said anything?” I asked.

“She looks like hell. That drag queen is with her.”

“Kyle?”

He nodded.

“He’s the one who called me. Told me she was sick.”

“He says he didn’t.”

We’d reached the small kiosk at the entrance to the Shoppes, and I stopped. “What?”

Joel shrugged. “I told him you said you talked to him, but he’s denying it.”

If I hadn’t spoken to Kyle, then who had called me?

I started walking again, not even looking in the window at Kenneth Cole, which meant I was really distracted. I always look in the window at Kenneth Cole.

Ace was sitting at Breathe, the oxygen bar, a tube in his nose, his eyes closed as he leaned back in the tall chair, a look of absolute serenity on his face.

“Look at that,” I said, cocking my head toward him.

“He didn’t want to be in the shop with Charlotte,” Joel said. “She broke up with him.”

Bitsy had said that earlier. This wasn’t good. I couldn’t have two of my tattooists not speaking to each other, or not able to be in the same room together. But that would mean I’d want to keep Charlotte around after all this. And the jury was definitely out on that one.

“This is why you never sleep with someone you work with,” I muttered.

Ace didn’t even open his eyes as we passed.

Bitsy was at the front desk, and her eyes widened when she saw me. “Are you okay?”

I nodded, indicating my arm. “Just a few scratches.”

She jumped up to get a closer look, and she and Joel shook their heads over my injury.

“It could’ve been worse,” I said.

They nodded in unison.

“Where’s Charlotte?” I asked.

“In your room,” Bitsy said.

“Kyle with her?”

She nodded.

I didn’t say anything else, just walked back and opened the door. Charlotte was in the middle of inking something on Kyle’s hand. As I took another step toward them, I saw it was a Chinese character. The character for strength. They both looked up, and the machine stopped whirring but Charlotte still held it over Kyle’s hand.

“Are you back to work?” I asked Charlotte, aware of a sharp edge in my voice. I tried to tell myself that I needed an explanation before judging her, but I was having a hard time convincing myself.

She shrugged.

I waved my hand. “Might as well finish. You’re almost done anyway.”

She gave me a funny look, then went back to the tattoo.

“I didn’t call you,” Kyle said without any prompting.

“So who did? And how did Rusty Abbott know that building was going to explode?”

Charlotte glanced up at Kyle and they exchanged a look.

The machine stopped again; Charlotte sighed. “We were in the club. But we decided to go for something to eat. We were about two blocks away when it blew.”

I looked at Kyle. “Your SUV was still in the parking lot.”

“We had my car,” Charlotte said.

I took a long look at her. Her face was paler than usual, but it could’ve been the lighting in here. The overhead light was off, and she had the desk lamp aimed right at Kyle’s hand, its beam illuminating her work.

She had already gone back to finishing the ink. I watched as she filled in the last part, wondering what to ask first.