Chapter Twelve

Taryn

After the nonsense with the singing telegram and Reagan’s good news about Eva Blake, I feel like someone put me through the ringer and hung me up to dry. I’m exhausted – but it’s a good kind of exhausted. Well, aside from that crap Bailey had said about a perverted birthday celebrating weirdo, anyway.

“Who would want to stalk me?” I ask Bailey as we lock up shop for the night. “What do you think is really going on?”

“Taryn, it’s Vegas,” she says. “It’s like the wild west out here. You know that. It’s probably just someone fucking around because they’re drunk or stupid. Or maybe both.”

“I guess,” I mutter. “But doesn’t it seem a little strange to you?”

She lifts a shoulder. “After living here for three years, nothing seems strange anymore. I remember when I first got into town – Celine Dion was still performing here – and there was all that talk of her addressing her dead husband, like, on stage. It was so creepy.”

A chill runs down my back and I shudder. “Maybe she really loved him. Every word and every deed says as much. They were soul mates.”

“It’s still weird,” Bailey says, making a face. “I can’t imagine loving someone that much. And they got married when she was so young. And that huge age difference? Can you even imagine fucking your grandpa?”

I bite my lip, sweeping away that mental image. It’s almost as bad as fucking Dante Giovanetti. I adore my dear-departed papa, but he was three hundred pounds of overall wearing, snuff chewing, straw toothpick using, farmer tanned perfection.

“Taryn? You listening?”

“Yeah. You know, I don’t really feel like going home. You want to grab dinner? I was thinking maybe Delhi Indian.”

“Sounds good,” Bailey moans, rubbing her stomach. “I’m starving.”

Her healthy appetite always reminds me of home. There’s nothing wrong with being a little farm fed. “You’re always hungry.”

She laughs. “Yeah, working for you really builds an appetite, and besides, I could use a drink. Or three.”

Thinking of the singing telegram again, I nod. “Me, too.”

“Just don’t decide to dance again and get us thrown out,” Bailey says with a smirk. “Remember, those tables at Delhi are really rickety. Your dancing could quickly morph into a trip to the emergency room.”

“That was, hopefully, a one-time thing.” I push my hair back from my heated cheeks. “Besides, I’m feeling much better. I can’t believe Reagan got Eva Blake. Isn’t that incredible?”

“Yeah, she’s a good pick. Has more of that feminine thing going on than Fernanda Maxwell. Think how great she’s going to look in the La Perla. I’d give anything for that rack.”

The mention of Fernanda’s name makes my heart sink. “She’s so trendy right now, and now Dante’s going to pull in way more money than I am. He’s totally going to hold it over my head. God, I hate his guts.”

“Fuck him,” Bailey says. “You’re going to win this thing, you know. Reagan’s a good lawyer. He’s connected.”

“I know.” I want to lament how life isn’t fair but know Bailey will call me out on my shit.

We round the corner and walk into Delhi Indian, one of my favorite restaurants. It’s just far enough off the strip not to attract tourists, and I’ve been eating here for years. I have a love/hate relationship with Vegas, but Indian food always makes me feel better. And right now, I’d do just about anything to make myself feel better.

Immediately, the scents of cumin, cardamom, and cinnamon lifts my spirits. I close my eyes and inhale deeply as Bailey leads us to our usual table, right in the corner by the window.

We snuggle down into the colorful cushions and open menus before a server appears. I don’t really even need to bother with the menu since I always get the same thing.

“Hello, ladies,” he says. “Can I get you anything to drink or an appetizer, perhaps?”

“I’ll have a mango lassi,” I say. “And an order of the naan sampler.”

Bailey orders a beer and some paneer samosas for us to split. He spins, then takes our order to the kitchen, and I lean over the menu, flipping through the pages.

“I might actually branch out tonight. I can’t decide if I want the palak chaat or the chicken tikka masala,” I say, frowning. “I’m starting to sound like you. I’m so hungry I feel like I could eat this whole menu. Without swallowing.”

Bailey snickers and blows me a kiss. “Welcome to my world, bestie,” she says, shaking her head. “But in the end, you always get the chicken.”

I laugh. It feels good after such a long day. Between Nixon telling me that the fashion show will be hosted elsewhere and the relief of Reagan booking Eva Blake, my head spins. I can’t wait to go home and collapse in bed. I’ll sleep well tonight, after a few drinks to help me unwind.

The server returns with our drinks. True to Bailey’s word, I order the chicken, and she orders rice biryani with nuts, paneer, and raisins.

“Very good, ladies,” the server says with a smile. As he carries away the menus, Bailey and I clink glasses, and I take a long, refreshing sip of my yogurt drink.

I can feel my stress tugging my forehead into a mess of ugly creases. Bailey’s kind of a ditz sometimes, but she’s incredibly smart and pragmatic when push comes to shove. I trust her opinion more than I’ve ever trusted anyone else’s. I don’t like seeing her upset.

“What’s up buttercup?”

“I don’t know,” she says. “Dante’s trouble. But I’m pretty sure he’s going to get caught, eventually. Maybe it will take the FBI.”

I snort. “It’s Vegas. An implosion of his casino would probably be more effective.”

Bailey nods. Just as I’m about to ask her what she really thinks about Reagan, sirens blare as a convoy of fire trucks rush past the picture window and straight toward the Armónico.

“Oh my god,” I say, jumping to my feet, and clutching my chest. “Strict Nécessaire!”

“I’m sure it’s fine,” Bailey says, but her eyes are huge, and I can tell she’s just as freaked out as I am by the threat of a five-alarm fire.

My stomach twists and churns into anxious knots. Ever since the first day I cut the ribbon to my boutique, I’ve been terrified of two things – theft and fire. Fires don’t happen that often in Vegas, but the climate is so dry that usually when they do, buildings go up in seconds.

People die.

Grabbing my purse, I throw two twenty-dollar bills on the table and rush into the street. I’m not alone – terrified people pour out of every doorway and entrance, looking around in confusion for the source of the sirens. I jog into the street and glance up and down, looking for the telltale smoke and soot.

“Bailey!” I yell. “I’m going to check it out!”

“I’m right here.” She looks panicked, and she’s panting as she forces herself to keep up with my long legs. She follows me down the street as we run toward by baby.

Please, please, please don’t be on fire. I close my eyes in a quick prayer as my heels click against the asphalt. Please be okay! Please be okay!

Rounding the corner, I let out the biggest sigh of relief in my life when I see that my boutique is untouched. So is the entire Promenade.

“Thank god,” I say, closing my eyes and shuddering. The adrenaline pumps through my system, and I brace myself with a hand against the brick wall, hissing under the strength of my relief.

“Oh, god.” Bailey hugs me, and I cling to her like a lifeline. “I’m so glad it’s not you.”

“Me, too,” I say, pulling away from Bailey and wiping my sweaty palms on my thighs. “I wonder what it was, though. That many fire trucks never amounts to anything good.”

Bailey nods and frowns. Together, we follow the crush of people down the strip. More fire trucks race by – ambulances now, too – and I say another quick prayer, hoping no one’s injured or worse.

“I’ve never seen this many fire trucks,” I say under my breath as we walk closer. My heart sinks when I see where most of the people are clustered – outside of Velvet, the club where I made a fantastic fool out of myself.

“Oh, no,” Bailey says, face falling in horror. “It’s Velvet.”

“I know.” I chew on my fingernail. “This can’t be happening. Not now. Not when everything was finally coming together for the benefit.”

Bailey presses her lips together and nods. We push through the crowd, searching for Nixon and Reagan. Nixon stands close to the club, shaking his head and glaring. His navy eyes have turned black, and he’s flailing, his strong hands sailing through the air as he argues with a man in a fire hat and flame-retardant suit, Reagan by his side, dealing with something else.

“Nixon,” I yell, waving. “Are you okay?”

When Nixon sees me, he looks relieved. He pushes his way close to me and shakes his head. “It’s the craziest damn thing. I stepped away for ten minutes and then this happened.”

“Do you know what caused it?”

“The fire marshal said something about a short in the wires, but that doesn’t make sense. I had the whole club rewired right before I opened it. It passed multiple inspections. That’s not right – there’s no way it could’ve happened so quickly. This reeks of sabotage. And the one asshat that would be brazen enough to do something like this right before a huge charity event.”

Is Dante really capable of something like this? Thousands of people could have been burned alive if the fire trucks weren’t available to rush to the site. I shiver, because I know deep in my soul, Nixon’s right. Dante’s capable of this and far worse.

“Maybe the electrician made a mistake,” I say, grasping at anything else but the bitter truth as I watch my fashion show go straight down the tubes along with the water spurting out of the fire hose. “Was anyone hurt?”

“No, the club hadn’t opened yet, and there’s not a ton of fire damage, but we’ll have to find somewhere else to host the fashion show,” Nixon says. “I’m so sorry, Taryn. I know this has been one hell of a pain in everyone’s ass. If it wasn’t for charity, I’d call the whole thing off. But I don’t know how I’d explain that to Linc.”

“I’m so sorry.” I feel a strong flash of guilt. I am sorry for Nixon, truly, but I’m also incredibly relieved that Strict Nécessaire didn’t go up in flames. My inventory alone would be millions to replace, and I couldn’t handle it if my insurance premiums went up any higher. Owning a business in Vegas is already a risky venture, and disasters like fire always scare me.

“Me, too,” Nixon says. He sighs and shakes his head. “I had a meeting with the dealers at the Armónico, and I’d barely left when I heard the sirens.”

For a moment, we stand in silence, staring at the scene while lost in our private thoughts. I wonder if he wants Giovanetti to pay as much as I do. Probably more.

“I hope it’s back up and running soon,” I say. “Do you have any ideas for venues for the fashion show?”

He shakes his head. “No clue. At the least, Velvet will need to be professionally cleaned and sanitized. There’s thankfully more smoke damage than flame damage, but it’s going to take a while – a couple of weeks at least. I’ll get my entertainment director on it right away. Maybe if we call in some favors, we can find something suitable last minute.”

“Damn,” I say, shuddering. I can’t imagine how much revenue Nixon will lose in the time Velvet is shuttered. Again, it makes me feel guilty for being so relieved and selfish.

“Yeah,” Nixon says. “Look, I’ve got to get back to the fire marshal. You going to be okay?”

“Yeah,” I say, nodding and trying to put on a brave face. “Good luck with everything. I’ll check in with the entertainment director if I get any ideas about a possible venue.”

“Marcella’s going to freak,” he says, nodding. “You know how skittish she is about accidents.”

“I don’t envy you having to tell her, but I hope it turns out well.”

Nixon jerks his head to the side in a wordless goodbye, then turns on his heel and jogs over to the fire trucks. The fire marshal frowns, looking down at a clipboard.

“God, poor guy,” Bailey says, standing close and wrapping her arms around herself.

The smell of char and ash hangs thick in the air, and I cough. “Let’s get out of here. Maybe they didn’t throw our entrees away yet. You still hungry?”

“I feel like having more of a liquid dinner, if you know what I mean. I’ve got a bottle of good wine at home. And Netflix. Want to come over?”

I think about it for a moment. The idea tempts me – staying up all night with Bailey, drinking wine and laughing at bad rom coms. But I can’t do that, there’s still so much to do for the benefit. And I have a feeling Nixon’s going to want me to help look for new venues. I feel like I owe it to him to step up in his hour of need.

“Nah, I’m good. You have fun, though.”

“Yeah.” She wrinkles her nose as a new wave of noxious fumes assail us. “You know what sucks?”

“Everything?” I point to Velvet.

“Just about.”