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‘Can you—’ I meet her eyes for a moment before checking my computer for damage ‘—procure an ice pack?’
‘Yes, of course.’ As the stewardess takes off on her task, my laptop screen lights up, the documents I’d been reading before its fall appearing as normal.
‘Is your computer okay?’ In the ensuing moments after impact, Alice’s back has remained pressed against the side of the plane, as if trying to create as much distance between us as possible.
‘Yes.’ It’s more grunt than word, but she nods, so I’m assuming she understood.
‘Good. That’s good.’ She’s still nodding.
‘One ice pack.’ The stewardess leaves the hastily wrapped linen napkin of ice next to my computer before moving past to tell a lazy passenger to bring his seatback to its upright position.
I hand the ice to Alice. ‘Your hand.’
Alice’s fingers brush against mine as she takes it. ‘Thank you.’ She lays the ice pack on top of her hand.
‘Hmmm.’ Lifting the tray table, I’m careful to place my laptop on my lap – to be used as both armor and camouflage – before dropping the tray into its slot in the armrest between us.
The jolt to my knee and the interaction with the stewardess may have helped settle my situation, but I’m not taking anymore chances.
The remainder of the flight is spent in silence. Awkward even by my standards.
6
ALICE
I never imagined a bag of dicks would be this heavy.
Or that I’d be carrying one inside of Thomas Moore’s hotel suite.
After the plane ride I double timed in my sneakers off the plane and through the carousels of luggage, beelining for the man holding the Moore sign. No one questioned me. Probably because George had still been under the influence of Dramamine while lugging a fifty-pound-plus carry-on and Chase had been stuck waiting for coach class to deplane.
I had I-accidentally-touched-my-boss’s-thing adrenaline shooting through my veins to shock me awake.
Thomas said nothing as I whipped past him on the gangway with my small duffle bag in hand. Nor did he say anything when I sat in the front seat with the driver, rather than in the back of the limo with him and the rest of the group.
He was no doubt relieved that I’d taken the initiative to create as much distance between us as possible.
The downfall to my plan became evident at hotel check-in where Chase informed me that he’d called Leslie, who had already arrived in Vegas with Bell, on the ride over from the airport while I was out of earshot on the other side of the limo’s privacy panel.
Code Penis plans were solidified without my input. Plans that included me setting up the bachelorette party in Thomas Moore’s suite whilst they kept Bell busy with spa appointments. Something about it being the last place Bell would suspect and keeping Mike Hunt away from the party favors.
And so here I am, standing in front of my boss’s door. Asking him not to be here.
Taking a deep breath, I knock on the suite’s door.
Nothing.
I knock again.
When no one answers for the second time, I pull out the card key Chase had given me, along with the roller bag of dicks, and beep myself into the room. ‘Hello?’ I pause in the open doorway, listening. Nothing.
Pushing the roller bag in front of me like a shield, I peek around the corner of the small foyer into the suite’s living room. One, it’s huge. Two, no Thomas.
Breathing a sigh of relief, I look around for one of those luggage stands. Not finding one, I realize it’s probably in the bedroom. And since no amount of money or Code Penis alerts could make me willingly go into Thomas’s bedroom, I swing it up onto one of the barstool seats.
I learn two things. (It’s a banner day for self-education.)
One, I prove I’m lying to myself when I say being on my feet all day while rearranging mannequins, merchandise and lights is equivalent to actual exercise.
