Best Laid Plans Read online

  The nerve! Me behave? “I certainly will not. I’ll scream and yell and shout until I get my phone back.”

  “Then it’s a good thing I had the place soundproofed.”

  The elevator doors open and Jackson steps in, with Lurch following. I know this is the threshold to further madness, but I want to slap the handsome off his smug face and I won’t be able to do it from the lobby. The doors start to close, so I take a breath and step in. He presses the 22 button. I’ll need to remember that for the police report.

  I’m standing by the shoulder that holds Ms. It, and I notice her designer underwear is on display again. I reach my hand up to give her dress a quick tug, and Jackson steps back. Is he afraid of me? Good!

  “I’m just going to pull her dress down,” I scold as my hand yanks the hem with more force than necessary. He doesn’t take his eyes off me, and I can’t believe he thinks I’m the dangerous one on this elevator.

  “Who did you hope to sell this to?”

  Is he talking to me? “Sell what?”

  “The picture. Some Internet gossip site? One of the weekly rags?” He leans in and his eyes have an icy hue. “Or were you thinking I’d like to buy it?”

  I was mad before. Now I’m indignant. “I’m not selling that picture!”

  “Everything’s for sale, for the right price.” He’s very close and he’s using that voice again. It’s low and threatening and seductive, and it’s coming out of a very attractive mouth. I notice his five o’clock shadow and imagine if he kissed me, my lips would be scratched and bruised and very happy. Except I’m not supposed to be happy. I am supposed to be mad. Focus, Jillian!

  “I saw you having drinks with that woman, and then I saw you carry her unconscious body out of the party. No one leaves my events unconscious without me taking a picture.” It’s never actually happened before, but it sounds reasonable. For good measure I add, “It’s for their protection.”

  Now he’s offended. “You think I’m a date rapist?”

  “Well, I know you’re a thief, so thinking you’re a pervert is not a great leap in my mind.”

  “Oh, I do have my perversions, but do you think I need to drug a woman to get her in my bed?”

  He’s giving me his bedroom eyes, and he’s doing it on purpose. Knowing that doesn’t make it any less effective. “Maybe you don’t like low-lying fruit.”

  His bedroom eyes blink open, and he stares at me for what feels like an eternity. From his expression, I don’t think he’s used to people arguing with him. Then his eyelids descend to half-mast, and he leans farther into me. “When I want something, there isn’t any fruit beyond my reach. Or beyond my plucking.” My cheeks burn, and he almost gloats. “It seems I’ve made you blush,” he drawls as he straightens.

  At that moment, Ms. It’s eyes flutter open. “I feel like I’m floating.” Then she projectile vomits all over me, before passing out again.

  Jackson tsks. “No good deed goes unpunished.” As if on cue, the elevator doors open. “Let’s get you cleaned up. And try not to drip on the carpet,” he adds, stepping off the elevator.

  The unit is 2201. Again, I need to remember that when the police interview me. It’s one of those techno buildings, and the door opens with a key fob, rather than a key.

  The first thing I notice is the smell. Stale smoke and booze. If I can smell that over the vomit on my dress, it must be really bad. Jackson curses as I enter, and even the size of those two men in front of me can’t block the view of the mess inside. It looks like a garage sale exploded. The place is littered with bottles, ashtrays, fast-food containers, and dirty clothing. This is the home of someone hitting bottom.

  “Bathroom is the first door on the left,” Jackson barks. I make a beeline to get Ms. It’s bile off me.

  For a hall bathroom, it’s a good size and there’s little trace of the disaster in the living room, other than the empty half-gallon vodka bottle in the sink. I move it to the floor and wet one of the hand towels. They are seriously plush, which makes them useless for blotting off this mess.

  I realize the dress has to come off. I’m going to have to rinse it out in the sink, and when I put it back on, it’s going to look like I entered a wet t-shirt contest. It’s a matte black cotton/poly blend so it might hide some of the dampness, if I can get it clean.

  I carefully slip out of it to find my bra is equally slimed. Once that’s removed, I’m “tits to the wind,” as my Aunt Celia says, in a soundproofed apartment with two men and an unconscious woman. I probably should be afraid but I’m too damn mad. And it’s better to stay mad right now. Especially when I hear someone rattling the door.

  “Who is it?”

  “It’s just me, Jillian.”

  Is he psychic? “How do you know my name?”

  “Robert called, looking for you. I told him you had an unfortunate accident but you’ll return shortly.”

  “Thank you, Jackson.” Two can play the name game. “You aren’t planning to drug me?”

  “You sound disappointed. And how do you know my name?”

  I lower my voice to the deepest register I can. “Jackson. Call me Jackson.” It doesn’t sound as good when I do it.

  “Is that what I sound like to you?”

  No, what he sounds like is sex, but I’m not going to tell him that.

  He doesn’t wait for a reply. “If you open the latch on the door, you’ll find a compartment with some clean clothes.”

  The back of the door is a full-length mirror, with a hinge on one side and a small latch on the other. I drape the hand towel over me and open it cautiously. Inside are three dresses, hanging on a hook. There must be another one of these panels on the outside. What a wonderful invention—a hollow door to hold your clothes.

  I pull the dresses out and look at them. Three identical little black dresses. Not like the one I am trying to clean—more like what Audrey Hepburn wore. They are made with the softest wool I’ve ever felt. There’s one in size eight, ten, and twelve. I could love a man who thinks I fit into a size eight. Well, not that man.

  I try on the size ten (which is usually wishful thinking). I have to forego the bra since it’s soaking wet. The cut fits me like a glove, though I wish it was two inches longer. His words flash in my brain. Everything’s for sale, for the right price.

  I’ll return this dress tomorrow. I know where he lives. I’ll address it to The Pervert in 2201. I roll my wet clothes up and leave them by the sink, with my bra buried deep inside. I’m not going to risk flashing any underwear to his smirking smile.

  It’s pretty obvious by now that Jackson wasn’t trying to drug Ms. It. She seems quite capable of doing that on her own. They either live together, or they’re dating. He’s probably trying to control her behavior “for her own good.” I’ve seen it before—and lived it before. Trying to protect someone from the consequences of their actions. I could share with him my lifetime of experience, if I wasn’t supposed to be working right now.

  I open the door as quietly as possible. Stealth is going to be my best weapon. Lurch is busy cleaning up the worst of the mess, and Ms. It is passed out on the sofa. Her hair has fallen to the side, and now I notice that she is in one of these same black dresses—probably a size two. He must put all his women in it. That’s why it comes in every size. I wonder whether it’s too late to slip back into my wet work dress.

  Jackson is at the front door, letting another man in. What did he say to the guard? His head of technology. The guy doesn’t look old enough to shave.

  “Sorry it took so long. One of the elevators is out of service.”

  Jackson hands the boy wonder my phone. “I haven’t seen one of these since high school,” the kid squeaks.

  “Was that this afternoon?” All heads turn toward me, but it’s Jackson who holds my attention. He’s staring at me, and I’m not sure whether he’s imagining me naked, or planning how to dispose of my body. Either way, it’s a dangerous look, and he’s focused on the dress. The uniform for his har
em.

  “What’s your password?”

  His words jolt me out of my concubine fantasy. “I am not telling you my password.”

  Junior doesn’t even look up from the phone. “I don’t need it. There’s not a phone I can’t hack. And this is barely a phone.”

  Looking at these three men, I realize that they represent the dating pool in a nutshell. A master of technology. A master of women. And Lurch. The tough choices us single women have to make. If these were the last three men on earth, who would I choose? Right now, I’m leaning toward Lurch. At least he cleans. Unless I was expected to repopulate the planet. Then it would have to be Jackson.

  I finally have enough distance to see the whole package, so I take in the view of that man. He’s wearing jeans, and they fit him perfectly. They’re stretched tightly in the thighs and butt yet look loose in the waistband (he probably suffers from washboard abs). He’s wearing a white dress shirt, unbuttoned at the collar, and a black leather jacket. All that beauty wasted on an arrogant jerk.

  The moppet holds my phone up to Jackson. “Is this the picture?”

  Jackson nods. “It’s not in the cloud, is it?”

  The whiz kid actually snorts! “Not on this phone.” He presses a few keys. “Okay, it’s gone.” He hands my phone to Jackson, who holds it out to me. As much as I want to lunge for it, I approach slowly in case it’s a trap. Before I can reach it, he takes the phone back.

  He’s toying with me, and any sympathy I have for his situation disappears. “Is this your idea of fun? It’s very immature.”

  He punches something into my phone, and flips it closed. “I think you’d find my idea of fun much worse than this. Ron—” Lurch drops another bottle into the trash and stands next to Jackson. “Ron will take you downstairs and hand you the phone when you’re out of camera range.” Ron takes my phone, and Jackson leans into me. “Text me if anyone goes missing.”

  I notice Ms. It is lying on her back, so I give him some free advice. “You should turn her over. If she gets sick again, you don’t want her choking on her vomit.” Jackson has a lot to learn about being codependent. “I’ll have your dress cleaned and mail it back to you.”

  “Keep it, for all the inconvenience.”

  I bristle. “I’d rather return it. I don’t want you to think I have a price.”

  Lurch—I mean Ron—leads me to the door. I suddenly remember my wet clothes and slip into the bathroom to grab them. Returning to the living room, I swear I hear Jackson tell the wunderkind, “I want everything you can get.” Is he talking about me? I’m about to confront them when Ron’s paw grabs my arm, leads me into the hall, and onto the waiting elevator.

  The ride down is long and silent. I can see my phone in his hand. Barely. He has large hands, too, but they aren’t anything special. It’s so quiet, I decide to start talking. If nothing else, it will annoy Ron. “Have you worked for Jackson long?”

  He doesn’t respond, or even turn. He just keeps staring ahead. That doesn’t stop me. “Are you it, or is there a whole security team to protect him from women?” His face is a mask. He could be in the Queen’s Guard with one of those big, black, fuzzy hats. Although the man doesn’t need anything that adds to his height.

  When we finally reach the ground floor, Ron grabs me by the arm once again, and guides me (though it feels as if he’s dragging me) out of the elevator. I flash my biggest smile to the security guard. “Thanks for all your help!” Kill them with kindness is my other motto.

  Once we’re outside, Ron hands me my phone. As I grab it, he heads back to the building, and I can’t resist one last try. “Ron, what name should I use when I send this dress back?”

  He doesn’t turn around. He must think I am going to take his picture. “Send it to Current Occupant.”

  Boy, these guys don’t give anything away. Except little black dresses.

  I hurry back to the party. I feel awful leaving Robert alone for so long. I flip my phone open to text him, and see my last message was sent to a number I don’t recognize. The message is, “I will ruin you.” What? He wants to ruin me? And then it clicks. He has a message sent from my phone threatening him. If I were to say anything, he could show it to the police.

  Oh, this is so not over!

  It’s barely eleven, but based on the number of people standing in line at the valet parking, the party must be ending early. It is a Thursday night, and people have to work tomorrow. Still, they don’t usually all leave at once.

  I stop at the front bar to stash my wet dress, and receive a very judgmental glare from Kyle. I’d explain myself later, after I find Robert. He’s standing by the DJ and has aged a year since I’ve been gone. The fire marshal paid a surprise visit. The ladies’ restroom overflowed. But worst of all, Lois got hold of a long blonde wig, and decided she was going to go Lady Godiva. She wanted Luke to be her horse, but when he hid in the men’s room, Lois decided Kyle would do.

  I remember Kyle’s judgmental look. I finish Robert’s story for him. “She went behind the bar barefoot and stepped on some broken glass.”

  Robert looks at me. “How did you know?”

  I sigh. “Where is she?”

  “She’s in the kitchen. And she’s still in her Lady Godiva outfit.”

  “You mean her birthday suit.”

  “Potato, potata.”

  When I open the kitchen door, I find Lois huddled in the corner on a bench, wearing nothing but a cheap nylon wig and some gauze wrapped around her foot. She is sipping champagne directly from the bottle and feeling sorry for herself. I grab a chef’s jacket off the kitchen coatrack.

  “You must be cold. Why don’t you put this on?”

  She stands up sheepishly, sets the bottle down, and lets me slip the jacket on her. I can’t help but notice that her body is in very good shape. I just don’t think that I should be seeing all of it.

  She sits back down and picks up the bottle. “I made a fool of myself,” she whimpers, taking another swig.

  I sit next to her. “It’s your birthday. What better time?”

  Lois is too intelligent a woman to believe that, and the look she gives me lets me know it. She offers me the bottle. I take a swig, and pass it back to her.

  She stares at the label. “I’m a middle child. I wasn’t the firstborn and I wasn’t the baby. I was even born on my older sister’s birthday, for God’s sake. All my life I’ve thought, ‘My turn is coming. It’s just around the corner. My special, secret powers are going to blossom and people are going to notice me.’” She takes another swig.

  A sense of humor is the best antidote for self-pity. “I think people noticed you tonight,” I quip as I put my hand out for the bottle.

  She laughs and passes it to me. “Careful what you wish for, right? I’m surrounded by younger, smarter, prettier people, and I think my time is over. All that’s left is to put as much money in my retirement account as I can, so I’ll be able to afford a tiny little condo in Palm Springs, early bird discount dinners for one, and cable to watch Lifetime movies all day.”

  Lois forgets I’ve seen her home. She doesn’t strike me as someone who’s hurting for money. The bottle is almost empty, so I only take a small swallow before handing it back.

  “I just want people to think I’m special. No one’s ever told me I’m special.”

  I don’t think I gave Lois the party she wanted. She asked for Fifty Shades but what she wanted was Cinderella. And now it’s almost midnight and she has to put the work clothes back on without ever getting to dance with the prince.

  “Did you ever tell anyone you thought they were special?” My question seems to sober her up a little.

  “No. I’ve known special people, but how do you say that to someone?”

  “Well, maybe people think you’re special and they don’t know how to say it either.”

  I can see she’s thinking about it. I’ll let her stew on that while I work on getting her dressed. “I’ll bring your clothes if you tell me where you left th
em.”

  She hangs her head down even lower. “I flushed them down the toilet.”

  That explains the plumbing problem. I need to save this party. I can’t have my last client at my last event be naked and crying in the kitchen. I stand up. “Wait here.” I start to repeat to myself: I can salvage tonight, I can salvage tonight.

  I head back to the bar, pull my wet dress out, and make a beeline to the dressing room. I know my guys travel with hair dryers, and I grab Atom and Brett to get the dress wearable. Then I track down Luke. When I tell him my plan, he gets a panicked look.

  “I’ll be standing nearby,” I say calmly.

  “She called me her horsey, and said she wanted to ride me hard, and put me away wet!”

  “Luke, just say, ‘I’d like to bite that lip of yours’ and then you can walk away.”

  He stares at me. “I don’t think you understand how attractive I am. Women don’t let me walk away.”

  “I’m sure you have a standard excuse.”

  He stops to think, and the effort is written all over his face. “I could tell her if I was fifty years older I bet I’d find her attractive.”

  I sigh. “No, Luke. Do not say that!” Poor Luke. He is very handsome, and he can lift very heavy things, but that is about the extent of his assets. “Tell her you’re already seeing someone.”

  Atom delivers the dress to me. I probably should give Lois the little black dress and wear the work dress, but if I don’t want to return it, I have less faith in Lois’s impulse control. And this little black dress is going back to that man!

  I hand the dress to Luke carefully (so he doesn’t get his body oil on it), and walk him to the kitchen door. “Remember, hand her the dress, say ‘I would like to bite that lip,’ and if she says anything, you say you’re seeing someone.”

  He’s as nervous as a virgin on prom night (another of Aunt Celia’s sayings). “What if she does something?”

  “I’ll be standing at the door. Now go.” I want to give him a push but don’t want the oil on my hands. Luke tentatively approaches her. Her eyes move from the bottle to his face. Thankfully she looks a little embarrassed, so she won’t be trying to mount the horsey. He hands her the dress. It’s not a glass slipper, but footwear isn’t what she needs right now. I can tell Luke wants to run, but he delivers the line. Maybe I was too hard on him. He does have other assets. He’s dependable. Predictable, but dependable.