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Authors: Lolita Lopez

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BOOK: Bad, Bad Things
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The buzz of my cell phone in my pocket sends my pulse racing. It’s time.

“I’m heading out tonight, Mom. It’s Sandy’s night to sit with you. She’ll probably be here not long after I leave. Delia will stay with you until then.” It’s Thursday, so I switch on the TV and turn it to her favorite channel. I maneuver her electric wheelchair into place, replace the emergency call button necklace I’d taken off before feeding her and make sure she’s comfortable.

“Ca-ca-care-foo-foo-ful.” She reaches for me, arm waving wildly and fingers in spasm.

“I will,” I promise, kissing her cheek. “I’ll send Delia up.”

I leave the room with one last smile in her direction. Sadness wells up inside me.

That beautiful, once-vibrant woman has been sentenced to a lifetime spent within the walls of our home and the paved pathways around the estate. I push away those vile memories of the night that changed our lives and reduced my mother to an invalid. I can’t think of that right now, not when I’m just hours away from breaking into a hotel room to steal the sex tape that I pray will be my family’s salvation.

18

Bad, Bad Things

I grab what I need from my bedroom and skip downstairs to the kitchen for a bottle of pomegranate juice. I spot the pile of bills on the kitchen counter. Just the thought off all the final notices contained in those seemingly innocent envelopes sours my tummy.

The weight of juggling my mother’s mounting medical bills along with the cost of upkeep around the house makes my shoulders sag.

Like everything else that burdens me, I shove it out of my mind and concentrate only on the moment at hand. Tonight I have to focus. One slip-up and I’m fucked six ways to Sunday.

I snatch a bottle of chilled juice from the fridge and toss the bills in the bottom drawer of the kitchen island along with all the other random odds and ends. Out of sight, out of mind.


Ten cuidado, mi’ja
.” Delia, our longtime cook and housekeeper, stands in the foyer, arms crossed against her chest. Worry etches deep lines in her face. I can tell she’s still angry with me for locking her in the panic room/closet of my mother’s room the night those cartel assholes paid us a house call. The second I heard the front door splinter, I’d known the shit was about to hit the fan. Mom and Delia’s safety had been my only concern. Knowing they were safe while I was having the crap knocked out of me made the experience somewhat less terrifying.

Somewhat.

“I’m just going out for some drinks with Fox.”


No me mientas.

She doesn’t buy the lie for one millisecond. Delia knows me as well as my mother, sometimes better. It’s not surprising really. She’s been in my life from the first moment I drew breath.

And, of course, there’s that tiny little insignificant detail about the blood we share.

But we never talk about that.

Ever.

19

Lolita Lopez

“All right.” I close the distance between us and take her hand. It’s chapped and red from cleaning. I frown and shake my head, wondering why the hell she won’t use the gloves I leave in her cleaning caddy. “I wouldn’t be doing this if there was any other way.”

Her lips purse before she sighs and draws me into a squishy hug. Her scent, a mixture of lavender soap and Pledge and Dawn dish soap, wraps around me, calming my nerves. It’s like coming home from a long vacation and sucking in that first breath that makes you feel all warm and relaxed and secure.

Delia pushes me out to arm’s length. She holds my gaze. “This thing with your sister,” she says, her English heavily accented, “it has to stop. We cannot live like this.”

“I know. I’m working on it.”

Delia kisses my forehead and pats my cheek. “I leave supper
en la
refrigerator.”

“Great.” I peck her cheek. “I’ll try not to be out too late.”

“Mmm-hmm,” she hums skeptically.

“Sandy will be here soon. If she asks about this,” I gesture to the battered foyer,

“just tell her I had a fight with my drunk boyfriend.” When she makes a face, I mirror it.

“Look, I’d rather have people think I’m some kind of hot mess than have them know the truth.”

I don’t stick around to argue with her. She won’t tell Sandy anything about the door. Delia will do what she always does in sticky situations—pretend she doesn’t speak enough English to understand. I’m fairly certain Sandy, Mom’s sometime night nurse since I can only afford her a few nights a week, thinks Delia is fresh off the bus.

Clearly Delia sees the advantages to the assumption so I leave it alone.

The drive to the parking lot where I’ve stashed a rental car doesn’t take long. I down the last of my juice, switch vehicles and slip into the backseat of the compact to change into the maid’s uniform. An ash-brown wig and square-framed glasses change my appearance quite a bit. No longer am I the familiar face from that cheesy tween show that made me a household name, or from the paparazzi shots snapped as I 20

Bad, Bad Things

stumbled out of clubs with Fox. I’m a nobody, a Plain Jane able to blend in and disappear.

After I park the rental in the employee lot, I fall in with a bunch of other employees arriving for the night shift. No one gives me a second glance. The ID badge and uniform I bought off Linda Martinez, a new maid with only a couple days of employ with the hotel, grants me all the access I need. Since Linda is so new and hasn’t made any meaningful work relationships, I don’t have any trouble playing the part. No one even asks me about my day as I pick up my cart.

Gee, no wonder Linda was so eager to sell me her stuff. I wouldn’t want to work with the rest of these Debbie Downers either.

The housekeeping manager doesn’t give me more than a cursory glance as she barks orders. Me, on the other hand? I can’t tear my gaze away from the big, square-toed man shoes she’s wearing or the very obvious stubble poking through her pantyhose. Who wears a skirt without shaving her legs—even if just to the knee? And what’s with the run? Seriously, pantyhose are cheap. Get a new pair already!

“Room 1221 wants the rings wiped off the countertops in the dining room. The bathroom isn’t up to their standards either.”

Although I loathe cleaning, I’m secretly pleased as I push my cart down the hall toward the service elevators. A little planning goes a long way to a smooth execution.

We just might pull this heist off.

Jolie sends me a text. Cruz still hasn’t left the hotel. While I wait for the green light, I play housekeeper. It’s not particularly glorious work but it’s hard and keeps my mind occupied. This isn’t a time for second-guessing or what-ifs.

* * * * *

Three-and-a-half hours later, I’m elbow-deep in a vomit-splashed toilet, my nose buried in the crook of my other arm as I try not to gag on the tequila and Jell-O fumes, when my pocket vibrates. I consider whether or not to stop scrubbing. Not wanting to 21

Lolita Lopez

subject myself to the stench of tequila puke any longer than necessary, I put some elbow grease into my work and finish up the job quickly. When I stand back and give it a look, I see a sparkling toilet of which even Delia would approve.

I chuck my gloves in the waste container on my cart and fish out my phone. There’s a text from Jolie. Cruz has left. Fox is on the prowl.

“Finally,” I grumble, and get back to work, my body hyper aware as it anticipates the next text-message buzz.

I have hopes the night will improve after the Jell-O shot aftermath but it doesn’t.

The things people get up to at night in hotels! Fox and Jolie and I got up to some rather hair-raising antics while on vacation in Amsterdam once but after answering a few more housekeeping calls, I’m suddenly convinced I’m a prude.

It’s nearly three in the morning when Jolie texts me again. I put down my plunger and resign the dildo-clogged toilet to a visit from the maintenance crew. I try not to work up any scenarios to explain how, exactly, the hot pink dildo was flushed down said toilet.

Per Jolie’s instructions, I call her. “What?”

“Little problem.”

“Oh?”

“Fox and Cruz are about to walk into the lobby and he’s still wearing the key.”


What
?”

“Yeah. She’s trying. She really is. We met up in the bathroom at the club and she told me he’s a slippery fucker who won’t stand still long enough for her to get her hands around his neck. And oh my God, O! He’s such a gross dancer. I swear he was dry humping her leg out there—”

“Jolie,” I cut in, “you can recount the dry humping later.” I’m starting to experience some mild panic now. “Did Fox say anything?”

22

Bad, Bad Things

“She says to give her twenty minutes and then head up to the room. Do you have the other room key?”

I pat my pocket to make sure. “Yes.”

“Use it, wipe it clean and then drop it in the lost and found box in the housekeeping office.”

“Got it.” I hang up, load my cart and give the embarrassed couple sharing the hotel room an update. I keep it professional and avoid their uncomfortable looks. Once outside the room and far down the hall, I give in to the fit of giggles threatening to overtake me. Considering I’m about to commit an act of burglary, I could use the laugh.

I park my cart outside the door to Cruz’s private suite. Tempted to press my ear against the door, I remember the security cameras. I swipe the guest card instead of my housekeeper’s card and slowly, quietly, enter the room. Immediately I hear giggling and laughing from the bedroom area. It stops me dead in my tracks. Is she fucking him?

And then I hear a loud crash and thump.

Eyes wide, I rush toward the closed bedroom door. It swings open to reveal Fox in a curve-hugging dress, the hem so short it barely covers the cheeks of her ass. She’s wearing way too much makeup and has teased her hair to within an inch of its life.

Couple all of that with the shocking spray tan and she looks as if she just stepped out of a
Jersey Shore
episode. Clearly she studied her mark and dressed the part.

“Oh, thank God!” Fox exclaims and gestures me inside the room.

My gaze lands on Cruz, facedown and snoring on the floor. A coffee table is turned on its side. Champagne spills from a bottle and seeps under his prone form. He’s wearing some kind of shiny man thong and not much else. It’s obvious he’s a fan of manscaping. “What happened?”

“Four Ambien and some champagne,” Fox says, moving aside the bottle with her toes.

My eyes practically bug out of my head. “You drugged him?”

23

Lolita Lopez

“I told you I wasn’t going to sleep with him.” She bends down to retrieve the key dangling from the necklace. “Having his stubby dick poking my belly while we danced was enough for me, thanks.”

I’m stunned. “It’s stubby?”

Fox looks up at me. “That’s what you took from that?”

I shrug and crouch down next to her. “I’m just surprised. With his reputation, you’d think he had a golden wiener or something.”

She cackles at that and shakes her head. “Golden wiener. I’m going to have to create a character in my next installment named that.”

“Please do.” I lift up his head as she works the thin platinum chain free. Slobber dribbles onto my fingers. “Ew!”

She holds up the key. “Got it.”

I pull on a pair of medical gloves and snatch the key from her hand…

Then my stomach drops as I realize there are suitcases
everywhere
.

Trunks stacked in corners. Hard-shelled cases on wheels, open and spewing their clothes. Soft-sided bags, unzipped to show uniforms. Big, small and everything in between. “FFS!”

Fox snorts at my text speak and tugs on her own pair of gloves. “I know, right?

That’s why I gave him four Ambien instead of two. It’ll give us more time to search.”

“I’m surprised he didn’t taste the pills. They don’t dissolve all that well,” I murmur, snapping some quick pics with my cell phone. We have to put everything back exactly as it was. I start my suitcase search. If it doesn’t have a lock, I move on to the next one.

“Oh, he did taste them. I didn’t trick him into taking them.” She studies one of the cases as she aids in my quest. “Maybe the lock isn’t on the outside but on the inside of the suitcase.”

“Good thinking,” I say and start opening them one by one. “How did you get him to take them?”

24

Bad, Bad Things

“I told him Tiger Woods had freaky sex with all those whores while on Ambien.”

I pause my rummaging. “Is that true?”

“Marco reported it so it must be.” Fox makes a funny face as she picks up some weird-looking silicone tube thing. “What a perv!”

“What is
that
?”

She shoots me a look that clearly says I’m dumb. “It’s for jerking off.”

Suddenly I
do
feel dumb. “They make toys for that? I mean, they have hands.”

“So do we,” she points out, “but that hasn’t stopped you from stocking that bedside drawer of yours with all kinds of vibrating dirtiness.”

I glare at her. “Well I didn’t hear you complaining the last time you stayed over. Or Jolie,” I add for good measure.

Fox dumps out a small trunk filled with hair and skin products. “Yeah, well—

Hey!” She runs her hands over the bottom. “I think this is it!”

I rush to her side. Sure enough, she’s found it. My fingers tremble as I stick the key into the small lock hidden beneath a flap. The false bottom lifts on a hinge to uncover a stash of DVDs.

“Whoa.” Fox sits back on her heels. “I thought it was just one tape.”

“Apparently someone has a naughty habit.” I glance over my shoulder at his still-snoring form. “Are they labeled?”

Fox heaves a sigh of relief. “Yes.” She flicks through them. “Oh my God! Are you seeing some of these names? This is a gold mine!”

For just a few seconds, I’m on the same wavelength as Fox. The money to be made off these is limitless.

“No,” I say finally. “We just came for one.”

Fox nods in agreement. “Right.”

BOOK: Bad, Bad Things
8.96Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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