The Collector (13 page)

Chapter Twenty-seven

Call in the Troops

When I get back to my room, I call down to the front desk. Some dude picks up on the first ring.

“Concierge. How may I help you this evening, Mr. Walker?”

“Yeah, I need to have some things delivered to my guests’ rooms.”

“Certainly, Mr. Walker.”

I rub my forehead, thinking. “I need someone who does makeup and someone else for hair. Oh, and maybe one of those people who makes your nails look all good.”

“Yes, sir, a nail technician.” I can hear him smiling through the phone. “We have one on staff.”

“Yeah, that. Also, I need a stylist. I need them to call my guests to get sizes and then bring them clothes to hit the club in.”

“Is there anything else?”

I glance around my room. “Yeah, I need two bottles of Dom and the biggest, fattest bacon cheeseburger you got.”

“Would you like to charge this to your room, sir?”

“Yeah, put it on my Amex.”

“Thank you. We’ll have the stylist call your guests right away. Would you like for the stylist to visit your room as well?”

I glance down at my red vest, navy button-down, dark jeans, and Louis V belt. Meh.

“Sure,” I answer. “Send her my way.”

“We’ll have them up shortly.”

I hang up and walk to my bed. It’s big enough for me and six chicks. Pow! After eyeing a Pandora radio mounted onto the wall, I flip through the channels until I land on Korn. The music blasts from the speakers, and minutes later, someone knocks on my door. It’s the booze. Not a moment too soon.

The guy who brings it in waits awkwardly in the doorway until I sign the check and put a twenty in his hand. Then I pour my old friend, Dom, into a crystal flute and toss it back. Champagne’s made for sipping. But I’m made to party, so whatev.

The stylist calls and later brings up a gray sports coat and red V-neck shirt. I consider her choices.

“You done good,” I say.

She gives me a tight smile, then rushes off to take care of the other three.

I glance in the mirror. Surprise, surprise—I look finger-lickin’ delicious. And that’s important, because I’m about to visit Charlie. If I can’t get her to ask for more requests, the least I can do is ensure she picks up a few more seals tonight. That’ll be a hell of a lot easier if I strut my business. Ugly people are a lot of things, but influential is not one of them. I grab a glass of champagne, muss my hair, and bust out the bedroom eyes.

The clock reads 10:45. Good. That’s all the time I need to get Charlie in the right frame of mind. I open the door to my hotel room, cross the hall, and knock once on her door.

A guy in his early thirties opens the door. “What do you want? I’m busy.”

“Who the hell are you?” I ask.

He cocks a hand on his hip. “Who the hell are
you
?”

“I’m the guy paying for this room.”

His hand falls to his side. “Oh. Well, I was hired to get this girl ready to go out tonight.”

“Yeah, I know. I’m the one who hired you.”

“Mm-hmm. Mm-hmm.” He shakes his head as if to say,
And?
Then he glances over his shoulder. “Look, we’ve still got a lot left to do. I can’t stop mid-session. Can you come back later?”

“Dude, get the hell out of my way.”

I push the door open. The room is in complete disarray. There are curling irons and makeup kits and racks upon racks of short dresses and shiny blouses. Near the closed bathroom door are discarded white robes and pink push-up bras, and strewn across the bed are more beauty products than I’ve ever seen in my life.

I turn on the guy. “What happened in here?”

“Magic,” he says. “And don’t think magic means miracles because it doesn’t. So manage your expectations.”

I have a sudden urge to beat this guy’s face in. Instead, I sweep my arm across the bed and sit down as random crap clatters to the floor. The guy turns away and heads toward the bathroom. He knocks—or rather,
bangs
—on the door.

“Enough, already,” he yells. “I’ve got to do her hair.”

“Screw off,” some chick who isn’t Charlie yells back.

The guy shoots me a look like he can’t believe she just said that, like we’re sharing the frustration. He turns back to the door and puts his mouth near the crack.

“Listen here, you busted-ass bitch. You better open this damn door before—”

Busted-Ass Bitch swings the door open and immediately palms his face and shoves. “Get. Back.”

He bucks up like he’s going to hit her, but she just sashays by him and into the room. “Come on, Charlie.” She pulls a plush white chair near a mirror. “Sit here.”

I peer over the dude’s shoulder, curious what they’ve done to her—if she’ll even look human. The smell of perfume and powder wafts out, making my nose itch like crazy.

And then she appears.

Something in me catches.

She’s not beautiful, exactly. But she looks…she looks…
nice
. Maybe it’s that I’m accustomed to her face, the way her cheeks glow when she’s excited, or the curve of her mouth when she smiles. It’s her face—
Charlie’s
face—and in a strange way, I like it the way it is now. Without any changes.

My legs are restless, and I have to stand from the bed. I move toward Charlie without thinking. The stylist chick keeps rattling on, so I point at her and say, “Shut. Up.”

Her face scrunches in disgust, and she flashes an irritated glance at the dude, who only flips her off.

Charlie freezes in place. Her mouth quivers like she wants to smile, but she’s not quite sure how to react.

No one speaks as I move to within a few inches of her. She’s wearing a sheer, long-sleeved blouse. Beneath it, I can just spot her black bra. The blouse hangs loosely over skintight leather pants that clutch her tiny ankles. I also notice she’s swaying, teetering on black Louboutins with red underbellies. Her hair falls over her shoulders, untouched for now.

None of this is what surprises me.

It’s her skin.

It’s…flawless.

The red patches have vanished. Pimples—gone. Left in their wake is smooth, porcelain skin that begs to be touched. And why shouldn’t I?

I reach up and run the back of my hand over her skin. Her eyes close, and she breathes in. I’d like to say she’s being stupid. Holding her breath like that. But my breath is gone, too—lost to this moment and the girl with doll-like cheeks.

Right as I’m wondering about the seal associated with this request, her soul light flips on. Before I can comprehend what’s happening, a seal appears from my chest and rushes forward to attach to her light. There’s still plenty of light left, but for the first time, I can see that headway is being made, that it’s much dimmer than when I met her five days ago. My stomach clenches at the sight.

Homeboy kills the moment by grabbing Charlie’s arm. “Sorry, love, but I need her now.”

I stand, transfixed, and watch as the guy parts her long blond hair down the middle. He then curls a few pieces with a flat iron and shakes her hair out between his fingers. “The trick is not to overdo it,” he says to no one in particular.

The stylist swoops in and puts the final touches on Charlie’s makeup. “Voilà!”

The twosome guide Charlie to a mirror, and she takes herself in. She runs her hands over the silk blouse, her soft hair….the gold necklace around her neck. But her eyes never leave her face. I wonder if she did it as soon as I left her room. She must have, or the makeover duo would know something’s up.

Even the skin on her neck is clearer, and it gives her whole face a kind of radiance only preggos get.

“You happy?” I ask her. I’m still standing near the bathroom. I haven’t regained function of my legs yet.

“Damn straight she’s happy,” Hair Guy says. “We just turned her into Cinda-freakin-rella.”

I’ve had about enough input from the staff, so I stick cash in their sweaty palms and wave them toward the door. When I turn back to Charlie, she’s beaming.

“It’s good, huh?” she says.

I laugh. “It’s good. So you asked for…?”

“Better skin,” she finishes. “I thought, what the hey. How many times am I going to be in Las Vegas with my best friends?”

“I concur,” I say, though I’m not sure I do. It’s my job to ensure she executes the contract, but did she really need this done? She would’ve outgrown her flawed skin, and it wasn’t even that bad. Not when she smiled, anyway. Because when Charlie smiled, you didn’t notice anything else.

Walking around her in a tight circle, I inspect the change. Seeing her up close, I know she’s nearer to becoming traditionally beautiful, but a part of me aches for the way she used to look. Will I ever see her strawberry blush of excitement in these new, smoother cheeks?

I’m about to reach out for another sample when someone knocks on the door. Charlie takes a quick backward step, and something in her eyes says she’s disappointed we’re interrupted. Two seconds later, someone knocks again. My skin flushes with annoyance.

“You guys in there?” I hear Annabelle yell.

I smile and put a finger to my lips. Charlie covers her mouth, but her laugh breaks the barrier.

“Yeah, I can hear you laughing,” Annabelle says. “Freaking let us in. I thought we were meeting in Dante’s room. We’ve been standing out there knocking for, like, ten years.”

I cross the room and swing the door open. “Ten years, you say?”

“Give or take.” She strides past me wearing a tight black dress and scarlet high heels. Her dark hair is bobbed
Pulp Fiction
style, and she’s got long gold earrings that brush her shoulders.

“Annabelle, you look great.” I can’t believe I’m saying this, but it’s the truth. She’s a big girl, but in that body-hugging dress, it’s obvious she’s super-sized in all the right places. I never noticed before, but with a little elbow grease, she could be a real hottie.

Annabelle squeals for two seconds when she sees her friend all glammed up, then races into Charlie’s bathroom to dig through the makeup the stylists left behind.

Over my shoulder, I spot Blue standing in the hallway, waiting to be invited in. He’s fumbling with his cuffs to avoid eye contact. The stylist hooked him up with a black button-down, dark jeans, and brown cowboy boots. Very urban cowboy. It suits him.

I slap his hands down and pull his head up. “Head up,
hombre
. You’re
GQ
tonight; act like it.”

He bites the inside of his cheek to keep from smiling.

And then he sees Charlie.

Chapter Twenty-eight

Pre-Party

Blue’s entire face opens like a lion’s mouth. He takes her in—the tight pants, the loose blond waves. And of course, her skin.

Charlie sees him and immediately smiles. There’s no reservation about it; around him she’s comfortable. “Hey!” She swirls in a circle for Blue. “What do you think?”

He doesn’t say anything, but he does cross the room to stand in front of her. “You look different,” he says softly, as if this remark is for her ears only.

Her face pulls together, and she fiddles with the gold necklace lying on her chest.

“Not in a bad way,” he quickly adds. “But definitely different. In a big way.”

“The makeup people did an amazing job.” Charlie turns away from Blue, but he spins after her, orbiting her body with his own.

“It’s not just that.” He reaches up and takes her face in his hands. His thumbs pull up to trace the line of her jaw. “Your skin,” he says. “It’s perfect.” Blue’s eyes flash in my direction. It doesn’t last long, but it’s long enough to make me uncomfortable. Why is he looking at me? He couldn’t possibly know something’s up.

What I’m really thinking, though, is that he needs to back off. Blue’s a good guy, and he’s spoken his mind, which is admirable, but Charlie’s
my
assignment, and if he isn’t careful, I’ll let him know that in no uncertain terms.

Annabelle appears from the bathroom, her arms filled with miniature bottles and tubes of makeup. “What’s going on out here? Why’s everyone all quiet?” She moves to stand beside the two of them. This time, she really studies Charlie’s face. “Okay, what are you doing behind my back? Why do you look hotter every time I see you? And what is up with your skin? It’s baby’s-ass smooth.”

“I did a treatment the stylists recommended,” she answers. Annabelle’s mouth opens like she’s going to demand the same treatment, but Charlie cuts her off. “It hurt so bad, though.”

“It did?” Annabelle asks.

Blue takes a small step backward, as if her fabricated pain somehow hurt him, too.

Charlie nods. “It was the worst. They said to expect pain, but I had no idea it would be so intense.”

“Does it still hurt?” Annabelle asks.

Charlie cringes like it stings just thinking about it.

I stifle a laugh. My assignment is getting better at this whole lying thing. Still, I better break this up before more questions get asked.

“Why don’t we go to my room and pre-party for a while?” I grab Annabelle’s waist and guide her toward the door. She stares over her shoulder at Charlie the entire way.

“Maybe I could handle it,” Annabelle mutters.

“No, you couldn’t,” I fire back.

Blue and Charlie follow us into my room, where the radio is still blasting
let’s effin’ party
music. Annabelle forgets all about Charlie’s new, flawless skin the second she sees the champagne. She races to the cart and pulls the bottle up.

“How did you get this?” Her eyes land on me, a mixture of excitement and fear swirling behind her dark irises.

I take the bottle from her and pour a glass. “I called down and ordered it.”

“And they didn’t card you? Or did they? Do you have a fake or something?”

“I don’t have a fake ID,” I say. “I have a credit card.” I hold the glass of champagne out to her. She stares at the shiny crystal like it’s battery acid, then quickly changes her mind and sweeps it out of my hand.

“Annabelle, you’re going to drink?” Charlie asks.

Annabelle shrugs and brings the glass to her lips. “When in Rome, eh?”

Blue cocks his head to the side, then approaches the booze tray. He pours a trying-to-impress-Charlie-sized glass of Dom and toasts Annabelle’s flute.

Thank goodness for friends. They’re making my job a lot easier tonight.

I pour another two servings and hand one to Charlie. She takes it without complaint, and the four of us raise our glasses. “To tonight,” I say.

“Hear, hear,” Annabelle says as the flutes clink together. Then she pumps her hips against Blue’s ass, and he shoves her off, laughing. “And thanks to Dante for hooking us up: first-class tickets to Vegas, our own rooms, stylists, champagne. A girl could get used to this.”

“No problem,” I say. “Glad you guys could come.” What’s crazy is that what I’m saying is true. I haven’t been to Vegas in what feels like an eternity. And Annabelle, Blue, and Charlie—they’re all so thankful for the trip. They’re nothing like my old friends.

We go out on the balcony and watch the cars slink by beneath us. The lights of the city are overwhelming from this height. It’s like the city is everywhere and everything. And we’re all a part of it now.

I watch Charlie’s face as she leans over the railing and peers down, and then up at the sky. She’s not smiling like I expect—she’s more curious. She catches me staring and raises the champagne to her lips. When she pulls it away, she giggles. It doesn’t take long with champagne.

The music inside changes to a lame slow song, and Annabelle and Blue groan.

“I think that’s our cue,” I say.

“Where are we going?” Blue asks.

“Somewhere that’ll blow your feeble mind.” I collect their glasses and put them on the dresser. Then I walk toward the door and hold it open. “Let’s roll.”

Annabelle and Charlie link arms and race ahead of us. They stop and make faces in the mirrors hung along the hallway. Charlie pauses for longer than Annabelle, no doubt inspecting her skin. Her friend has to keep tugging her away.

Downstairs in the lobby, Blue nods toward the casino. “Any way you can get us in there?”

“Probably. But where we’re going is much better.”

Blue’s eyes linger on the flashing lights and chiming bells of the casino as we head outside the sliding glass doors and into the night. Charlie tugs a lightweight Versace coat around her middle as I hail a cab.

The cabbie pulls up and asks through the open window, “Where to?”

I lean down, putting my hands on the sill, and tell him, “Holy Hell.”