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“Oh, I’ll have the arabica, thank you for asking.”
Where the hell was Paulo? I typed out a text.
Me
Everything okay, hun? Catching up on your beauty sleep?
If I hadn’t been well and truly sated by Alex, I might have felt irritated by Paulo’s no-show. At least he’d promised to work through lunch. My time with Alex was precious, and I wanted to finish on time today so we could go out for dinner.
My coffee arrived, but Paulo didn’t. I helped myself to a bowl of fresh fruit, added a generous dollop of live yogurt, and was about to check the tracking app I’d installed on his cell phone when he finally broke radio silence. FaceTime. Why couldn’t he just call like a normal person? Why did he need video?
I shoved earbuds into my ears and answered. Then swallowed a laugh. Damn, Paulo looked as if he’d been dragged through a nightclub backward and then shot out of a glitter cannon. Dark circles under his eyes, hair mussed, a smudged painting of a butterfly on one cheek. I tried for a sympathetic expression. Darla would do sympathy.
“Rough night, hun?”
“Ohmigosh, I’m sooooo sorry! Am I late?”
The camera panned around a hotel suite—which wasn’t Paulo’s hotel suite—and I spotted three sleeping drag queens on a couch behind him. At least, I hoped they were only sleeping. Disposing of bodies was so tedious, especially at this time in the morning.
“How were the daiquiris?”
“They were— You know, I don’t really remember. My head hurts.”
“Where’s your purse? Did you remember your Tylenol?”
“I…” He looked around the room, and his eyes widened when he spotted the drag queens. His voice dropped to a whisper. “Who are those people? Where am I?”
An excellent question.
“Why don’t you try waking one of them and asking?”
“Uh, I guess I could do that.”
The camera wobbled as he picked his way across the room. At least he was still wearing clothes.
“Excuse me?” A pause. “Excuse me?”
“Huh?”
“Do you know where we are?”
“Wha… Oh, sure, the Black Diamond.”
“Thank goodness.” Paulo’s worry turned to relief. “Darla, can you come get me? I can’t find my pants.”
Okay, make that half-wearing clothes. “Which floor are you on? Borrow a bathrobe, and then we can go to the lobby and get you a spare room key.”
“Uh, which floor? Do you know which floor?”
Another pause. “Presidential Suite. Twenty-third floor.”
Paulo repeated the information with a note of hope in his voice. False hope, as it turned out.
“Hun, this hotel only has six floors, seven if you include the basement.”
I focused on the sliver of view behind him and tried to keep a straight face. Fuck me, I owed Alex considerably more than five bucks, and Bradley too, that crazy, overly exuberant genius. Yes, he was the human equivalent of a stone in your boot, but I was beginning to see why Emmy kept him around. Paulo’s confusion was more entertaining than Netflix.
“I…I don’t understand.”
