“A VC at the Blarney. Are you sure he’s not trying to get in your pants?”
“He gave me his card.” Hotel room, romantic angst, and spit. No specific pants action. “His name is Caleb Sherwood, and he gave me a hard time”—and she returned the favor—“invited me to his office. I guess if it’s a derelict address, I’ve been had.”
“Or a W
all Street address.”
Hell. It was difficult to adjust to the Bradshaw family’s fall from grace. “I’ll be careful, and it’s not like we have anything to rip off.” It’d gone quiet at Lenny’s end. “Are you okay?”
“Not really.”
“I wish I knew how to help.”
“Don’t sign anything or commit to anything or spend anything or do anything illegal.”
“I got it.”
“I’m sorry that was—”
“Rude, while being totally reasonable. Do what you have to do, Len.”
Lenny might’ve whimpered before she said, “I gotta go. I’ll call you.”
Fin felt guilty singing in the shower with its many strategically placed jets. When she checked out, it was to return home to known consequences she’d ignored for a night of surprises.
There were a bunch of things knocked over on the table, a broken candleholder on the floor, and a tear in an old cushion. It smelled worse than the airspace between two dumpsters.
“It was one night. One. You’d think I left you to starve for a week. I know you have abandonment issues, but there was kibble and water, and you weren’t in any danger. I’m here now, come out and face me like a man.”
Nothing.
“Scungy. Show yourself, you evil moggy.”
Nothing.
A feline scorned is a cat bent on destruction.
Not a peep, not even when she bashed about in the kitchen, cleaned out the litter tray, and opened a can of sardines. “It’s the good cheap stuff. Your favorite.” Nothing. She could stitch up the cushion, but the candlestick was trash. “Be like that, then.”
She had things to do. YouTube videos to watch, a costume to assemble, makeup to practice. Then there was the walk, the posture, the way she needed to move her head and shoulders, the hand gestures, and the voice—breathy, lazy, sexy, sexy, sexy. The voice was the hardest thing to get right. And without the voice this would be a bad parody.
If she was going to do this. Stand on a barstool as Marilyn Monroe and sing “Happy Birthday Mr. Anonymous Donor” for a thousand dollars, she was going to knock the performance out of the park, because she’d loved Marilyn for as long as she could remember for her fragility and her strength and her talent, and the tragedy of her early death.
She hit the Blarney early to clue Liam in and scope out Mr. Anonymous, because if this wasn’t a hoax, he’d be there, like his email promised.
Given it was a Saturday night, there’d be no suits and ties in the pub, and her chance of recalling anyone from the Friday night crowd was spectacularly bad.
Liam looked at her suspiciously when she arrived at the bar. “You again.” He laughed. “Did you get some last night? Come back for more?”
“If you mean did I hook up? Yes and no. Do you know that man?”
“He comes in from time to time. Not a big talker or drinker.”
That didn’t tell her much. “Seen him pick up in here?”
Liam leaned in close. “Picked up this floozy who threw herself at him last night.”
“You don’t say?”