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We now had probably ninety seconds. I could hear the cars, I thought, making their way to the actual unimproved driveway. Maybe that was imagination but we were almost completely out of time.
That was when Cole started shouting unnecessary instructions. Because once the music had gone down, everybody was listening. Now everybody was moving. Undressed women were put on their feet, boobs bouncing, cheeks both top and bottom flushed. The girl with the ponytail was led to the bathroom while I stared at her, the tail waving seductively from her ass.
I had to swallow several times as my irresponsible mind wondered what that would be like.
Cole buttoned his suit jacket and said calmly, "What is your story?"
Because the guests were in evening attire and I was wearing running shorts, a jog bra and a t-shirt. "My clothes still in the cell?" Or was Chloe inhabiting that as well?
He nodded. I heard car doors slam.
I ran. Before I left the main compound house I snatched a glass of red wine out of the hands of one of the guests. Then I ran, through the inner halls, not outside, and across the short stretch of desert where Cole loved to parade me naked, letting me know the guards in their hut could watch my every move. Through the inside halls and to the door that led to my cell. Cole had sent Scott after me, keys in hand, and he unlocked for me the second I got there.
I went directly to my closet and pulled out the first thing I saw, then threw it back, opting for a weird thing Cole had gotten me once that had a scoop neck and cap sleeves. It was very fitted through the bust and torso but it flared from the waist and I could throw it on over jog bra and tight biking shorts because there was no fucking way to get those off fast no matter how panicked you were.
Or maybe there's even less chance the more panicked you are. Spandex is designed to stay in place and it does its job well.
I tore my hair out of the ponytail, thinking of the other ponytail, swearing as the hair band caught in it and pulled my hair as hard as Cole ever had. I ran a brush through it and painted on lip gloss even as I heard shouting from the main part of the house.
People were being ordered to stay where they were.
Why wouldn't they? There were a group of ultra rich people celebrating god knows what in the late afternoon, early evening, wearing evening clothes and drinking wine. I pulled out another dress, a pale one that would show clearly, threw the wine onto it and watched the red stain. I threw the dress into the shower and turned the cold water on it, enough to soak it, and let it lay. That was the best I could think of for a cover story of why I was so much less coiffed than the other guests.
One last look in the mirror – I was definitely looking like I trusted in my "natural" beauty – and I was in the hall again when I heard a repeated question: "Is anyone else in the house?"
"I am," I called, padding toward the living room. I was barefoot, but so what? Essentially I was the hostess. If they were looking for a sex party and found a barefoot hostess, so what?
"Ma'am, please come out where we can see you. Please move slowly." The voice calling from the hall was clearly expending energy by not giving in to the desire to tell me to come out with my hands up.
Wouldn't be the first time. Actually, being told to come out where I could be seen and being politely called "ma'am" no matter how much I hated that term – that was a first time event.
I allowed irritation to color my voice. "I'm coming, what do you think I'm doing? Keep your hair on." Couldn't hurt. I'd been out of PD for over a year, and I'd recently quit. If they knew anything at all about me – I doubted it, James would have said something about the ex-cop turned sex scandal if there'd been any rumors – they still wouldn't know I was enrolled at UNLV. I could be the very privileged mistress of this very rich and powerful CEO.
And then after my response, I took a minute to silently blow out three big breaths, calming my racing heart. Then I stepped into view.
The two police officers, hands out like I was charging at them, other hands on the butts of their service weapons like I was going to attack at any minute, motioned for me to stop. I ignored them. My heart hammered all the harder at that. I'd never walked into a gun. I was just guessing how to act as if I owned the world. To be honest, most of the ultra rich I'd encountered so far fit in a special category of Bat Shit Crazy. Oh, well, we take our role models where we can.
"Ma'am? Please stop."
I was holding the wine glass, empty now, heading for the kitchen. I sighed, stopped in my tracks, and turned only my head to look at them. "What's going on here?"
They ignored my question. One of them was African American and the other was a shiny sunburned blond. They were both in their thirties and looked like beat cops. Uniforms. Interesting choice for a raid that they were uniform. I would have expected whatever the Las Vegas equivalent of vice was. That might mean something. A show of force if nothing else. Because a gun is a gun, and when its dead black eye is pointed in your direction, you understand who has the power in the situation. But there's something about the police uniform that adds a certain gravitas to the story. So maybe the decision to send uniformed officers had been on purpose.
One of them gestured past me into the hall. "Is there anyone else back there?"
I raised my brows. Hell if I know. But the entrance to the pain room would be locked and accessible through a closet in my suite and an outdoor entrance I thought was probably hidden. The entrance to the maze under the compound where, for all I knew, Ariel might still be was also through a hidden door.
I looked at them levelly. "Just me."
They'd assembled all the dinner guests in the dining room where apparently nobody was hungry. A quick look around showed the girl with the tail had made some kind of hasty retreat. I wondered what she'd done with the tail. The dress she was wearing, which looked kind of glittery like a mermaid's yellow-green sequined tail belled out at the waist so absurdly she might as well have been wearing a bustle. Which made me wonder if she was still wearing the tail. Well, why not? Best way to hide it. Unless PD had reason to search her, which I doubted they did, the tail would stay unseen.
I found myself imagining what it would feel like to move with the tail secreted under my clothes, with judgmental officers so nearby, looking for anything immoral, I assumed. I bit my lip and tried to concentrate on what was actually happening.
Cole St. Martin, still wearing a tux jacket and no shirt – eccentric, but not indicative of anything illegal – was on the phone, pacing through the kitchen.
"Mr. St. Martin, sir, we need you to come out with the others."
He looked like he might hurl the phone at the serious black officer, or maybe one of the carving knives. In response, he put his phone on speaker and said, "Keith, can you hear?"
