Ink Flamingos

Harry shrugged, straightening up. “Tourists, I guess. Taking pictures.” He indicated the Eiffel Tower.

I knew that. I also knew I needed to get home. “I’m going to take a cab,” I announced, starting down the stairs, the outlines of the palm trees so sharp I could almost feel them cut me.

I was moving fast; Harry had to jog to keep up with me. I stopped at the corner and held out my arm like I used to do in New York City when I wanted to hail a cab. But they kept passing me, ignoring me.

“You’d do better going up to the Bellagio and having the doorman get you a cab,” Harry said.

Okay, so he really was thinking more clearly than me. I didn’t respond, just started back toward the Italian palace that doubled as a resort casino. The fountains weren’t dancing now, but the lights were shimmering across the water. The wide driveway led to an elaborate entryway. All the doormen seemed to be helping actual guests.

The lights from inside winked at me, much as Harry had just moments ago, and I went through the revolving door and stepped into the lobby. Hanging from the ceiling were glass flowers of all shapes and colors, forming a mosaic that bounced against my brain like a pinball, they were so sharp and clear.

“Is it always like this?” I asked Harry as he stared, too.

“I think it was commissioned.”

“What?”

“The glass flowers,” he said.

“No, that’s not what I meant. It’s the way I feel. You know, the absinthe.”

Harry grinned. “You’re high. Everything is clearer than normal-it’s like colors are jumping out at you. Yeah, it’s always like this.”

At least it wasn’t just me.

I whirled around. “I have to get a cab,” I said and went back out through the revolving doors.

A doorman bowed slightly, as though I were some sort of royalty, although most likely he thought I was a hotel guest, who would have as much money as said royalty if the lobby were any indication.

“Can I get a cab?” I asked him.

“Certainly, miss.”

At least he didn’t say “ma’am.”

A yellow cab pulled up, and the doorman opened the door for me. I slid in across the seat, and just as the door was starting to close, it opened again and Harry plopped down next to me.

“Figured we could share,” he said, shrugging.

“I’m in Henderson,” I said.

“Henderson?” the driver asked.

Harry nodded. “You first, then I’ll take it from there.”

He had that wad of bills, so I supposed he could afford it. “Sure,” I said, giving the driver my address.

The cab started with a jolt, throwing me against Harry. He used it to his advantage and held on to me, his lips finding mine again. I settled in against him and closed my eyes.

He was still kissing me. It wasn’t a dream. I pulled away and saw the cab was outside my house. I straightened out my shirt and reached in my bag. Harry waved me off. “Go. I’ll take care of it, okay?” And he kissed me again, lightly this time, before opening the door for me and letting me get out.

The cab pulled away before I got to the front door. All the lights were on. I glanced at my watch. It was almost two. Taking a deep breath, I slid my key in the lock and opened the door.

Tim stepped out in front of me. “You’re home.”

I tried to act nonchalant. Anything except drunk. I went into the kitchen and dropped my bag on the kitchen table. “I can stay out if I want,” I said belligerently.

I heard him sigh behind me. He wasn’t angry. It was something else, but I couldn’t tell what.

“Why were you out drinking absinthe with that guy? And kissing him? His hands all over you?”

It was concern.

But how did he know?

“Were you following me?” I asked, anger rising.

Tim shook his head and pointed to the laptop, which was open on the table. “Take a look.”

I peered at the screen. It was that blog. Skin Deep. Ainsley Wainwright’s blog.

And there were pictures of me. Me and Harry. At the bar. Drinking absinthe and kissing like we would never kiss ever again. Kissing again on the bridge. Getting into the cab.

It took a few moments to sink in. Maybe because I was still high. But when it finally dawned on me, I faced my brother, my heart in my throat.

“She was following us.”

Chapter 14

I remembered now. All the flashes going off. Thinking that it was tourists, like it usually is in Vegas.

“I was checking it out again, waiting for you,” Tim said, “when the first picture popped in.”

I looked more closely at the posts. The time they were posted. She was posting them when she took them. “Camera phone?” I asked, my brain surprisingly clear now.

“Seems that way.”

I told him how I’d seen the flashes go off. He frowned. “Camera phones don’t usually have a flash,” he pointed out.

True. So maybe those flashes really were tourists. Ainsley Wainwright was much more discreet.

“So you didn’t see her?” Tim asked.

I tried to think, but the absinthe got in the way. “No. It wasn’t until I’d already had one drink, and, well, that stuff is pretty potent.”

“Why were you drinking it at all?” Tim asked, a tiny bit of anger seeping into his tone.

“It seemed like the thing to do at the time,” I said. “How was I to know she was going to be taking pictures of me drunk?”

“And hanging all over that guy,” Tim added.

It was a really good thing I’d come home. It would’ve been far worse if I’d stayed with Harry. At least I’d had some sense tonight.

I looked back at the computer screen. “I wonder why she’s taking pictures of me,” I said, not wanting to get into the whole Harry thing right now. “She already took pictures of me without my knowing about it. This is sort of like stalking, isn’t it?”

“Yeah, it’s sort of like stalking,” Tim agreed.

“But why? I never met that girl till today.”

“You knew Dee Carmichael.”

It took me a second, but I saw where he was going with this. “And she’s dead. After pictures of her tattoos showed up on this blog.” I paused. “You know, all the pictures on this blog are just of the tattoos. Not the person. You can’t make out who it is, only the tattoo. But the pictures she posted earlier of me, and now these-they’re of me. You can see me. My face. Not just my tattoos.”

I could see by Tim’s expression that he didn’t know the significance of that, either.

“Should I be worried?” I asked him.

“Cautious,” he said. “Be cautious.” He leaned over and gave me a kiss on the top of the head. “Go to bed now, and we’ll talk more in the morning. You look like you need some sleep.”

Sleep was now the last thing on my mind, but he closed the laptop and shut the light out. I went into my bedroom and changed into a pair of pajama bottoms and a big T-shirt, then climbed into bed.

I must have been more tired than I thought, or maybe the absinthe was wearing off, because I fell asleep almost immediately.