7 Brides for 7 Bodies (13 page)

She didn’t even have the energy to argue...life was sucking the life out of her.

“See you tomorrow,” Carlotta said with as much of a smile as she could muster.

When she reached the entrance, Hannah was waiting for her, her startling appearance further enhanced by the addition of a Valentino shoulder bag.

“Nice purse,” Carlotta offered.

“Shut up, or I’ll choke you with the strap.”

“Ah, there’s the Hannah I know.” She smothered a smile and followed her friend to the parking garage, still marveling over the transformation.

“God, this was the longest day of my life,” Hannah said. “What kind of sadist dreamt up the idea of a wedding expo?”

“Oh, come on—no one forced throngs of women to be there.”

“Please don’t tell me
you
are in the market for a wedding?”

“No, I’m working the show for Neiman’s.”

“How is Richie Rich?”

“Actually, Peter and I are taking a little break.”

Hannah lifted an eyebrow. “Do tell.”

“Nothing to tell, I just have too much going on right now.”

“Have you talked to your father?”

“No. And at this point I don’t know when I will. I have an appointment with the D.A. Monday—I hope I can find out more then.”

“How are you holding up?”

Carlotta blinked back sudden tears, and her step faltered. “By a thread,” she admitted.

“Hey, hey,” Hannah said, her voice surprisingly gentle. “You’ve made it this long...you can’t cave now. I’m sure the paperwork and the jurisdiction bullshit will be sorted out soon.”

Carlotta sniffed, then nodded.

“How’s your injury?”

“Healing.”

“At least that nightmare is over.”

So true...but was another one beginning?

Hannah stopped, and Carlotta scanned the rows of parked cars.

“Where’s the van?”

The car next to them chirped, then the doors unlocked. “Um, this is my ride.”

Carlotta stared at the silver Audi two-seater. “Seriously?”

“Just get in, goddammit.”

They didn’t talk much on the drive to Moody’s—zippy convertibles were convenient that way. The breezy ride allowed Carlotta to study her friend who was, if not wholly comfortable with the designer togs and transportation, at least in command of them.

“Please stop looking at me like that,” Hannah said after they’d parked and climbed out.

“Sorry. It’s just so—”

“Obnoxious? I know.”

“I was going to say disconcerting. It’s going to take a while for me to adjust, that’s all.”

“Oh, no—don’t get used to this.”

“I can’t unsee it.”

“Try.”

“Hannah, you look terrific!”

“Please—you sound like my sisters.” She held open the door to Moody’s. “Hurry, let’s get a drink.”

The inside of Moody’s cigar bar was hopping with commuters waiting out rush hour. The bottom floor of the establishment was packed with suited men and women perusing the glass cabinets and counters that held every kind of cigar, loose tobacco, and smoking accessory. The girls headed upstairs to the martini bar, where patrons could lounge in velvet club chairs and deep leather couches around coffee tables studded with interesting ashtrays, lighters, and boxes of wooden matches. Carlotta spotted the proprietor, June Moody, leaning against the bar, chatting with Nathan the bartender.

June greeted her with a concerned smile. “Hello, dear. You made the newspapers again. How are you?”

“Hanging in there,” Carlotta said, her heart brimming with fondness for the woman who’d always given her sage advice.

“And who’s your friend?”

Carlotta grinned, but Hannah scoffed. “It’s me, June—Hannah.”

June gaped, then recovered. “I didn’t recognize you. You look—”

“Great!” Nathan finished, his eyes bugged.

Hannah made a face. “Can I get a martini—very dirty?”

“Make that two,” Carlotta said.

“I’m going to the john,” Hannah said, then disappeared into the crowd.

June gave Carlotta a quizzical look, but Carlotta just shrugged.

The older woman laid her hand on Carlotta’s arm. “I’m so relieved that awful Dr. Abrams is in jail. He almost got away with driving Coop to total ruin, and hurting you.”

“Coop is resilient. And I’m stronger than I look.”

“I understand your father is back in town?”

“That’s right.”

“And you’re happy about that?”

“Mostly. I’ll feel better when I get to talk to him, and find out where my mother is.”

“Of course.” June’s eyes were moist, probably because she couldn’t imagine abandoning her son the way Valerie Wren had abandoned her children. Then she signaled Nathan. “Drinks for Carlotta and Hannah are on the house.”

“That’s not necessary—”

“Sure it is,” June insisted. “You have a lot to celebrate.” Then she spotted Hannah returning and lowered her voice. “And I want to encourage Hannah to look normal more often.”

Carlotta laughed.

When Hannah was settled on the stool next to her, June left to check on customers.

“People are looking at me,” Hannah said.

“It’s because you’re beautiful,” Carlotta said.

“I’m the same person I am in my Goth getup.”

“Yes, but you look more approachable. What does Chance think?”

Hannah narrowed her eyes. “He doesn’t know...and you’re not going to say anything.”

“He might like it.”

“But I don’t. I can’t imagine a world where I dress like this all the time.”

Carlotta drank deeply of the chilled martini and thought of the Hannah she’d met in the other place she’d visited. “You don’t think it’s possible that we’re all living different lives in other dimensions of the universe?”

Hannah frowned. “Did that Abrams lunatic hit you on the head?”

“That would actually explain a lot,” Carlotta admitted.

Between sips of their drinks, they swapped customer stories from the Wedding Expo. “I heard a male model died during a fashion show?” Hannah asked.

“Yeah, I was there. It was sad.”

“Figures—the only interesting thing to happen and it’s on the day I’m not working the show.”

Carlotta gave her a chiding look. “I assume the Expo is the ‘catering gig’ you texted me you were working?”

“Yep. My sisters want to grow the banquets part of the business, so they set this up, and I couldn’t get out of it.”

“If your family owns high-end properties, why do you work catering gigs?”

“I want something of my own. I want to be a chef someday.”

“At one of your family’s hotels?”

“Maybe. But I don’t want the job handed to me.”

Carlotta nodded. “I admire you for that. If I were in your shoes, I don’t know if I could be so independent.”

“Sure you could—you’re the most independent person I know.”

She shook her head. “It’s different—I had no choice. You, on the other hand, are choosing the harder way.” She lifted her martini glass to Hannah’s. “Cheers, my friend.”

Hannah smiled and clinked her glass. “Cheers.”

They drank the last of their martinis, then Carlotta sighed. “But can I be a little jealous?”

Hannah laughed. “So catch me up. If you and Peter are on the outs, is Jack moving in?”

Carlotta blinked. “Uh—that would be
no
. Jack and I are taking a break, too. Since he arrested Randolph and all.”

“Right.” Hannah fingered the stem of her empty glass. “So...you and Coop?”

“Also on a break.”

“Because of the Abrams thing?”

“Right.”

“Cool,” Hannah said, looking much relieved.

Carlotta decided not to mention that Rainie Stephens seemed to have set her cap for Coop.

Hannah pulled her ringing phone from her bag, then grinned. “Speak of the devil!” She connected the call. “Hi, Coop!”

Carlotta sat up in surprise. Coop?

Hannah’s eyes rounded. “Sure!” Then she glanced at Carlotta. “Actually, Carlotta’s with me. Okay...we’ll be there in fifteen minutes.” She tapped the screen to end the call and squealed. “Coop needs a second on a body-moving job. Let’s go!”

Carlotta pushed off the stool and fished in her wallet for a tip. “I wonder why he didn’t call Wesley?” Or her, dammit.

“He said he couldn’t reach Wes, and he knew you had a bum shoulder.”

That hadn’t stopped him from calling the time her arm had been broken. Coop was definitely avoiding her...or was trying to. “I’m right behind you.”

Chapter Twelve

A SNAPPING NOISE sounded in Wesley’s ear. “Wren!”

He jerked his head toward the player on his left.

“Shit or get off the pot, man.”

He shifted on the metal folding chair that was killing his bony behind, feigning worry to drag out the hand of Texas hold ’em poker. The community cards had been dealt and he had the nut hand of a straight flush, so he was going home with the pot of about five hundred piled on the table in front of him. But if he slow-bid, he could squeeze another fifty or so out of his three new friends. Chance had told him about the game taking place in the kitchen of a pub in Little Five Points. The kitty hadn’t been enough for his buddy to sponsor for a cut, but with a baby on the way, Wes needed every dollar he could get.

Which was why he hadn’t taken Coop’s phone call. Body-moving money was okay, but the job would have to be a chartered bus wreck on I-285 to match poker money.

Still...he’d missed working with Coop while his boss had taken a self-imposed sabbatical. Now that Coop was back, he was bound to have some good stories to tell.

Wes peeked at his hand again, as if he hadn’t memorized it and what everyone else was holding, too. Snappy had a middling pair, probably eights. The greasy aproned guy across from him—the pub’s cook—was nursing three of a kind, probably fours or fives. The next guy over wearing a loud plaid shirt had been his only competition all night; Plaid was guarding a full house.

“Call and raise fifty,” Wes said, pushing the bills forward. Playing with a clear head for the first time in a long time gave him a renewed appreciation for getting clean. He was firing on all cylinders and the cards had fallen his way all night.

The cook pointed his chin at Wes. “Hey, man, are you related to that fugitive named Wren the police brought down?”

Wes straightened. “He’s my dad.”

“You’re lyin’,” Snappy said.

“Nope.”

They were all staring at him.

“Are you some kind of crime family?” Plaid asked.

“I’ve seen the inside of the city lockup,” Wes said casually. He didn’t add that he’d been scared to death and had taught the other inmates how to play poker to distract them from how beat-upable he was. To add to his street cred, he gave a knowing nod all around. “I work for a loan shark called The Carver.”

Snappy and Plaid’s heads pivoted to the cook.

“You didn’t say he was an ex-con.”

“Yeah, I thought it was strange that he was getting great cards all night.”

“I want my money back.”

“Yeah, I want my money back, too.”

The cook leveled a dark gaze on Wes, then retrieved a cleaver from the cutting board behind him. “I think we all want our money back.”

Panic blipped through Wes’s chest. “Wait a minute, fellas. I don’t cheat. And I’m not an ex-con. I was arrested, but I got community service, for God’s sake.”

Plaid narrowed his eyes. “You don’t cheat, huh? Show us your cards.”

Wesley swallowed. He’d gotten the straight flush fair and square, but it wasn’t going to look that way.

He tossed his cards at them, grabbed two handfuls of wadded bills in the center of the table, and sprinted for the back door. Just as he flung it open, the meat cleaver imbedded in the wood next to his head with a
thwack
. He preferred to believe the cook had missed on purpose, but didn’t stop to ask.

He darted across the dark parking lot with the sound of pounding feet closing in behind him. Wes decided Plaid must’ve played football in high school the way the guy caught up to him and slammed him down on the asphalt. And Snappy must’ve played soccer because he delivered a pretty decent kick to the ribs. And the cook must’ve been a volleyball star the way he picked up Wes and spiked him into a dumpster.

He landed face down and spread-eagled in something wet and foul but—thankfully—soft.

Wes lay still, listening. The guys mumbled and cursed as they gathered the scattered bills. Someone kicked the dumpster, sending a gonging vibration through his entire body. Their voices faded as they made their way back to the pub.

Wes gingerly lifted his head and rolled over, wincing at the sharp pain in his side. Once he pulled the rancid remains of salad from his face, the view of the stars in a cobalt blue sky was actually pretty nice. He decided to lie there for a few minutes and think about the gorgeous straight flush he’d been holding—that kind of magic didn’t happen often.

In his pocket, his phone vibrated. Thinking it might be Coop again, he dug it out.

It was Meg.

Call him selfish, but he wanted to hear her voice. He connected the call and brought the phone to his ear. “Hi, there.”

“Hi, yourself,” she said sourly. “I was starting to think you were avoiding me.”

“Nah,” he lied, then settled back into a day’s worth of food sludge. “How’s Aruba?”

“Hot...and not as lush as you might think. It’s like a big desert.”

“A big desert surrounded by turquoise waters and pink skies?”

“Well, there’s that.”

“Are you having a good time with your folks?”

“Not particularly. I miss you...some.”

His heart pinched. “You’re just bored.”

“That’s probably it,” she agreed. “What are you into?”

He lifted his free hand and slung off a clump of mashed potatoes. “All kinds of fun.”

“Nothing new, huh?”

He opened his mouth to tell her his father was home after years of being on the lam, then he heard her name being called in the background.

“I have to go,” she said with a sigh. “My parents are dragging me to some kind of musical and then to dinner.”