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The bearded dude with the clipboard drew a slash across her name, then scanned the space. “We’re ready forBang BangBarbie,” the man called, then tossed her a wink.
Was she supposed to be proud of him for getting it right?
Her whole life was on the cusp of total ruin. She pinched the bridge of her nose when a clackity-clack and a woman’s high-pitched squeal cut through the hum of conversation.
“I’m Bang Bang Barbie,” called a blonde, Barbie-looking chick covered in glitter, and barely anything else, as she teetered toward them in shiny pink heels. “Sorry, I’m late. The roundabout was blocked because they’re towing away some broken-down heap parked near the main entrance.”
A broken-down heap?
Her jaw dropped. “Oh shit!”
“Yeah, the car looked like shit. It was brown,” Bang Bang Barbie offered like she’d majored in color identification at Dingbat University.
This was too much for one woman to take.
She’d explode if she didn’t release the anger roiling in her chest.
She marched up to Vance’s cardboard cutout, released a primal scream, then punched his stupid flat face.
And…
“Holy shit, that hurt!” she exclaimed, cradling her throbbing hand as the people in the hallway stared at her, wide-eyed the way one would watch a train wreck.
Say something not crazy.
She straightened the paper version of Vance. “These cutouts are way more solid than they look.”
Stop talking!
She had bigger problems.
She had to get to her car.
She turned on her heel, then booked it down the hallway. Tearing through the lobby like the coffee-colored version of The Flash, she burst through the doors. A blast of desert air took the breath right out of her as she watched a tow truck turn the corner and disappear with her Volvo.
“Carol!” she screamed, but it was no use. Carol, in her brown Volvo glory, was gone, swallowed by dark skies as the tow truck merged into a sea of traffic illuminated by flashing lights.
She ran her hands down her face. “How is this my life?” she moaned, then hit pause on her pity party when someone tapped her shoulder.
“Sorry, music teacher,” the burly New York bellhop offered. “I hear the couple who own this hotel run a tight ship—real ball busters.”
But she didn’t have the strength to worry about some billionaire couple who owned this shiny event center.
“My car,” she whimpered as her phone rang. Moving like a zombie bonbon on autopilot, she slipped the cell from her tote. “Hello?”
“Ms. Presley?” a man said, his tone all business.
“Yeah?” she eked out.
“It’s been exceedingly difficult to get in touch with you.”
“Who is this?” she stammered, working to regain her bearings.
“It’s Richard P. Snodgrass, from the bank.”
The bank.
“It’s imperative we speak, Ms. Presley. You’re running out of time before—”
