Читать книгу Suburban Secrets - Donna Birdsell - Страница 12

Saturday, 12:49 a.m.

Lady in Red

Who was the babe?

Pete watched Balboa with the blonde in the red jacket for almost twenty minutes. He’d never seen her before, but that didn’t mean anything. Balboa always had a roll of cash in his pocket and a girl on his arm. Often, both appeared from nowhere.

Problem was, this one didn’t quite look like Balboa’s type. His recipe for the perfect woman was forty-five percent silicone, forty-five percent collagen and ten percent ink.

This one, while the clothes she wore weren’t exactly conservative, they didn’t come close to some of the anti-apparel he’d seen before. Her breasts actually looked real, too, and she didn’t have one visible tattoo.

Something was up.

As time went on, the crowd at the bar began to thin. Pete moved to a spot behind Balboa and the female. The woman stood to flag down the bartender, and Pete watched as Balboa’s hand cupped her rather spectacular ass.

Life could be so unfair.

Pete ordered another club soda from the waitress and leaned against a column.

If he had to guess, he’d say that Balboa had the memory key on him. According to Pete’s sources, Balboa had come straight here after meeting with the Russian’s competition, Johnny Iatesta, in Trenton. The asshole. Two years of wheeling and dealing, and the guy was going to screw him? No way.

All Pete had to do was stick close until the horny couple left the club.

He yawned. When in the hell were these two going to get a room?

Just then Balboa slipped something into the pocket of the woman’s red jacket. Drugs? Money?

The memory key.

Balboa whispered something in her ear, and they sucked face for another five minutes before she broke away.

She headed straight for Pete, brushing his arm with her breasts as she squeezed by him on her way to the can. She smelled fantastic. He thought she might have a pretty face, too, but it was dark and he’d been distracted by the rest of her.

He watched the ladies’ room, looking forward to her return trip.

She emerged from the bathroom, but instead of coming back toward him she headed for the door.

Pete hustled after her, pushing through the ranks of ultrahip boys and girls pretending not to notice each other. He’d almost reached the door when a guy resembling a woolly mammoth in a tuxedo plowed in.

“’Scuse me.”

“No problem.” Pete tried to get around him, only to discover six more just like him pouring through the door. Seven equally large women in ruffled bridesmaid gowns followed close behind the men.

Pete got caught in the undertow and was pulled back into the club, surfing a wave of Aqua Velva and powder-blue taffeta. Somehow he managed to squeeze through the wedding party and reached the door just in time to see a cab pull away from the curb.

Pete smacked the door with the palm of his hand.

Now what?

He turned and went back into the club. No way was he going to let Balboa disappear.

But by the time he fought his way back into the bar, the only thing left sitting at Balboa’s bar stool was a lipstick-smudged margarita glass and an ashtray full of butts.

“Shit,” Pete muttered.

It really wasn’t his day.