Highways & Hostages (12 page)

“No, it isn’t,” Finn agreed, his eyes locked on hers. She smiled up at him. Finn took in a deep strawberry-scented breath and closed his eyes.

When the Mariachis finished their song, Finn and Stella clapped appreciatively. An emotion stirred in Finn’s chest that he couldn’t quite put his finger on. Lust? Disappointment? Nostalgia? Whatever it was, he shrugged it off. He might have been enjoying himself, but he had to keep business at the forefront of his mind.

He blinked, bringing himself back to the present. Stella was gazing at him with a curious expression on her face, and Rachel was standing in front of them with a Polaroid camera. “Say ‘cheese,’ lovebirds.”

“That’s really not necessary,” Finn was in the middle of saying when Stella threw her arms around his waist and the camera’s flash went off. “And now I’m blind.”

He tried to blink away the spots dancing in front of his eyes as Stella guided him back to his seat before taking her own. Rachel gave her the Polaroid and disappeared with the Mariachis, directing them out into the lobby.

Stella shook the developing picture. “I didn’t even know they made these things anymore.”

“I’m pretty sure you’re not supposed to shake them,” Finn said. He frowned and rubbed his eyes. “Doesn’t matter anyway; it’s not like either of us wants it.” He needed to rebuild the wall that Stella’s smile and strawberry shampoo were slowly dissolving.

“Speak for yourself,” Stella said as she studied the photograph. A smile played on her lips. “I’m keeping it.”

“What for? So you can remember the time some crazy, desperate jerk kidnapped your sister and took you on a road trip across the Southwest?” Finn snorted.

Stella’s face fell before she glanced up at Finn. She speared a slice of avocado with her fork and dipped it into cocktail sauce. “I want to speak to Phoebe.”

“Sure thing. Once we get back to the room.” She didn’t need to know that he’d already tried to call earlier. Hopefully everything was under control back in Vegas. What was he thinking? Of course everything was under control…except Billy was involved, and Billy was a wild card.

Stella seemed to accept this and plucked a shrimp from the glass. “Tell me more about your work.”

Finn raked a hand through his hair. “Not much more to tell you other than what I’ve already said.”

“You never said how you got involved with it all.”

The table fell silent as the waiter approached and placed their meals in front of them.

“I gave my grandparents a lot of crap when I was a teenager,” Finn began, looking anywhere but at her. “I did a bunch of stays in the juvenile detention center, for stupid stuff like shoplifting and graffiti. My Pop Pop—I mean, grandfather—was really sick toward the end of his life; my Gram couldn’t keep me out of trouble
and
take care of him at the same time.

“Around the age of eighteen, I got my act together. I wanted out of Florida so bad that I got a job working at this really posh hotel as a pool boy, thanks to one of my Gram’s friends. Julian was staying there for some art conference, and I ran into him at the pool one day.”

“And the rest is history?”

Finn shrugged. “Pretty much. Julian said he saw something in me that reminded him of when he was first starting out. He gave me his card and told me he was in Florida on business for another two days before heading back west. He said to call him if I wanted to make a lot more money than I was making then. So I did. A week later, I was on a flight to Las Vegas.”

He prepared a fajita while Stella munched a taco. “That was when I was eighteen. I’ve been with Julian, Alex, and Billy for eleven years. Julian’s like the father I never had. He set me up out here and taught me how to be successful. Alex and Billy are my brothers.”

Stella leaned forward. “But that doesn’t mean your whole life is indebted to him. You’ve worked for him for eleven years; haven’t you paid him back by now?”

“It’s not about paying him back. Didn’t you hear anything I just said? Alex, Billy, and Julian are my family.”

“Well, if they’re your family, won’t they stick around if you quit smuggling art?”

Finn frowned. “What if I don’t want to quit? I like what I do. I’m good at it. I make a good living. Most people seem to hate their jobs. Why would I give all that up? Tell me, Stella, do you actually like being ordered around by people? Are you telling me that if you could do anything in the world for a living, you would choose to be a waitress?”

Stella swallowed and wiped her mouth with her napkin before flinging it on the table. “Not everyone gets the most amazing job in the world spoon-fed to them like you, Finn. Do I want to be a waitress for the rest of my life? Hell no. But right now it pays the bills, keeps a roof over my head, and puts food on my table,” Stella snapped. “Oh, and I still have all my morals.”

Julian may have offered Finn the job on a whim, but that didn’t mean he hadn’t been working his ass off ever since. So because Stella barely made an “honest living” as a bar waitress, she thought she was better than him?
Fuck her and her strawberry shampoo
.

Finn leaned back in his chair, a sneer on his lips. “Ah! So
that’s
why you’re marrying this Derek guy.” He paused to take a sip of his drink when he knew he had her undivided attention.

“He’s your white knight riding in to scoop you out of your white-trash life. No more slumming it as a waitress, right? Sell the trailer, get a big house with a white picket fence and a golden retriever?” Finn knew he’d struck a nerve when Stella’s face paled and her knuckles whitened around her water glass. He immediately regretted going so far, but she had really pissed him off.

In the blink of an eye, Stella shot out of her chair and threw her half-full glass of water in Finn’s face. “Fuck you. I’m out of here.” She spun on her heel and stalked out of the restaurant. Just before she exited, she turned around and called, “Don’t worry about taking that Viagra. I plan on being out late.”

As he watched her leave, he felt another tiny flicker of that unidentified emotion. Not even a minute later, the waiter appeared next to Finn’s chair with a dishtowel. “I’m guessing you want that dessert to go?”

Fifteen minutes later, Finn was back in the hotel room alone. After Stella left the restaurant, he’d forced himself to finish his meal, though he felt queasy. He was pretty sure it was his body’s way of telling him he was a complete idiot.

He’d thought about getting up and running after her, worried she might take off—but she couldn’t get far without a key to the car, the room, or her phone.

Besides, chasing women wasn’t his style.

When he left the restaurant, Rachel ran from behind the front desk to inform him “Mrs. Gilroy” seemed really upset, and said she was going to check out the karaoke bar a couple blocks down the street. Finn thanked her and bypassed the elevator to race up the stairs to their room. He figured he would change his wet shirt, put in a call to Billy, and go to the bar to apologize to Stella. He didn’t know what it was about her that riled him up.

Finn quickly pulled on one of his customary V-necks, and then dialed Billy. The phone rang and rang before going to voicemail.

“Dammit, Billy!” Finn exclaimed. He put the phone back in his pocket and went to find Stella.

Billy reclined on Finn’s couch and balanced a nearly overflowing bowl of Lucky Charms on his knee as he watched
Family Guy
. A tinny rap song drifted from his phone, which was resting on the couch next to him. He glanced at the caller ID. Finn. He immediately turned back to the TV. He didn’t need Finn’s know-it-all attitude and instructions bringing him down. Things
had
been going to plan…then they took a slight detour, but everything was good now.

Billy was still in agony from Phoebe’s perfectly placed kick to his crotch. He readjusted the frozen broccoli to better cover his balls and glanced at her. He’d managed to power through the pain and pull his gun from his waistband. She was a lot more cooperative after that. As a preventative measure, he’d duct-taped her to one of the dining chairs, where she’d been ever since.

Billy finished his last spoonful of cereal and sat up. He put the milk-filled bowl next to the pistol on the coffee table and regarded Phoebe.

“What do you want to do now?” he asked, smirking.

Phoebe blew her bangs out of her eyes and gave him a dirty look. “I can tell you what I definitely
don’t
want to do. I don’t want to watch this dumb-ass show anymore.”

“What’s wrong with
Family Guy
? Seth MacFarlane is a genius,” Billy said.

“You’ve been watching this for three hours. Every episode is basically the same joke.”

“That’s what someone with no sense of humor would say,” Billy turned his attention back to the TV.

“I need to go to the bathroom.”

Billy narrowed his eyes at her and cocked his head to the side. The movement slid the broccoli onto his leg, causing him to wince. He couldn’t believe this teenage bitch had kicked him in the family jewels. And he hadn’t even done anything to deserve it! He was just trying to talk to her when she went psycho and tried to bolt for the door. Finn would blame it all on him, and he was having none of that.

“I have a freakin’ small bladder, dude!”

Billy didn’t move.

“I will pee on this chair,” Phoebe hissed.

Billy’s face contorted in disgust. “Jesus Christ, that’s disgusting. Fine.” With a shudder, Billy stood and tucked the gun in the back of his jeans. After cutting through Phoebe’s duct tape, he hoisted her up by the arm and marched her to the half bath at the far end of the room. “Don’t try any funny business.”

Phoebe slammed the door in his face. It was such bullshit that he was forced to resort to babysitting some girl for Finn to acknowledge him as his peer. And even then, Finn acted like he couldn’t do anything on his own, and gave him all these rules. Fuck Finn’s rules. Finn wasn’t here.

Speaking of people who were driving Billy crazy, his father hadn’t called him about going on a solo job in weeks. Okay, so the last job his father sent him on didn’t end so well. Billy had gone on a run to Los Angeles to pick up a bronze effigy of St. Vincent that also happened to be a flask. It wasn’t Billy’s fault he met a girl, and flew her and the effigy to Seattle for a foam party. It was fate. He hadn’t purposely set out to use St. Vincent’s effigy to hold his liquor, but if you couldn’t use a flask in the shape of the patron saint of winemakers, then what the hell was it for?

Billy rapped on the door impatiently. “Hurry up!”

“I haven’t even been in here for one minute,” Phoebe replied.

“You come out on the count of three or I’m coming in. One…two…three!”

As Billy turned the knob and threw open the door, a blast of fire engulfed the space between him and Phoebe. Phoebe stood in a karate stance, holding a cigarette lighter before the nozzle of an aerosol can of deodorizer. Billy recoiled, clutching at his face.

“What the fuck?” he screamed. He fell to his knees with his hands still covering his eyes. He heard her fumbling for something nearby and then running for the door. He jerked himself into a standing position and took up the chase as Phoebe managed to unlock the deadbolt and throw herself into the hallway.

Billy groaned. He really hadn’t signed on for this. Up ahead, Phoebe dashed into an elevator and repeatedly jabbed a button. The doors closed just as Billy got within a few feet of them. He slammed the door with the palm of his hand and winced at the pain. “Fuck!”

The door beside the elevator featured a picture of a stairwell. He groaned. What other choice did he have?

Billy burst through the door and groaned again when he remembered he was on the ninth floor. He barreled down the stairs, wheezing the whole way. His lungs burned and he had a cramp on his right side. He thought about Finn’s advice about quitting smoking. Did weed count as smoking? Because he wasn’t giving up weed.

Once he reached the ground floor, Billy crashed out into a deserted alley and doubled over, hands on his knees, gasping for air. He straightened up and, still breathing hard, made a slow circle. No trace of Phoebe anywhere.

“You burned off my eyebrows, you bitch!” he yelled between gasps. “You burned my fucking eyebrows!”

Billy mourned the loss of his eyebrows for a moment before coming to his senses. The girl was gone. Finn would never put in a good word with his dad or Alex now. He was screwed, and there was only one other person who could help him.

He reached into his pocket for his phone before realizing it was on Finn’s couch. Nine stories up. Fuck. He was taking the elevator, eyebrows or no eyebrows.

Stella rubbed her bare arms as she power-walked away from the hotel. Nighttime had fallen, and so had the temperature. They must have been close to the outskirts of town or near a residential area because there were hardly any other businesses. The street was deserted. Rachel had told her the karaoke bar, The Hula Shack, was a ten-minute walk. Stella didn’t know how long she spent walking, but it felt like she’d covered several miles in a matter of minutes. That was how angry she was. She was quickly approaching a small one-story stucco building with a clapboard sign advertising The Hula Shack’s drink specials.

All she wanted to do was drown her sorrows in a fruity adult beverage until she couldn’t feel her face. The night seemed to be cooling her temper as well, and Stella was finally able to think clearly. She probably should have thought through her plan of action before stalking out of the hotel, but her fury hijacked her judgment. She hated the way Finn was able to crawl under her skin and manipulate her emotions. Depending on the comment, she was either reduced to a flustered mess, or became so fired up she was ready to rip out his heart and eat it.

His comments about slumming it and basically
using
Derek had hit far too close to home. Stella was pretty sure Derek’s mother thought the same thing from the way she looked down her nose—that she wasn’t good enough, that she was an opportunist who only wanted to be with him because of his money. Though they were both wrong for the most part, Stella had to admit there was a kernel of truth to the assessment. It’s not that she wanted to marry Derek for money or what he could give her materially, but the stability and comfort he offered were appealing. He was sweet, though a little dull, and he cared if she had a bad day. He knew her favorite flavor of ice cream and remembered every milestone of their relationship—including those Stella forgot. If you were offered the chance to marry your best friend, why would you say no?