“Yeah?”
“Maybe itisbehind the clown painting. Like, in the backing? I’ve seen gangsters do that in TV shows before.”
Shepherd looked her in the eyes, his breathing shallow. “So, if we find the painting—”
“We find the money.” She nodded. “And then we won’t need the C-4.”
He huffed. “We still have to get out of this hell hole, Ginny. Don’t get too far ahead in the plan.”
“I thought you said we were off plan.”
“It’s another plan, now. It’s Find the Sad Clown and then, unfortunately, Haul Ass.”
Ginny hopped up on her tiptoes and kissed his cheek. “To hauling ass.”
Ginny took his hand and tugged him away from the wall. “Let’s pretend we are looking for a quiet space to hook up.”
Shepherd said, “Yeah. Good idea. The orgy room had a fight break out in there over hockey or something. I don’t know, I didn’t start it.”
“What a suspicious way to say that.”
He clicked his tongue. “Not my fault someone said something bad about Marchand.”
She led him through the crowded common area, past a rowdy game of billiards, a kitchen overflowing with people taking jello shots. “There were some bedrooms up here,” she whispered. “And an office. It’s gotta be in the office, right?”
“How the hell should I know where bikers stash their sad money clown?”
Ginny stopped walking. They were relatively alone in a small hallway. She turned to him with her hands on her hips and her eyebrows raised. “You’re the chronic worrier with a plan for everything. Put yourself in their shoes. Where would you hide your painting filled with cash during a party?”
Shepherd glared at her. “Chronic worrier” was a rude way to put it. He was her employer, for God’s sake, and her fake(maybe real?) boyfriend, and is that what she really thought of him? Did she think he wasn’t capable in a crisis? Is that why he was still in the fake-boyfriend category? He was great in a crisis! He had to be, since most of his life up until now had been one crisis after another and—
“Shepherd?” Ginny held his hand, her fingers cold in his. “Any ideas?”
He exhaled in defeat. “Yeah. Under a bed. Probably with some old clothes stashed on top of it.”
Ginny tapped his nose with the tip of her index finger. “That’s my guy.”
FORTY
The back bedroom, and the most likely spot for the clown painting to have been stashed, was currently occupied by other couples. Shepherd and Ginny shuffled in and found an uncrowded spot on a twin bed. She sat in his lap and looked at him with wide, terrified eyes. He, too, maintained eye contact, lest he saw something unseeable.
“So,” she whispered, “I guessthisis the room meant for orgies.”
“I just think group sex is a popular hobby among degenerates,” Shepherd whispered back. “A tie that binds them all together, if you will.”
Her eyes narrowed. “‘Degenerates’ is rude. The Tire Irons run a very successful Toys for Tots program every year, and all their members sign up to help escort children who are called to testify against their abusers. The president was talking to me about it earlier. Their community outreach is quite impressive.”
Someone moaned.
Ginny grabbed onto Shepherd with both hands and tried to hide.
He squeezed her thigh with one hand, pressed her face against his neck with the other. “If you had let me bring my phone,” he whispered, “I’d know how long we have—”
There was a loud but distant explosion.
Even knowing it was coming, Shepherd still grabbed Ginny tight and held on until the noise subsided. The other people in the room all gasped, and not from the group fun they were having. “What was that?” they asked each other, re-zipping and re-leathering.
“It sounded like it came from outside!” Ginny jumped to her feet and pointed. “We should all go see what it is!”
