Fair Play (Hat Trick, Book 1) (24 page)

Pain exploded in Garrick’s head the moment he regained
consciousness. It was all he knew, all he could process. It took him far longer
than it should have to notice his hands and feet were tied to a chair and his
mouth was stuffed with a foul-tasting rag that was further splitting his fat
lips. The eye that had only just recovered from the locker room brawl was
swollen to the point that the pressure on his eyeball felt equal to the punch
that had started it.

Without a doubt, opening his eyes would be punished with additional
excruciating pain, but he fought past his desire to slip back into the blessed
darkness and forced his one working eye open.

More darkness. Where the fuck was he?

A couple slow, painful blinks brought shapes from the
shadows, looming close and above him. Shelves. Boxes. The storage closet?

He turned his head to try to see more, and ruthlessly forced
back his need to gag when his head spun like it was trying to detach from his
shoulders. His concussion was causing plenty of nausea without the noxious fabric
jammed between his teeth helping things along.

He needed to get out of here.

The dull thump of music vibrated through the wall. The bar
must be open. He tried to yell, but the gag was effective, his voice a hollow
shout that didn’t rise above the pounding bass even within the closet. He lost
hope that someone might even hear him on their way to the bathroom.

Yeah, he was screwed.

He tipped his head down to examine the binding holding his
arms to the chair and winced as his brain shifted inside his skull.

He’d had his bell rung a few times over the years and knew
the symptoms. He needed to get his head scanned to make sure it wasn’t more
serious. Either way, he’d be off the ice for a few days, maybe longer.

But first, he really needed to get out of here.

Praying he didn’t pass out, Garrick rocked his chair, using
what little leverage he had with his feet taped to the legs to lift and bump
his chair closer to the shelves. With each hard thump of impact, his vision
waivered and his stomach roiled. He kept at it anyway.

Savannah went straight to the bar, her back to the room, and
ordered a Diet Coke.

She scanned the crowd using the mirrors behind the rows of
liquor bottles. She didn’t see anyone she recognized from the house. Though
they’d all been wearing coats, and she’d mostly only seen their profiles. The
more she thought about it, the more she worried it could be any of the bigger
guys filtering into the bar.

She needed to act fast.

The door to the back hall caught her eye. She’d start there.

She’d taken no more than three steps, her purse on her
shoulder and her beverage in hand, when a big guy stepped through the door and leaned
against the wall beside it.

Bouncer. A big one. His platinum hair was unusual enough
that she was certain she hadn’t seen him before. When he looked right through
her to the bar, she was convinced he hadn’t seen her before either.

Now how the hell was she going to get past him?

Circling the room as if searching for a friend, she skirted
the dance floor and made her way to the pool tables at the back. Not
surprisingly, she found two men playing a game, both preening for the gaggle of
young women sitting at nearby tables. The women were here to watch the show, as
evidenced by the empty pool tables around them.

She watched the age-old mating ritual unfold, amused and
depressed by the familiar scene. The women were made-up to the hilt, already on
the prowl at five o’clock, make-up fresh, heels high, and skirts short. She
knew the type. Had walked a mile in those very stilettos, a time or two, when
her friends had convinced her to relax and enjoy the hunt for once.

Focusing on a particularly keen-eyed group of young women,
she wandered over, standing near enough to hear the women’s gossip, their snark
so catty it was shameless. Perhaps not so like her and her friends after all. These
women were
brutal.

She edged closer, leaning in until one of the women jostled
her.

“Oh! I’m so sorry!”

Savannah smiled broadly and brandished her drink. “No
worries, hon.”

The woman’s eyes narrowed on her but Savannah kept her boozy
smile in place. When the woman went to turn away, Savannah clutched her arm and
whispered conspiratorially. “Look out for that group of girls over there,” she
said, waving vaguely with her glass.

“Pardon me?”

“The one there,” Savannah said, waving again, only this time
more pointedly in the direction of the other large group of women in the room. “One
of those bitches said your friend has a bad perm and that she gets her make-up
tips from RuPaul.”

Savannah had no idea why the latter was an issue, but she’d
once seen a girlfriend in college lose her mind over this alleged insult. Worried
this alone wouldn’t do the trick, she went in for the kill. “She also said your
extensions looked cheap.”

The woman gasped and Savannah released her arm, staggering
back. By the time the woman practically fell on her girlfriends, Savannah was
back in the main bar area, headed for clearer ground.

The screech that emanated from the pool room was spectacular.
Everyone in the bar turned toward the source of the noise.

Savannah looked back in time to see the first pitcher of
beer sailing over the heads of the two pool players to splash down on the table
of women across the way. A hell of a first move, she thought, wincing as a beer
tsunami spanned the width of the room.

From there, it was impossible to tell what happened as
people rushed to watch the show and blocked her view within seconds. The
bouncer with the platinum hair leaped forward, waded into the crowd, and disappeared
into the bystanders and the riot beyond.

Savannah ran into the back hall, tossing her purse strap
over her head so it lay across her chest and she had both hands free.

The dim corridor was lined with doors. Ladies’ Room. Men’s Room.
Supplies. She was about to inspect the only door without a label when it swung
open and a man stepped out. He looked so much like Bobby Kramer there was no
mistaking who he was. Savannah dove into the women’s bathroom, her hand
catching the door handle at the last second and holding it open a crack. She
prayed she hadn’t been spotted, not sure if Bobby’s father would recognize her.
She suspected he would.

“Pack it all up and get it the fuck out of here. Now.”

The fake British accent confirmed her suspicion. Robert
Kramer.

“Yes, boss,” replied a voice from the room beyond.

“I’ll have the truck here in an hour or less. I expect this
office to be up and running in the warehouse on Sylvio by midnight.”

At the bang of the back door closing, she sneaked a peek
into the hallway and found it blessedly empty. She slipped out of the bathroom
and heard the thunk of a deadbolt being locked. The mysterious door at the end
of the hallway was once again closed tight. A plan began to take shape in her
head, but she had to find Garrick first.

The racket from the bar was still loud, the screeches ear
splitting. She forgot all about her pang of guilt, though, when she heard a
muffled thump from beyond the door labeled Supplies.

She planted her shoulder against the door, only realizing as
her head made contact with the hollow wood that it was locked.

Grateful no one had witnessed that slick maneuver, she
backed up and studied the lock, listening as another series of bumps issued
from within. She tried the handle, shaking the door as hard as she could, and
the thumping noises stopped, replaced by a steady, faint moaning sound. The
door was old and scratched. The door jamb was also wood and in serious need of
updating.

She was going to be seriously embarrassed if she barged in
on some couple getting it on, but she had to check. All those years of breaking
into her brothers’ rooms were about to pay off.

Selecting the biggest of her Swiss Army knife blades, she jimmied
it between the door and the jamb where she felt the resistance of the lock. She
worked it back and forth as she shoved her shoulder and hip against the door as
hard as she could.

With a soft click, the lock gave way and she stumbled into a
tiny room. She caught herself just before she slammed into the shelving filled
with cleaning supplies and toilet paper. A sharp grunt brought her head up.

Garrick!
Gagged and tied to a chair at the back of
the long, narrow space.

He looked like shit, but conscious and in one piece. One eye
was almost swollen shut but the wide-eyed stare she got from the other said his
mental faculties were in good working order. No question he was processing the
sight before him just fine when he started yelling at her through the
nasty-looking rag in his mouth.

The vise clamped around her chest eased for the first time
in hours. He was okay.

She hesitated. She wanted to remove the gag but he was hollering
like he’d like to bring the walls down around their ears. She couldn’t risk him
giving her away. And she’d be back in a minute.

She pillaged the office supplies on the shelf above her, grabbed
a broom, winked at Garrick, and stepped back out into the hallway, closing the
door firmly behind her.

Garrick fought at his bindings like a man possessed. Never
in his life had he seen anything more terrifying than Savannah standing in the
door with nothing more than a pocket knife, winking at him like a crazy person
before going back out into Robert Kramer’s lair. With a broom.

What the hell is she doing?

He howled around the wad of cloth in his mouth, sounding a
little crazed to his own ears, and promptly shut up. Christ, he didn’t want to garner
any more attention than they already had. How the hell had she gotten past Blondie?
And Robert Kramer was in the building. Garrick had been addled, but he’d heard
the cheeseball accent.

That dude was one scary motherfucker.

He fought harder against the ropes and winced as they sawed
into his skin. Sweat broke out across his body, his shirt sticking to him
beneath his heavy jacket. His respiration rate increased until he risked
gagging again.

Before Savannah had appeared, he’d been listening to the
commotion out in the bar. The muffled noises were still too distant and vague for
him to determine what was happening, but now it was mostly drowned out by what
sounded like someone pounding on a door nearby.

Was that Savannah? Had they caught her too?

He yanked his arm harder, on the verge of dislocating his
shoulder. Blood trickled down his wrist from beneath the ropes. He kept going.

He’d made some headway when the door swung open again and
Savannah rushed to him.

“Are you okay?”

He shouted his answer. She couldn’t understand him through
the gag. It was probably for the best.

She plucked at the knot behind his head and he gasped as the
fabric fell away from his mouth.

“What the
fuck
are you doing here!?” His voice was
hoarse, the ridiculous sound compounded by his hugely swollen bottom lip.

Savannah eyed him then the rag in her hand, like she was
seriously considering reinserting it in his mouth.

“I’m sorry,” he said quickly. “I’m glad you came. Now, please,
let’s get the hell out of here.”

She nodded and fell to her knees, working at the rope
holding his right hand with her little knife. “Are you okay?”

“Yes. No.”

She stopped and searched his face with her eyes.

“I’m going to be okay. Should see a doctor about the head,
but otherwise fine.”

“Have you seen your face?”

“Bad?”

She grimaced.

He kept working at his left wrist, ignoring the burn of the
rope cutting into his skin. She didn’t seem to be getting anywhere either. His right
wrist was still pinned. He was about to suggest she work the knot instead when his
hand popped free. He went to work on the knot holding his left hand and she
started on his feet.

Within a minute, they had him free. He sprang from the chair
and stopped, his hand clutching a shelf to steady himself.

Savannah slipped her arm around his waist. “You’re not
okay.”

“No, I am. Everything hurts, but I’m going to be okay.”

“You better be.”

He wondered if his head injury was allowing him to
hallucinate the tender look in her eyes. He wanted it to be true so badly, it
was entirely possible he’d conjured the image from some combinations of sheer
wishfulness and brain damage.

They staggered to the door.  Savannah propped his shoulder
against a box of napkins and peeked out into the hallway before ducking back in.

“You ready?”

“Yeah, from here we can go right out the back.”

“Not anymore.” She opened the door and helped him out into
the hallway.

He gawked at the spectacle before him.

Blondie was trussed up on the floor. His hands were bound, his
mouth forcibly shut, his feet and calves wrapped to the knee in shiny silver. He
struggled against his bindings, but wasn’t getting anywhere, as he appeared to
be attached to the door leading to the mysterious office like some kind of
human crossbar. His bindings were attached to ropes of silver wrapped around
the doorknob behind him and the emergency release bar of the back exit. The
broom handle, secured in a silver web, was jammed in the release bar of the
back door, holding it in the locked position.

Savannah smiled sheepishly and pulled a huge roll of duct
tape from her purse.

“But, how…”

“I’ll tell you later. Right now we need to get out of here.”

He stared a moment longer. “Sweet Jesus, you
are
god’s gift to tape.”

Savannah grinned.

A fierce pounding shook the back office door.