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I padded up the hall to the front entrance. Claude had taken my phone, which I thought Cole had probably meant for me to hold on to. Whatever he'd done to it, it only called him, I thought, and the GPS would track me anywhere for him. I had no problem with that but I didn't know where my phone was.
I knew where Claude's was. He'd left it with his keys in the silver tray on the sofa table by the front door. His phone called whoever you wanted it to call. I could call 9-1-1. I could call the feds and tell them these men had taken me across international borders to do the things that had been done, that Cole had dragged me across state lines.
I had no real desire to do that.
The crushed gravel of the driveway was still warm from the day, though dotted with the damned stickers the Nevada desert breeds. I picked them out of my feet before I keyed the fob and chirped Claude's Bugatti Veyron Super Sport.
Claude was an idiot. Just sitting behind the wheel of that car was better than sex could ever be. The leather seat was cold under my naked ass. Even that wasn't unpleasurable.
I set the phone on the seat next to me. Slid the key into the ignition. Claude came running as the car fired up, the sound of it amazing in the still air.
Claude was screaming, trying to run toward me but he only wore slacks, unzipped, which made him look stupider than he had to. Cartoon villain, waving his arms.
I gave him the finger and stepped on the gas, churning gravel up into his face as he ran at the car. I left him shouting at the taillights and pulled out into the night.
"What's the problem, Claude? She too much for you?"
St. Martin's voice was warm with humor. He'd seen the name displayed and made assumptions. He still thought everything was all right.
"It's not Claude," I said from between clenched teeth. I couldn't stop shaking. I had no idea how to get to St. Martin's compound from the Ascaya neighborhood, so I just followed the lights down to the city itself. Finding The Strip isn't hard. I could have done it from space.
"Annie? What's the matter? Why are you using Claude's phone?"
There was so much riding on what his next questions were.
"Are you all right? Where's your phone? Annie? Are you safe?"
I melted against the Bugatti's seat. He'd gotten them all right. I started to cry so while I could still talk at all coherently I said, "Cole. Please come get me."
43
Cole
She hung up after telling me which parking garage she was in.
I drove like a man possessed. Claude would have trackers on all his cars. I had to get to her before he did. I'd wanted her to go into the casino until she told me she was only wearing Claude's shirt.
I needed to know everything. But I didn't need to know everything right then. I didn't actually need to know anything right then except Annie needed help and she'd called me.
We left the Bugatti sitting in the parking garage of a Las Vegas Strip casino. Annie was semi conscious when I found her. Had any security guards happened by, she'd have looked like a hotel guest who'd had a little too much to drink. The fact that she was wearing only a man's shirt would have been a problem but five minutes after I got there I'd managed to get her into a pair of her own sweats. Getting her feet into flipflops was impossible. I threw them into the Veyron and left them there, levering Annie from the front seat where she sat sideways with her feet out the door. Filthy concrete, no matter how often they might pressure wash it with water the valley doesn't actually have. I lifted her into my arms, cradling her against my chest, and carried her to the Porsche.
"You're going to have to get yourself in there," I said. "It's too small to lift you into."
I thought she was out of it, but she gave me a loopy smile and said, "Are you calling me fat?"
I wasn't. I was calling her awkward. Holding humans is awkward. But what the hell?
"Yep. Big old tub of lard. On your feet, lard girl."
She took a playful swing at me as I set her on her feet, overbalanced and fell neatly into the passengers seat. Problem solved.
I'd have to remember that one for the next time I had to contend with a drunk friend or drunk date.
I was pulling the seatbelt harness over her when she slurred, "Chloe needs help."
I froze. That was a different matter. Carefully, I said, "What kind of help?"
"Out. She needs to get out."
