They were both getting what they deserved. Her, a chance to start over and find peace, and him—nothing. They couldn’t both win the game. She had to choose herself over Beau.
Lola started the car. She didn’t have to go by Cat Shoppe on her way, but it would be her only glimpse of victory, even if it was through her black-tinted windows. She looped around and waited for a lull in traffic, then drove by the flashing, neon Girls sign. Beau paced the sidewalk, his eyes glued to Cat Shoppe’s front door. Had he understood, while being escorted out against his will, how little control he really had? Had he started to realize yet just how much he’d lost?
Lola turned her eyes back to the road, pressed her high heel to the gas pedal and gunned it.
She was out of town within half an hour.
19
Tick.
Tick.
Tick.
* * *
Beau didn’t remove his eyes from Cat Shoppe’s front door except to check his Rolex. Seconds slid by in a steady rhythm until almost ten minutes had passed. The bouncer sat on a stool, watching Beau pace like a caged tiger. He’d been instructed to remain twenty feet from the entrance.
“I just want my girlfriend so I can get the fuck out of here,” Beau said across the sidewalk.
“Any closer, and you’re leaving here in cuffs. Like I said, security didn’t take too kindly to your attitude.”
Beau pulled his wallet from his suit jacket. “A hundred bucks if you get her out here for me.”
The bouncer remained slumped on his seat, chewing gum like it was his job. After a few seconds, he shifted to unclip a radio from his belt. “What’s she look like?”
“We arrived together. Black hair, tall.”
He globed a hand in front of his chest. “I mean the titties—big? Small?”
Beau glared. “Fuck you. That’s my girlfriend.”
“Hey, I don’t mind the small ones. More of an ass man myself.” He chuckled, held the receiver to his mouth. “You got a read on the chick in the kitten ears?” He winked at Beau.
Of course the doorman had noticed Lola, her black Burberry trench and red pout. He had a heartbeat, didn’t he? Beau tugged at the ends of his shirtsleeves, though what he really wanted to do was push them up, knock the fucker out along with the rest of the men in that place. They stood between Beau and something that was his. He would’ve barged back in to get to her, but that’d either land him in a hospital or a jail cell, and then he’d be leaving Lola alone with brutes. He wiped sweat from his hairline, an all too familiar feeling settling in him as the image of Lola with a gun under her chin flashed by.
The radio shrieked with static. “It’s Kincaid. That was Lola Winters, worked here back in the day. We checked everywhere. She’s gone.”
They looked at each other. Beau took a step closer. “Gone?”
“You sure, boss?” the man asked. “She didn’t come out this way.”
The LED Girls sign by the door burned into Beau’s retinas. He rubbed his eyes with stiff fingers, searched the sidewalk. The street was busy with cars. A group of people passed by, looking at him, none of them even remotely familiar—as if he’d exited the strip club onto another planet.
Beau took out his phone, his adrenaline spiking when he saw that neither of his last two text messages to Lola had gone through.
“She ain’t in here,” Kincaid said. “Must’ve gone out the back.”
“There’s a backdoor?” Beau started toward the corner.
“Yo—what about my money?” the doorman called after him.
Beau broke into a jog, shouldering through a human cluster. Lola’d definitely promised to meet him out front. Had she needed a quick exit from security? Coming here had been a bad idea. Parking in back, where she was probably waiting in the dark, was a bad idea.
His Lamborghini was in an end spot, close to the street. The only light was a distant sidewalk lamp. Not a person in sight. He looked in the passenger’s side window. He got onto his hands and knees to check underneath. She wasn’t there, or behind a nearby dumpster, or in the next building’s parking lot. He went to the backdoor and pulled on the handle, banged on the metal slab.
He called her. A black shadow near the driver’s side door caught his eye—something hanging from the side mirror. He got closer, bending to see it better.
After three melodic beeps over the line, he heard, “We’re sorry, you have reached a number that has been disconnected or is no longer in service. If you feel you have reached this recording in error—”
Beau ended the call and picked up Lola’s black kitten ears. On the glass was a red lipstick mark in the shape of a kiss. He looked between the headband and the mirror. The ears had been on her head. She’d been wearing red lipstick. Had Lola been outside at some point in the last fifteen minutes?
He looked up suddenly. “Lola?” he called, her name fading instantly. “This isn’t funny. It’s not safe out here.”
He turned in a circle. It wasn’t funny, but no part of him thought this was a joke. The strip club had been busy, but he hadn’t noticed a single person. Not one except her. That didn’t mean someone hadn’t noticed them. He tried to picture a face, anyone’s face, or something out of the ordinary. The only thing he saw was Lola’s back as she’d led him to the VIP room.
He clutched the cat ears. He’d let security separate them. He shouldn’t’ve left her side, not without a fight. Someone might’ve hurt her, drugged her, taken her somewhere.
He turned and kicked the dumpster. A metallic thud echoed around the lot, reminding him how empty it was. He paced the sidewalk, rubbing his temples. Think, think, think. He was used to remaining calm during a crisis, but his thoughts jumbled. His palms sweat. Her phone was disconnected—how long did that take? Could it be done in—? He checked his watch. Eighteen minutes?
He beat the door with his fist until his palm began to throb, and finally, it cracked open with a heavy click. An older man peered at him. “What?”
“Where is she?”
“I told you already.” The man spit chewing tobacco on the sidewalk next to Beau’s feet. “She ain’t in here.”
“She has to be. She’s not out here.” Beau took a threatening step closer. “You know her?”
The man just looked him over. “Yeah. I’m the owner, Kincaid.”
“So what the fuck happened tonight?”
“Not my business. You take that up with her.” He went to shut the door, but Beau grabbed it, stopping it cold. Kincaid was short and squat, not nearly as meaty as the security guards.
“Tell me, or I’ll get LAPD here within five minutes. I know the chief. You don’t want them sniffing around.”
He shrugged. “Call them. I got nothing to hide. Maybe you ought to get the police on the phone anyway, because like I said ten times already, your girl isn’t in here. And I tell you, I got a real thing about possessive boyfriends. Don’t like them, don’t want them hanging around. Kind of a pet peeve I got.”
Beau didn’t remove his hand from the door. He didn’t know the police chief personally, but he had a solid link to him. He wasn’t going to involve him, though, not yet anyway. He’d had a neighbor call the police on him once, when he and Brigitte had lived in a dump with thin walls, and she’d gotten hysterical over something. The officer’d arrived to find her calm and charming, and by the time he’d left, it was with her phone number. The police had done nothing for Beau that day or since, and they certainly wouldn’t give a fuck about a woman who’d gone missing from a strip club twenty minutes ago.
“All right,” Beau said, lining up his options. “Okay. What do you want? Money?”
Kincaid reeled slowly back, as if Beau’d offered him a bag of shit. “I want you to get the fuck off my property. That’s all we been telling you since the moment you touched her.”
“Just tell me why. Why’d you kick me out?”
Kincaid sighed, looked around the lot. “Something fishy here, but if it’ll get you to leave, I’ll te
ll you. Lola was here this afternoon, said she was bringing you by, said if you touched her, I should remove you. Treat you like any other customer, but I’ll be honest, the guys went easy on you. Weren’t really sure what we were dealing with.”
Beau breathed through his nose, trying, failing, to put the pieces together. She’d arranged it beforehand, that he’d known, but why go through everything she did, from warning him not to touch her to begging him to? “If I find out she’s in there—”
“She ain’t. She got a key to your place?”
“Of course.”
“Probably at home then. Good luck.” Kincaid pulled on the door, and Beau released it. He fumbled with his keys, got into his car and sat with his hands gripping the wheel. He shut his eyes and envisioned himself at the head of his boardroom faced with a problem. Everyone around the table, looking to him for the solution. Because there was an answer. He just needed to find it.
Beau was no angel—he had enemies. Powerful ones. Business was their battlefield. It’d never crossed into personal territory for him—but perhaps he’d pissed off the wrong person.
Beau opened his eyes and looked into the side mirror again, the lip mark plastered on his reflection. It seemed like a message that had nothing to do with business. It was a stretch, thinking someone had targeted Lola to get back at him. Those weren’t the kind of enemies he’d made, and Lola wasn’t a damsel in distress.
Beau tried her cell again and got the same recording. He turned his phone over in his hand, checked the screen and battery. He dialed Warner as it occurred to him Lola might’ve contacted him for a ride.
Beau spoke as soon as the line clicked. “Warner, have you heard from—”
“—reached the voicemail of—”
He hung up. Of all the days he could’ve given Warner off. He called the house, reasoning if Lola had left right after he’d seen her, she could be back there by now, but nobody answered.
There was only one other place she could be, and the last place he wanted to go. He started the car, the engine waking up like a hungry lion. As he pulled out of the parking lot, he made another call.
“Hey Joe.” It was a man, not difficult to figure out which one.
Beau cursed silently. He wasn’t about to ask Lola’s ex-boyfriend if he’d seen her. Lola had talked about two other people she’d worked with, Amanda, who’d blown Johnny, and Veronica, a friend.
“Hello?” Johnny asked.
“I’m calling for Veronica.”
“One sec. Vero!”
Beau waited through some shuffling until a woman came on the line. “Yeah?” she asked, already wary.
“Is this Veronica?”
“Who is this?”
“I’m looking for Lola Winters. Have you seen her tonight?”
Veronica grunted. “She doesn’t work here anymore.”
“Have you seen her, though? Tonight? Is she there now?”
“Now? I haven’t seen her since—”
“Who is that?” Beau heard in the background, Johnny again.
“Nobody,” Vero said. There was more rustling on the line. “Johnny, what—mind your own fucking business.”
“Sounds like my business,” he said.
“It’s not. Go pour a drink or something.”
Beau was halfway between Hey Joe and Cat Shoppe now. He didn’t want to go in if he didn’t have to. No good would come from being in the same room with Johnny.
“You still there?” Veronica asked after a few silent seconds.
“You haven’t seen her since when?” Beau asked.
“Since before she and Johnny broke up. I heard she was with you.”
Beau glanced out his window. “You know who I am?”
“You have a way of sticking out. How come you’re calling here asking for her when you know she don’t work here?”
“You’re sure she’s not there? If she is, I need to talk to her. It’s important.”
“I’d tell you if she were. I love her to death, that’s why I never want to see her in here again. She don’t belong.”
Beau frowned. He wouldn’t like that either, Lola going to Hey Joe if she were in trouble. “If you see her, tell her to call me. It’s important.”
“You said that already.” She sighed into the phone. “Look, I have to go. Johnny’s giving me the death stare.”
“Don’t mention this to him.”
“I won’t. My loyalty left the building with Lola once I found about Amanda.”
Lola must not’ve talked to her about Beau, then. Veronica would’ve certainly shared her opinion of him if she had. Beau stopped mid-Boulevard and flipped the car around. “Thanks for your help,” he said and hung up.
Lola was out there, alone, in the dark. He couldn’t remember if she’d taken her purse inside. He leaned over to the passenger’s side as he drove, feeling around, then did the same in the backseat. No purse. At least she had that, unlike the morning she’d walked home from the Four Seasons. His heart palpitated the same way it had that day, when he’d realized he had no way of getting ahold of her.
Beau was driving in the direction of his house, but he had no idea if it was the right place to be. His phone rang, and he grabbed it without even checking the screen. “Lola?”
“Sorry I missed your call, sir.”
“Warner.” Beau shut his eyes briefly, a current of dread running through him. “Is Lola with you?”
Warner hesitated. “Is she supposed to be?”
“I can’t find her. She disappeared in the middle of our date. I was hoping she’d called you to pick her up.”
“No, sir. I haven’t heard from her. Have you tried the house?”
Three weeks earlier, when she’d walked out of his life, she’d found him. Maybe she was already at home. He’d heard when it came to a missing person, it was best to stay in one place so they could find you “Not yet.”
“Maybe she took a—one minute.” His voice went distant. “Yes, it is. Something about Lola going missing. Just let me—”
“If that’s Brigitte,” Beau said, “I don’t have time. Just let me know if you hear from Lola.” Beau hung up, more confident that he’d walk in the front door and find Lola in the kitchen, eating spoonfuls of Rocky Road from the carton the way she sometimes did.
He made it home in record time, parking in the driveway and jogging up to the front. He dropped his keys, cursed as he picked them up, and finally got the door open. The house was dark.
“Lola?” he called out, flipping the switch for the chandelier. He tossed his keys on the table and headed through the house, turning on a light in every room. As he entered the kitchen, he prayed for the glow of the refrigerator, the sound of silverware, anything. There was nothing. He went to stand in the middle of the room. “Hello?”
He heard footsteps behind him, the click of high heels. Relief spread through him.
“Beau.”
He turned around as a light came on above him. Brigitte and Warner stood in the kitchen doorway, as far as they could get from him. “What’re you doing here?”
“We were concerned,” Brigitte said. “What the hell happened?”
Beau shook his head, checked his phone and set it on the counter. “Honestly, I don’t even know.”
“Warner, get him water.” Brigitte crossed the kitchen toward him. “You don’t look good.”
“I’m fine. I mean—I’m not. I’m fucking worried. But not about myself.”
Warner opened and closed cabinets.
Brigitte leaned a hip on the counter. “Start from the beginning.”
“We went out to dinner. It was a special occasion, and she wanted to plan the evening. She said it was a surprise.”
“What was the occasion?”
Beau opened his mouth. The occasion was private, that’s what it was—him, finally getting to show her what love meant to him. Upstairs, in their bedroom, removing her trench coat. Crawling over her body as she breathed heavily on the bed, anticipating his fi
rst touch.
“That’s not important,” Beau said.
“I don’t understand. What happened at the restaurant?”
“It wasn’t there.” Beau would’ve rather kept the details to himself, but this whole thing was getting bigger, and he was willing to sacrifice some privacy for answers. Several times over the years, he’d come to Brigitte with a business problem, and she would point out the piece of the puzzle he’d been missing. She had a surprising knack for empathy when she tried, unlike Beau. “We were at Cat Shoppe.”
“You’re kidding,” Brigitte said, deadpan.
“I wish I were. Some way of replacing our past, I guess.”
Brigitte looked at Warner. “What’s taking you so long?”
“The cups moved again.”
“I can get my own water.” Beau remembered that Lola’d rearranged things. He wasn’t even thirsty, but he went and got a glass, needing something to do with his hands. “So she had a special dance planned. She warned me not to touch her, but I thought we were playing some kind of game. Because as soon as I put my hands on her—”
She had begged him with her eyes. Tempted him with each sultry movement. He would’ve done anything for her in those moments, crazy for her.
“What?” Brigitte prompted. “What happened when you touched her?”
“She just…disappeared.”
20
Brigitte and Warner stood side by side in Beau’s kitchen, quieted by the details of Beau’s night. Beau drank the last of his water, set it on the counter, looked at it. Nobody spoke.
“…I moved the glasses and bowls back into their own cabinet...it’s your kitchen, after all.”
Explicitly Yours Series Page 44