Shepherd held up his can. “I’m good, thanks. Hey.” He greeted the leader as though he’d met him before. “Good to see you again.”
“Yeah, man.” The president shook his hand. “You, too. Enjoy the party, all right?”
Ginny sat back down on her cooler’s lid, and Shepherd tried to hide his wince with a grin. There was enough C-4 in the bottom of that thing to blow the roof off this place. “Yeah, thanks, man. I will. Gonna get some grub.”
She smiled. “Tacos should be opening soon, if you’re too hungry to wait for the pig roast.”
“I’m always hungry,” Shepherd said. He took another sip of his beer. “OK, bye.”
THIRTY-NINE
OK, he handled that like a boss. His pretend fiancée was busy distracting the president of the white supremacist biker club, the taco truck was almost ready for business, and now all he needed to do was make it into the orgy room—or whatever it was they used that room for (definitely orgies). With a steadying sip of beer, he went into the room that held the clown painting, fully expecting to find a myriad of people in a state of undress.
There were a lot of people on the couch, some of them making out, some of them just talking, some of them standing around and drinking. One guy was really yelling at another guy about hockey. Shepherd almost went over to them because he, too, was always up for yelling about hockey.
But besides the orgy that he had prepared himself for not currently taking place, something else was missing from the room.
The sad clown painting.
And where it should have been—where the safe they were planning to blow open in a moment of confusion was supposed to be installed—was a completely empty wall. Slightly whiter than the rest of the room due to the protection provided by the painting. But besides a scratch mark left behind in the middle of it—like a werewolf’s slash—zilch. Nada. El zero.
“Shit!” Shepherd yelled. “Fuck!”
All the bikers in the room collectively stopped and looked at him.
He exhaled, furious, and stormed over to the hockey yellers. “Marchand was the best thing that ever happened to the Panthers! Get your head out of your ass! Fuck the Bruins!”
“Yeah!” the yeller yelled in agreement. “Fuck Boston!”
“Fuck Buston?” the other yeller yelled in disagreement. “I’m from Boston!”
“Then fuck you!”
“Fuck you!”
Someone threw a punch. The bikers and the bikettes on the couch started shouting as the fighters landed on top of them. Someone else started taking money for bets. Shepherd ducked out in the chaos, looking for Ginny. The one time he remembered to leave his phone at home, and the entire sky was falling.
Ginny was sitting on her cooler, legs crossed, sipping her drink and talking to a woman wearing tiny denim shorts and an even tinier leather vest. The woman was also drinking a wine cooler. They were laughing—Ginny with her head back and a giant smile on her face, the woman with a cigarette between her lips.
Shepherd nonchalantly walked behind the woman, signaling to Ginny with his eyes. And his hands. And his open, gaping mouth.
Ginny put her hand on the other woman’s arm. “Excuse me, little girls’ room. Help yourself to more wine coolers!”
Before she could speak to him, Shepherd grabbed her by the elbow and pulled her into a nearby corner. There were still tons of people around. He maneuvered her back against the wall, stood in front of her, and lowered his face to her ear.
She giggled. “Your breath tickles, Shepherd.”
“Ginny!” he hissed, willing his brain to focus on the problem at hand and not at her nearness. “The painting is gone and there is no wall safe!”
“What do you mean there’s no wall safe?”
“I mean”—he pressed his forehead against hers and focused on breathing—“the painting is gone. There’s no safe behind it. Just wall. Solid, mocking wall. This wasn’t in the plan, Ginny. We are wildly off plan!”
Ginny grabbed onto his vest with both hands. “OK.” Her breath smelled like alcoholic strawberries. “OK. This is solvable.”
“We’re in a biker clubhouse with enough C-4 in a cooler to blow the roof off and a taco truck across the street set to catch fire at any second. Solvable, my ass.”
“No. No. Listen. Charlie was certain the money was behind the clown painting, right?”
