hard time believing he was a bum. He seemed fine to me—more than fine, in fact. However, I learned my lesson long ago—my taste in men sucked. Since I was unable to stop fantasizing about Paxton Dane, history dictated he would turn out to be a bum. So, no welcome mat for Mr. Dane.
A nice walk and I’d be home.
A voice interrupted my reverie. “Ms. O’Toole?”
I recognized Paolo’s voice. I opened my eyes, which took longer than normal to focus. When they did, I saw Paolo, his smile a beckoning beacon, standing at attention next to the open door of the limo.
“Need a ride home?”
I sighed with relief. “You, my friend, are a prince among men.”
HOME for me was the whole thirtieth floor of The Presidio, Las Vegas’ premier multistory residence—or so said the sales brochure. A tower of glass, The Presidio was home to professional athletes, entertainers, extraordinarily rich foreigners . . . and me. My best friend, Teddie, occupied the penthouse one floor up.
In contrast to its exterior, the lobby was warm with wooden floors covered with thick luxurious area rugs in rich shades of orange and red. Lush landscapes graced the faux-painted walls. The spa and fitness facilities were reputed to be the best in the city. The Presidio also housed the Silver Club, again supposedly Las Vegas’ best private club. Who made these pronouncements, I didn’t know, but you couldn’t verify them by me—I’d never been to either one. I worked for a living. No, to be more precise, I didn’t actually have a life. I worked and slept—not “a life” in anybody’s book.
Forrest, the security guard, nodded as I staggered though the doors. A mountain of a man, all sinew and bulging muscle—he was the security guard from central casting. Rumor had it, he’d played in the NFL for a couple of years then blew out a knee. A nice guy, but I had no intention of ever making him mad.
“Ms. O’Toole. Tough day?”
“A little tougher than most.”
“Yeah, I caught the news.”
All I could do was nod. “Is Teddie home yet?”
“Not yet.”
Teddie’s show would have been over hours ago. I guess he’d gone out after. Everybody had a life except me.
I nodded as I stepped into the elevator, waved my magic key card over the pad and punched the button for home.
The elevator deposited me in the middle of my living room.
“Where you been, bitch?”
God, I’d forgotten about the bird. My one foray into pet ownership and it had to be a belligerent macaw with a foul mouth. I walked over to Newton’s cage. “Glad to see you, too, my pet.”
The bird eyed me warily. “What’s for dinner?”
“The usual.” I stuck a stick of celery through the bars of his cage.
He attacked it with relish.
I wish I felt that way about celery. Weight control would be so much easier.
Despite Newton, my apartment was my sanctuary. Walls of windows, high ceilings, large open rooms decorated minimally with brightly colored contemporary furniture and modern art in brilliant hues on the walls—what few there were. The kitchen, so I was told, was a work of art. I wouldn’t know. Give me a phone to order takeout, a microwave to heat it, and a fridge to store what’s left, and I’m happy. On the other hand, the master bath was critical, and it was a masterpiece.
I may not have a life, but I have a great place to take a bath.
However, first I needed a drink. The bar was hidden behind a panel in the far wall next to the fireplace. I pressed the secret button and, voilà, a fully stocked bar appeared.
My hands shook as I poured a stiff shot of Wild Turkey 101 into a Steuben tumbler, added a single cube of ice, then drained it in one gulp. This was becoming a habit, a bad habit. I’d had more hard liquor today than I could remember drinking in quite a while. Of course, the drinking affects the remembering. . . . Again, the amber liquid traced a fiery path down my throat, landing with a warm explosion in my stomach. The warmth radiated to the
A nice walk and I’d be home.
A voice interrupted my reverie. “Ms. O’Toole?”
I recognized Paolo’s voice. I opened my eyes, which took longer than normal to focus. When they did, I saw Paolo, his smile a beckoning beacon, standing at attention next to the open door of the limo.
“Need a ride home?”
I sighed with relief. “You, my friend, are a prince among men.”
HOME for me was the whole thirtieth floor of The Presidio, Las Vegas’ premier multistory residence—or so said the sales brochure. A tower of glass, The Presidio was home to professional athletes, entertainers, extraordinarily rich foreigners . . . and me. My best friend, Teddie, occupied the penthouse one floor up.
In contrast to its exterior, the lobby was warm with wooden floors covered with thick luxurious area rugs in rich shades of orange and red. Lush landscapes graced the faux-painted walls. The spa and fitness facilities were reputed to be the best in the city. The Presidio also housed the Silver Club, again supposedly Las Vegas’ best private club. Who made these pronouncements, I didn’t know, but you couldn’t verify them by me—I’d never been to either one. I worked for a living. No, to be more precise, I didn’t actually have a life. I worked and slept—not “a life” in anybody’s book.
Forrest, the security guard, nodded as I staggered though the doors. A mountain of a man, all sinew and bulging muscle—he was the security guard from central casting. Rumor had it, he’d played in the NFL for a couple of years then blew out a knee. A nice guy, but I had no intention of ever making him mad.
“Ms. O’Toole. Tough day?”
“A little tougher than most.”
“Yeah, I caught the news.”
All I could do was nod. “Is Teddie home yet?”
“Not yet.”
Teddie’s show would have been over hours ago. I guess he’d gone out after. Everybody had a life except me.
I nodded as I stepped into the elevator, waved my magic key card over the pad and punched the button for home.
The elevator deposited me in the middle of my living room.
“Where you been, bitch?”
God, I’d forgotten about the bird. My one foray into pet ownership and it had to be a belligerent macaw with a foul mouth. I walked over to Newton’s cage. “Glad to see you, too, my pet.”
The bird eyed me warily. “What’s for dinner?”
“The usual.” I stuck a stick of celery through the bars of his cage.
He attacked it with relish.
I wish I felt that way about celery. Weight control would be so much easier.
Despite Newton, my apartment was my sanctuary. Walls of windows, high ceilings, large open rooms decorated minimally with brightly colored contemporary furniture and modern art in brilliant hues on the walls—what few there were. The kitchen, so I was told, was a work of art. I wouldn’t know. Give me a phone to order takeout, a microwave to heat it, and a fridge to store what’s left, and I’m happy. On the other hand, the master bath was critical, and it was a masterpiece.
I may not have a life, but I have a great place to take a bath.
However, first I needed a drink. The bar was hidden behind a panel in the far wall next to the fireplace. I pressed the secret button and, voilà, a fully stocked bar appeared.
My hands shook as I poured a stiff shot of Wild Turkey 101 into a Steuben tumbler, added a single cube of ice, then drained it in one gulp. This was becoming a habit, a bad habit. I’d had more hard liquor today than I could remember drinking in quite a while. Of course, the drinking affects the remembering. . . . Again, the amber liquid traced a fiery path down my throat, landing with a warm explosion in my stomach. The warmth radiated to the
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