Karma Girl

by Jennifer Estep

  By the time I reached the convention center, I’d nailed down just about everything, from the decorations to the food to the music. Melody Masters, in particular, was more than happy to play the Weston shindig. She wanted the exposure for her band—not to mention the hefty fee.

  A couple of men wearing gray coveralls, black boots, and gloves blocked the main entrance to the convention center, standing in front of one of the revolving doors. An open toolbox sat against the smooth stone of the building. Hammers, screwdrivers, and tape measures perched in plastic containers inside. As I walked past, the sun glinted on the head of one of the hammers. I grunted in pain as the light stabbed into my eyes, blinding me.

  “Sorry, ma’am,” one of the men said, mistaking my grunt for some sort of inquiry. “This door is closed. If you need to get into the center, you’ll have to use the entrance farther down the block.”

  I peered around the guy and realized he and his buddy were measuring the empty frame for a new pane of glass. I winced. I’d forgotten about the door I’d broken on my dash out of the convention center when I’d left Talon here. I made a mental note to give an anonymous donation to the Bigtime Symphony Orchestra. I owed Morris Muzicale that much for wrecking a piece of his convention center.

  I walked half a block to the other entrance. Instead of revolving, these doors had handles. I opened one of them, stepped into the massive lobby, and headed for my destination.

  Eddie Edgars, the regular guard, sat at his perch behind the security desk. At the scuffle of my shoes on the slick floor, Eddie looked up from his comic book, the latest edition created by Confidante. The cover featured a perfect replica of the mock snowball fight between Wynter and Swifte that SNN had aired earlier in the week. Wynter laughed as she pitched a snowball at Swifte. Confidante could sure churn out her comic books quickly. Then again, the superhero’s ability to draw at the speed of light certainly helped.

  “Hey, Abby.” Eddie waved at me. “What’s shaking?”

  “Not much. Just here to look over a few things for my next event.”

  Normally, I would have breezed past Eddie, but Rascal started yipping and squirming. So, I decided to let someone else watch the puppy for a while. Unlike the snotty guard at Wesley’s building, I trusted Eddie to take care of Rascal. Besides, Eddie owed me for getting him tickets to the upcoming Fiona Fine fashion show. Like most guys, he had a thing for supermodels.

  I opened my coat, plucked Rascal out of my vest pocket, and sat him on top of the counter in front of Eddie.

  “A dog? When did you get a dog?” Eddie asked, holding his finger out so Rascal could sniff it.

  I grunted again. Why did people keep asking me that? It wasn’t like I was Frost, the ubervillain who’d liked to experiment on animals before the Fearless Five put the deep freeze on him.

  “Do me a favor. Watch him for me for a few minutes.”

  “Sure,” Eddie said. “No problem. I love dogs.”

  I left Rascal with Eddie, turned the corner, and strode down the carpeted hallway. I yanked open the door to the stairwell and climbed to the second floor. A minute later, I walked out onto the balcony, staring at the vast space below. It wasn’t quite noon, but the Bigtime Symphony Orchestra was hard at work. Musicians sat on stage, instruments dangling from their hands, as they chatted and gossiped. A short, thin man with a bald head stood in front of them, rapping on a metal podium with a baton and trying to get their attention.

  “People! People! How many times have I said you should always conduct yourselves professionally whenever you’re on stage?” Morris Muzicale bellowed at his musicians. “Even when you don’t have an audience.”

  “But we do have an audience,” one of the cellists contradicted. “Abby’s here. Hi, Abby.”

  The cellist and his cohorts waved to me. Cellists. Always so cheeky.

  I lifted my hand in salute. Most of the musicians knew me because I came by at least once a week to check on arrangements for my latest event. I’d done more than a few of their weddings, anniversaries, and birthday parties too.

  Morris, the esteemed director of the orchestra, looked over his shoulder. Even though several hundred feet separated us, I could feel his glare—and see it in remarkable detail thanks to my enhanced eyesight.

  “Yes, well, Miss Appleby hardly qualifies as an audience.”

  “So you’re saying we don’t have to act professionally then?” the same cellist piped up.

  A few of his colleagues snickered. I could hear Morris’s sigh loud and clear, even up here in the nosebleed section. I’d once suggested to Morris that the orchestra should mix up its repertoire, play some rock operas or something a little livelier than Bach, Beethoven, and other songs by old, dead white guys. His face had turned purple, his eyes had bulged and twitched, and a vein beat like a tambourine in his temple. Morris had been so insulted I’d thought he was going to have a heart attack on the spot.

  Morris gave me another hard stare, then turned back to the orchestra. He tapped his long baton on top of the stand. “From the top, ladies and gentlemen…”

  While the orchestra played Mozart’s “Eine Kleine Nachtmusik,” I pulled a notepad and pen out of my vest and paced from one side of the balcony to the other, making crude drawings of where everything would go. I did the same thing for every event, visualizing the decorations, the flowers, the food, the placement of each and every little thing. The rough sketches helped pinpoint potential trouble spots. I had enough crises pop up by themselves. I tried to do everything I could to limit the avoidable ones.

  We’d have to pull the auditorium seats out and bring up the hidden parquet floor for the dancing. Standard operating procedure. The long, narrow orchestra pit would be converted into the bar as usual. That was where I’d put the ice sculptures, and let the bartenders use it to cool some of their supplies. It would be fun and functional. Wesley might be free and easy with his money, but I liked to give my clients plenty of bang for their buck.

  Water sloshed in a bucket, and the scent of bleach mixed with cigarette smoke drifted over me—a harsh but familiar smell.

  I looked over my shoulder. Colt Colton used a long-handled mop to push a yellow bucket along the balcony toward me.

  “Hey, Abby. Party planning again already?” Colt asked, yanking his mop out of the water and slapping it against the floor.

  “Don’t you know it. Big shindig set for Friday night.”

  There wasn’t really anything else to say, and we both quieted. Colt mopped away the sticky film of spilled soda that always seemed to cover the floor, while I continued to plan. After a few minutes, I tuned out the splash of his waterlogged mop. I didn’t even notice that he’d finished until I felt him staring at me.

  “Did you need something, Colt?”

  He leaned on his mop. “Actually, I wanted to ask you a question.”

  “Really? What?” I said, scribbling more notes on the pad. Maybe I should get three ice sculptures, one for each end of the bar and the center, too—

  Colt cleared his throat. I kept writing. He cleared it again, and it dawned on me that he wanted my full, complete, and undivided attention. I looked up from my notes.

  “I’m sorry. Too much to do, too little time. What did you want to ask me?”

  “Well, we’ve known each other a while now, Abby.” Colt stared at me, his eyes dark in the shadows.

  “Yeah…” I replied, not sure where he was going. The only thing I could think of was maybe Colt wanted some extra work and was going to ask me to get him a gig as one of Kyle’s waiters. I’d be happy to do that for him, given how many times he’d helped me out with various problems at my events.

  “Well, I was wondering if you’d like to go out sometime. Get some dinner, watch a movie. Maybe tonight?”

  I opened my mouth, but no sound came out. Go out? With Colt Colton? The thought had never crossed my mind. He was just another cog in the Bigtime society wheel like me, a guy I said hello to but didn’t think about otherwise. Truth be told, C
olt was as invisible to me as I was to the Bigtime society folks.

  So I looked at him—really looked at him. He was taller than I’d realized, and a pair of faded, gray coveralls covered his body. It was the same uniform the other maintenance personnel at the convention center wore, but he filled it out well, with broad, powerful shoulders and a solid chest. A bit on the long side, his black hair was pulled back into a low ponytail, while his face was pale from spending so much time indoors. He had a perfect, straight nose and lips that would have been more at home on a model than a custodian. Colt wasn’t unattractive. Actually, he was rather handsome.

  “Abby?” he asked.

  I looked at him again—really looked at him.

  And realized Colt’s eyes were dark brown, almost black, instead of golden. His smile full-on, instead of self-mocking and wry. His voice raspy, instead of a deep rumble I could feel in my toes.

  Colt Colton wasn’t Wesley Weston. He wasn’t Talon—and I just wasn’t in the mood.

  “Um, actually, I’m sort of getting over a bad relationship right now.” It wasn’t exactly a lie. Getting over one-night stands could be tough, depending on how much you’d had to drink.

  “And I have an event tonight. At the library. I’m sorry.” I added the last part because it seemed like the thing to do. I didn’t want to be cruel. Not like Ryan had been to me.

  Not a flicker of emotion showed on Colt’s face. No anger flared in his eyes. No embarrassment colored his cheeks. His breathing pattern didn’t change. His heart didn’t speed up.

  Instead, he shrugged. “Suit yourself.”

  Colt straightened, took hold of his mop, and pushed his bucket over to the service elevator. He stepped inside and turned around. Just before the doors closed, Colt’s eyes met mine. He smiled, his teeth flashing like pearls in his face. It was an innocent smile. Just a colleague silently saying goodbye to another.

  But for some reason, it made me shiver.

  Chapter Fifteen

  I made a few more notes, collected Rascal from Eddie, and headed to the office. Chloe rocketed out of her chair the moment the elevator opened, briefing me on the library dedication. She’d also had the foresight to bring me a cheeseburger and fries from Quicke’s. My nose twitched, and my stomach rumbled at the hot, greasy aroma. Maybe I really should consider giving Chloe a promotion.

  We chatted for a few minutes about the library dedication. It was the first of many events to be held in Berkley Brighton’s honor, and I wanted to make sure everything was perfect. Surprise, surprise.

  “It sounds like you’ve got everything under control. Why don’t you see it through to the end?”

  Chloe’s eyes widened. “You’re letting me run point on this?” Her voice hovered dangerously close to squeal territory.

  I winced. “Most of the work’s already been done. Let’s see how you do at handling the last-minute details. That’s when you really have to think on your feet. You still want that promotion, don’t you?”

  She nodded.

  “Well then, do a good job tonight, and I’ll consider it some more.”

  Chloe held her arms out wide and started to come around the desk.

  I snapped up my hand and stopped her. “No—no hugging.”

  Chloe looked a little put out by my refusal to be all girly-girl affectionate, but she got over it and started making phone calls. I grabbed the bag with the sandwich from Quicke’s and went into my office.

  I took off my coat and put Rascal on the floor. The puppy trotted over to his water bowl and lapped up half of it. I ripped open the Quicke’s bag, unwrapped the cellophane covering the burger, and dumped the fries on the paper next to it. I closed my eyes, leaned over my feast, and breathed in, letting the wonderful aromas assault my senses. Grilled beef. Poppy seed bun. Sharp Cheddar cheese. Extra tomatoes. A dollop of mayonnaise. Blue cheese dressing for my fries.

  I was just about to sink my teeth into the burger when a whine sounded. A small, pitiful, can-I-please-please-please-have-a-bite-of-that? whine. The one that was like nails shooting into my skull. The one that was like a cheese grinder on my heart. The one that made me feel guilty. The one that was rapidly turning me into spineless mush.

  I peered over the side of the desk. Rascal perched next to my shoe. Ears tall. Eyes big. Tiny tail whipping back and forth.

  “You cannot possibly be hungry given all the puppy chow you’ve eaten today.”

  Rascal whined again and leaned into my leg, pleading with me.

  “All right,” I muttered. “I’ll pet you, but that’s it. You’re not getting my food.”

  The puppy barked, knowing he’d gotten the better end of the deal.

  *

  That afternoon, I left the office around three to get ready for the Berkley Brighton dedication. Chloe might be in charge, but I was going to be there to supervise. On the way home, I swung by Paw-Paw’s Pet Emporium and bought a collar and leash for Rascal. My next stop was Stan’s Steamers Dry Cleaners so I could pick up my black coat. Another surprise waited for me besides the exorbitant bill.

  “We found this in the pocket. Figured you forgot to take it out.” The cashier handed me a silver flash drive.

  I frowned and took the drive from him. It couldn’t possibly be mine. The ones I used at the office were blue and all had A+ Events engraved on them—then I remembered. It was the drive that had fallen out of Talon’s belt the night Bandit shot him. The one I’d picked up out of the snow and stuffed into my pocket. I’d forgotten about it. I wondered what was on it, and if Talon even realized he was missing it. Was he looking for it? Maybe I’d slip it on Wesley’s desk if I went to his office again.

  “Thanks,” I said, stuffing the flash drive into my coat pocket once more.

  I left Stan’s, went to my loft, and took a quick shower. I brushed out my hair, put on some minty lip gloss, and dug through my piles of unpacked clothes until I came up with a sky-blue camisole silk top, navy pants, and matching jacket, not unlike the outfit I’d worn to the O’Hara party. I had a fair number of dark-colored suits in my closet for a variety of occasions. Even I knew better than to wear cargo pants and a flannel shirt to a formal event, even if I stayed behind the scenes most of the time.

  Then, it was time to put on my vest of the evening—my Serious Vest. The black vest looked like the others in my closest, but it contained its own unique set of supplies, ones that came in handy at more somber occasions. Most of the items were of the female persuasion, eye makeup remover, unused tubes of mascara, and tissues. Lots of tissues. People usually made with the waterworks at dedications, because nobody in this town got anything dedicated to them unless they were dead, like Berkley. With waterworks came runny mascara and ruined makeup, which the Bigtime society queens always hurried to fix. Folks also tended to be a little more restrained at dedications—at least until the food and booze started flowing.

  I looked at my watch. Just after five. The fundraiser wouldn’t officially start until six thirty, but I was always the first person at my events. Although Chloe was technically handling things, I wanted to get the lay of the land. Just because I was letting her take the lead didn’t mean I wouldn’t step in if things got out of hand.

  I slipped the new collar and leash on Rascal, flagged down a cab, and hopped inside. The taxi deposited me in front of the Bigtime Public Library just before six. To my surprise, Chloe was already there, supervising a couple of workers stringing a banner above the front entrance that read Book ’em, Chief! Reading drive kicks off tonight.

  In addition to dedicating part of its space to Berkley, the library was hosting a fundraiser and contest to get patrons to read more. This year, the library decided to partner with the police force to get the word out. The centerpiece of the event was a mock jail where folks could bide their time and drink champagne until one of their buddies paid their bail. In other words, wrote the library a hefty check. I thought it was rather ridiculous, but that was what the library’s board of directors wanted. The cops, particu
larly Chief of Police Sean Newman, had loved the idea. Evidently, they relished the chance to slap handcuffs on some of Bigtime’s wealthier citizens, something they didn’t get to do very often.

  The dedication and subsequent fundraiser was one of the smaller events I’d done in recent weeks, which was why I’d decided to let Chloe handle it. Only about two hundred people had been invited, as Joanne had wanted to keep things small and intimate, at least for the dedication. But there were still a hundred details needing attention—like making sure a certain superhero showed up on time.

  Once the guys finished hanging the banner, I grabbed Chloe and took her aside. Expecting the grilling, she looked at me calmly and serenely, as though everything was fine. She’d even brought along a clipboard, probably to prove to me that she’d done everything that needed doing.

  “Food?” I asked in a tense voice.

  “The hors d’oeuvres and champagne will start circulating in thirty minutes, just as the doors officially open.”

  “Decorations?”

  “All of the lights and greenery have been strung up, and the plastic bars for the jail have been erected,” Chloe said. “The banner announcing the Brighton dedication should be hung any second now.”

  “Guests?”

  “I’ve gotten RSVPs from everyone, and we’ve already had some people show up. They’re clustered next to the jail.” Chloe gave me a look. “Don’t worry, Abby. I know you put me in charge because this wasn’t a huge event, but you don’t have to worry. I’ve double-and triple-checked everything. It’s going to be fine.”

  “And Fiera?” I asked, saving the toughest and most important question for last.