The one on the far end snorts, flicking her bleached hair behind her shoulder while she continues to walk ahead.
“Please.” I crawl the vehicle along beside them. “It’s only one phone call.”
“Get fucked, bitch.” The closest curls her lip, then turns to her friends, all of them breaking into laughter.
Goddamn teenagers.
I pull away from the curb and plant my foot, speeding farther along the street. I need to ditch the car, and fast, but I need security first.
I zigzag my way through the suburb, eventually coming to a four-lane street with heavy traffic, fast-food outlets on either side, and a hotel sign looming ahead that sparks hope.
I keep one eye on the road, the other getting a brief glimpse of the dark tan four-level building as I drive past, then take the next turn in the opposite direction. I continue down another street, then turn and accelerate along another, not pulling to a stop until I’m at least a few blocks from where I want to be. Then I ditch the car and start running.
I take shady back alleys and cut across house yards. I don’t stop looking over my shoulder or scrutinizing every car that passes, but none come close to the extravagance I found in the Costa family garage.
I make my way back to the main road, then continue into the hotel parking lot, my stomach bottoming at the full-frontal view.
What my split-second, drive-by glance didn’t ascertain is that this place is something out of a horror movie.
Windows are cracked with grey electrical tape holding them together. The cheap blinds inside are broken and disheveled. The balconies to the three upper levels are nothing more than a red metal fire escape, the staircase exposed to the elements and rusted in parts.
But it’s the man eagle-eying me from the third-floor railing, his wifebeater dirty and boxers loose that concerns me the most.
I recognize that opportunistic expression, and I have no intention of being a part of it.
I glower, letting him know I’m not in the mood to be fucked with, and keep jogging to reception, my skin prickling the closer I get to the chipped paint of the front door.
Inside is worse.
The scent of stale beer and urine hits my nose as I walk into the small room to find a middle-aged man sitting behind a counter, the sound of porn coming from his computer, his scuffed buttoned shirt crinkled, his hair thinning and skin pale.
He looks up at me, his blue eyes narrowing. “Lost?”
I contemplate retreat, but I have nowhere else to go.
“Can I use your phone?” I keep my voice strong. “It’s an emergency.”
He sighs and turns his attention back to the computer. “Five bucks.”
“I don’t have any money.” I raise my empty hands. “Not on me, anyway. But if you let me make a call I promise I’ll be able to repay you with more than spare change.”
“Promises come easily around here, Gucci belt.” He relaxes back into his chair, his gaze remaining on the screen. “Find someone else to buy your bullshit.”
“Please.” I cringe through the plea. “It’s one phone call. It won’t take long.”
“It’s always just one phone call. One extra pillow. One more towel.” He shoots me a two-second glare. “So unless you’ve got money, I’m busy.”
I bite the inside of my cheek, holding in aggression.
“Well? Get goin’.” He jerks his chin to the door. “If you hang around I’m going to assume you want to participate in the finale.” His eyes meet mine as his mouth curves. “That’ll get you a free phone call.”
Fuck him. And every other motherfucker in this godforsaken city.
I start for the door, majorly pissed and equally helpless, until my palms press against the wood. “What about a Bentley?” I glance at him over my shoulder. “There’s one parked a few blocks from here.”
“And?”
“And you can have it.”
“A Bentley?” He looks at me as if I’m deranged. “You’re offering a car for a phone call?”
“I’m offering someone else’s car for a phone call.”
He raises a brow. “Stolen?”
“Borrowed.”
He crosses his arms over his chest, scrutinizing me. “And the person you borrowed it from?”
“Can afford to replace it without batting an eye.” I pull the car fob from my pocket and lob it toward him. “Just don’t get caught.”
He seizes the projectile with a grin and reaches beneath the counter to place a cell on the scuffed laminate. “I guess we have a deal.”
I wish I could slump with relief, but as necessary as a phone is, the resulting call with Cole isn’t something I’m looking forward to. If only I had the luxury to put it off.
I walk for the counter, about to reach for the cell when the man stands and recaptures the device.
“Hold up, Gucci belt. Where is this borrowed Bentley of yours?”
“A few blocks from here. Maybe a ten-minute walk. I can draw you a map.”
He flashes a mouth full of yellow teeth. “You can walk along with me.”
“That’s not going to happen. Just give me the goddamn phone.”
“Why would I? I already have the car key.”
“You also have a death wish if you plan to fuck me over. Up until this point I’ve been more than civil. I promise that won’t continue if you don’t hand over the cell.”
“They’re big words from a teeny, tiny woman.”
“A teeny, tiny woman who has family in some pretty dark places.” I smile, hoping the curve of my lips exudes equal threat and confidence. “Have you ever pissed off the underworld before, little man?”
His eyes narrow, the squint deepening before he finally pushes to his feet. “Fine. A Bentley for a phone call.”
“A Bentley for a phone call and a room to stay in for a few hours.”
He scoffs. “She comes in here a panting, skittish mouse, and now thinks she’s a ball-busting hustler.”
“Deal or no deal?”
He reaches beneath the counter, the clink of metal sounding before he slaps a key with a large wooden keychain on the laminate. “Take room 102. Ground floor. Two doors down. But if I walk away from here and there’s no Bentley—”
“There’s a Bentley. Now give me a pen and paper so I can draw the damn map.”
He complies, hovering close as I sketch the streets from memory. Once I’m done he snatches the scribbled paper and skirts the counter to stride across the small reception.
“One phone call,” he warns, pulling the front door open. “And there better not be no international charges on my account when I get back.”
I don’t wait for the door to close behind him. I grab the device and dial Cole’s most recent burner number, hoping I’ve remembered the digits correctly. My heart beats a rampant staccato as the chirping rings in my ear. Once. Twice. Three times. Then the message service kicks in.
Shit.
“It’s me,” I start as soon as the beep sounds. “I’m in trouble… I need you to call me back.”
Fuck. What if this cell number isn’t visible?
“Hold on a sec.” I scramble for a brochure. A business card. Anything that might have the contact number of this hellhole.