Sky High (A Nicki Valentine Mystery Book 2) (11 page)

Sixteen

In addition to soft pajamas, I wanted comfort food, and I wasn’t risking another vending machine spree, so I settled on the hotel’s courtesy microwave popcorn to keep me company.

I stuck the bag in the microwave and hopped in the shower for a swamp-water and belated oil-slick cleanup. I couldn’t wait to crawl into bed.

I heard the microwave’s faint beep as I rinsed the last conditioner from my hair and started shaving like it was summer. I finished with just one nick from a brand new razor, and a streak of blood ran down my calf as I turned off the water. I still heard beeping from my room, so I turned off the bathroom fan and opened the door to scope things out.

That’s when I smelled it. I say
smelled
, because I couldn’t see much. Smoke was pouring from the kitchenette and filling my room, and it wasn’t the microwave beeping—it was a fire alarm. For a nanosecond, I was afraid the entire hotel was on fire. But the smell of burned popcorn was so horrid and choking that I knew (for better or worse—I wasn’t sure which) that my room was the problem.

I ran to crank open my windows, but they’d only budge a couple inches. I loved safety features with all my heart, but right now they were backfiring on me. I turned on the AC, not knowing if it would hurt or help, and then made a dreadful mistake. I opened the microwave. Mostly naked, with my towel over my mouth, I yanked out the smoking bag, dropped it in the sink, and doused it with water, creating an ugly cloud of steam. It seemed smart. But it smelled like buttery farts. That linger.

I had to get out of there.

Ignoring my ringing hotel phone and holding the towel over my mouth, I tried to feel out clothes in my suitcase, but the smoke and odor were overpowering, and someone was banging on my door. Maybe if I opened it just enough, I’d catch my breath, let out some smoke, and find something to wear.

I wrapped the towel tightly around me, held my breath, and turned the knob. A large, male security guard was standing there with a walkie-talkie on his hip, which was about the same height as my chest.

“Ma’am? Are you okay? Oh my God. There’s so much smoke in there!”

He barked out a walkie-talkie code that didn’t apply, unless there’s one for microwave snack disasters.

“I over-popped my corn,” I said, sucking in fresh hallway air and not thinking clearly. “And I’m not dressed.”

“You’re also bleeding. Let’s get you out of here.”

Security Guy pulled me out of the room and steered me toward the vending machine area, just the spot I’d tried to avoid.

Now that my alarm was blaring into the hallway, I saw doors opening on both sides of mine and down the hall. I also heard complaints about a putrid smell and concern about a wet, bleeding, nearly naked woman in the hall.

“Evacuate the floor,” Security Guy trumpeted into his walkie-talkie. “Sorry, everyone. I know the stench is unbelievable. Please, make sure everyone is out of your rooms, and take the stairs.”

That sounded great, except I didn’t want to be seen, and thunderous noise was coming from the flight on my left. Coughing and clearing my throat, I scooted between the snack machines, not feeling like “all that and a bag of chips.”

Security Guy started banging on doors, and firefighters stormed through the emergency exit and straight toward my room, where I hoped they wouldn’t soak my belongings, especially my computer.

I knew Dean must be in the hallway somewhere, but I didn’t dare look.

“That’s my girlfriend’s room,” I heard someone say. Someone who sounded like Dean. That was flattering and probably the worst timing in the world. “Is she okay?”

“She’s fine, sir. She’s around the corner.”

Oh, God.
No.

I savored the next few butter-fart-scented seconds of being Dean’s “girlfriend,” knowing they might be my last.

“Oh my God. Nicki!”

“I’m fine,” I said, peeking out from between the machines. “Don’t worry. Just mortified. There’s no fire. I just burned some popcorn. Really badly.”

“Are you bleeding?”

I looked down, where blood was drying on my foot.

“I was shaving. It’s nothing.”

“Okay. I’m going to get you some clothes,” he said. “I’ll be right back.”

Sure. Whatever. Run for the hills. I wouldn’t mind some alone time.

Guests filed by, most averting their eyes while I waved, explained, and apologized. One kind woman asked if I’d like a bathrobe, but before I could accept, Dean was back with men’s workout shorts and an Army sweatshirt. I maneuvered myself into them while he looked away.

“Thanks,” I said, keeping a death grip on the shorts and reluctantly permitting him to turn around. So much for my “wear undies to the vending machines” policy. At least the sweatshirt was thick and non-revealing…and even cozier than the pajamas I’d planned.

I spent a few embarrassing minutes answering firefighters’ questions and apologizing to Security Guy, whose name was Mo.

My room was cleared for safety, but it would take a while—and a collection of heavy-duty fans—for the smoke to dissipate. As I watched a tall fireman carry out the microwave and blackened popcorn bag, I wondered if my bill had just doubled.

“Everyone will be offered replacement rooms for tonight,” Mo told me. “And you can have access to your room if there are things you need to grab. We just need to give the firefighters some time to work in there.”

Doubling my bill might be lowballing it.

“Thanks,” I said. “When will everyone be allowed back up here?”

“It shouldn’t be long. Meanwhile, there are free drinks and donuts in the lobby.”

I looked at Dean. “I’m going to get some essentials in my room. How about you?”

“Yeah,” he said. “Meet me at the exit sign.”

I hoped that wasn’t a bad omen.

My room was so smelly that I just ran a brush through my hair, shoved on leggings and flip flops, and collected some cash I’d left in the hotel safe.

Then I gave Mo my cell number and waited for Dean by the stairs. Unless he was desperate for donuts, we were skipping the lobby.

“Let’s get out of here until things settle down,” he said, reading my mind.

“That’s my plan, but you don’t have to come with me.”

“Stop it,” he said. “Come on. We’re going out the side door. We both need fresh air. And I have an idea.”

We took off in my car with the windows open, got sodas at a drive-thru, and headed toward Smyth College, looking out for black sedans all the way.

“I thought we could take a stroll by the frat,” Dean explained. “I was reading about it online when the, um, commotion started.” He gave me a sideways glance, and we burst out laughing. “You know you smell, right?” he added.

“I know. I think it’s my hair. I need another shower and some Febreze. I’m so sorry.”

“It’s okay. We’re in a rental, although it’s our only one left. But I have to ask. How do you mess up microwave popcorn?”

“You follow the instructions, ignore the fine print about how microwaves vary, and get in the shower. It’s that easy.”

“And you still end up smelly and hungry.”

I almost spit out my drink laughing at myself. This was the most relaxed I’d felt around Dean. Sometimes I was happiest when the worst was over and there was less to worry about. Not the best way to live, but I’d take peace where I could get it.

By the time we found the frat house, it was after midnight, and a few guys were on the porch smoking. We parked two houses down and whipped up a pretexting plan.

We got out of the car with our drinks, talking casually and continuing to laugh, and held hands as we walked up to the students—as if we were on a date, which I wished we were.

“Hey guys,” I said with false confidence.

“’Sup?” one of them said, squinting and setting down a smoke. It didn’t smell like tobacco.

“We were just driving by, and I made him stop.” I gestured to Dean and laughed good-naturedly. “My cousin went here a couple years ago, and he pledged with you guys. I’ve heard
so
many stories about this place.”

“Really?” the guy said. “It rocks, doesn’t it?” He smiled at his friends.

“Don’t think I’m weird,” I said. “But could I take a peek inside?”

“It’s kinda late,” he said. “Some of the guys are sleeping.”

“Okay. No problem. Did you happen to know Bruce Fallon? He’s my cousin.”

One guy laughed dismissively.

“Yeah. He’s notorious around here. No offense, but he almost brought the place down.”

“What? How?”

He waved his hand at me. “Nah. I don’t know the whole story. I think he just got in trouble and it didn’t reflect well on us. But it’s all good. We’re back. And he left us in great shape financially. They made some bucks while he was here. He’s a cool cat.”

There were nods all around.

“You know his best friend Todd?” I asked. “He graduated last year.”

“Todd Carter? Hell yeah! He was our tech guru. We friggin’ need him back. Where is he now?”

“He and Bruce run a tech startup in Virginia,” I said.

“Oh? The power couple’s still together? Tell Beauty and the Brains we miss their assess.” The guys laughed and chanted an unintelligible motto.

“I’ll do it,” I said. “I’m heading back to Virginia tomorrow. You gotta share some dirt, though, so I can give them a hard time.”

The guys looked at each other, and one spoke up. “Tell you what, you can come in for a few. You gotta see their pictures on the wall of shame. And make sure to tell them Ian says ‘hi.’”

I wanted to high-five Dean.

We climbed the steps and introduced ourselves by first name. Ian opened the front door and led us into a dimly lit foyer.

“Check it out,” he said, pointing to a wall-size collage under the staircase. Laminated photos from at least a decade of frat parties were randomly pinned together. I’d never find Bruce or Todd without help, although some photos had semesters and years written in Sharpie.

“There they are,” Ian said, pointing at a three-by-five of Bruce and Todd in their junior year, Bruce’s arm around a tan blond and Todd with a fair brunette, all in Hawaiian leis, sunglasses, and hula skirts, making exaggerated faces that announced, “Drunk and proud!”

While Ian picked out countless photos of Bruce at meetings and parties—including two of him passed out—I took photos with my phone and asked questions, pretending to want to mess with my cousin later. In return, we learned Bruce had a tendency toward cruel pranks, which Ian declined to recount. I doubted disappearing on his wedding day was one of them.

“Thank you so much,” I said, giving Ian a quiet high-five. “This’ll be great.”

“See ya later, fellas,” Dean said as we walked onto the porch. “Thanks a lot. You made her night.”

I took his hand and swung it casually as we walked away.

“Nicely done,” Dean said back in the car.

“Why thank you. Were you ever in a frat?”

“If you count the Army. That’s true brotherhood and sisterhood.”

In emails over the years, I’d asked about his service as an MP, which had ended with an injury. I was fascinated and impressed by his commitment to our country, the troops, and the fellow soldiers he considered family.

“Do you miss it?”

“I like my work now, but I miss my buddies. We’ll be friends forever, though. We can go years without seeing each other, and it’s just like old times.”

“Like the good ol’ bedazzled bikini days?”

He chuckled and started the car. “Exactly. But that’s classified. Don’t spread it around.”

I felt like our relationship was crossing a bridge. I really hoped it wasn’t back into the friend zone.

We slept in new, separate hotel rooms and packed everything up the next morning. My room (and all my stuff, including my freshly washed hair) still smelled, and I avoided eye contact with everyone but Dean. The hotel graciously kept my bill reasonable and waved off my apologies.

The day flew by as we retrieved our sopping belongings from the police (who shared no news about the mysterious black car or Eli), dealt with accident-related busywork, and brainstormed about unturned stones, including a visit to Eli’s bank, posing as customers and asking about him. (He was an “excellent manager” who was “taking a few days off.” He’d left early on Friday, which would have given him plenty of time to fly to Virginia.) We also checked news websites for word of Eli’s arrest, which was starting to make headlines at home. Surely Lydia and Mia knew the truth now. Volunteers had joined the search effort, and public pressure was building for Bruce to be found. So far, Lydia’s illness was kept under wraps.

Finally, Dean and I made our last stop at the beach, where I Skyped with Liz, Jack, and Sophie, who were having a ball at Disney World.

“Are you wearing your bathing suit, Mommy?” Sophie asked. “I see the ocean.”

“Yep,” I said, panning a view of the surf for her. “After the beach, I’ll pick you up for our plane ride home.”

“Okay. Have fun,” she said, waving goodbye with Jack.

I tucked my phone into my beach bag and looked at Dean, who was down by the water, testing it out. I wanted to stay put and enjoy the view, but I didn’t want to look like a wimp.

Purposely keeping a sarong over my black one-piece, I walked barefoot toward him, thinking about how this would go.

Post-
Jaws
, I liked ocean views, not ocean swims, and our canal adventure only made things worse. If Dean was determined to go in, I’d have to fake more confidence than I had the whole trip.

The waves looked gentle, and the water was the gorgeous blue I’d imagined matching his eyes. The closer I got, the more I could see it was true.

“How cold is it?” I asked. Although it was November, the scattered beachgoers looked comfortable at the water’s edge. A little girl nearby was collecting water for her sandcastle.

“It’s nice,” he said, reaching for my hand. “Aren’t you going in?”

“I’m thinkin’ about it,” I said, hoping to stay out.

His lips brushed my ear. “Let’s go,” he whispered as sea foam tickled my feet and urged me to listen.

“Okay,” I said, turning toward the giant unknown.

He gave me a quick kiss and put an arm around my waist. “Come on. It’ll be fun.”

I slipped off my sarong and gave it a good toss onto the sand. Together, we walked in up to my chest, my heart pounding all the way.

Bravely, I dunked my popcorn hair under and came back up, holding his hands yet irrationally afraid he’d be gone.

There he was, still smiling.

The whole way in, I’d been thinking about sharks, stingrays, jellyfish, riptides, sudden drop-offs, and drownings. Now none of that mattered. Apparently, dating Dean was the equivalent of taking Xanax and joining Weight Watchers.

As if I was on one of my favorite reality shows, I lost awareness of the world and was willing to ride piggy back, hop into positions that would be inappropriate on land, and kiss like we were on HBO. Whoops. (Or whoopee!)

“Hey,” I said as I leaned back from a seriously salty smooch, marveling at the sight of him with an endless ocean backdrop. “You know what?”

“What?”

“You look really, really good in blue.”