Bloodshot - Cherie Priest [69]
But I wasn’t the kind of girl to be deterred by a locked door, so I pulled out my kit, took two of my most basic tools to the ancient and wobbly lock, and had the door open in ten seconds or less. I shoved the tools back into the little roll and jammed them back into my purse, in case anyone saw me stroll inside. If they saw me with lock-pick tools, they’d know I was up to know good. If I turned the knob and acted like I owned the place, I could always swear it’d been unlocked when I got there.
I didn’t see anyone in the foyer area, so I shut the door behind me and made a point to leave it unfastened, to bolster my story.
The carpet under my heels was worn but not sticky, so I thanked heaven for small blessings. I wasn’t really dressed for clubbing, but I wasn’t really visiting the Poppycock Review to see the show, so that was fine. I’d gone with something understated and gray, with ankle boots that had a low heel for easy running away, should the situation call for it. I’d stuck to maroon accents for a little color, but I hadn’t gone nuts with it or anything—just a leather bag and a belt. I’ve never been one of those women to coordinate everything from my lips to my toenails. It’s just too time-intensive, and it gives you more goop to smear on a crime scene. Forget it.
The lights were all dimmed except for the dance floor, which I could see on the other side of a big beaded curtain that looked like a varsity cheerleader’s chest at Mardi Gras. Someone was in the DJ booth, tweaking settings and laying out a playlist, I guess. I couldn’t really see what was going on back there, just that there was a person-shaped shadow behind the Plexiglas.
I stood away from the curtain, so that I couldn’t be seen any better than I could see.
The light from the dance floor augmented the low-lit party lights in the foyer, so there was plenty to see by. Costume masks and rainbow schwag was posted up on the walls, over the windows, and all across the wood paneling that no doubt originally came with the building. It was awful, but it was being handled cheerfully, to the good-natured credit of whoever was in charge of the decorating.
I didn’t take too many pains to be super-quiet as I wandered down first the right corridor (where I found a glass-and-neon bar) and down the left, where I found a series of doors that were mostly shut and often locked—except for the unisex restrooms all lined up in a little row.
One of the shut doors that wasn’t locked revealed a dressing room stacked from floor to ceiling with large and glittery high-heeled shoes, tackle boxes overflowing with makeup, halters, corsets, feather boas, and the occasional pink sheer dressing gown. I admired the dressing room owner’s commitment to fabulousness and kept on snooping.
Down at the end of the corridor I heard voices, low and male, but with a flourish. I considered how best to play the situation—should I walk up, introduce myself, and ask questions, or finish my reconnaissance?—but the deliberation took too long and a leggy blonde stepped into the corridor.
Bouffant B-52s hair was fluffed and cascaded to such a size that it could’ve stuffed a couch cushion, and beneath an orange terry-cloth robe a pair of crimson stilettos peeked. The wearer was probably not six feet tall in bare feet, and had both suspicious shoulders and a far finer grasp of cheekbone shading than I, personally, have ever possessed.
She came up short and startled. “Well pardon me, Sunshine,” she said, and I’m going to go ahead and use the feminine designation here for convenience—the Adam’s apple be damned. If she was going to go through all that trouble to look like a lady, I was not going to disrespect her by insisting on my own pronouns. Also, I kind of liked being called “Sunshine,” and I decided on the spot that I was going to steal it.