The redhead
guided me to the simply named room 8 not far away. The Fairhaven Club didn’t go
in for fancy names for rooms like convention centers did, but the layout of the
rooms had never quite made sense to me. For example, room 8 was next to rooms 7
and 11. I tried my best to think of a Vegas connection, but came up with nothing.
If there was an actual plan, it wasn’t done logically.
The redhead
opened the door for me, and I slid in. Nikki was already there, dressed in a
business suit. At least it would have been all business if the silk blouse
didn’t plunge almost to her navel, and the skirt featured a zipper on one side
that allowed a lot of leg to show.
I’m sure she zips it down and buttons the
jacket for actual business, though. This is for me, a pretty distraction. And
it is, too.
She
gestured to the couch opposite of her chair, then to the antique bottle of
scotch on the table. It was unopened, which was odd. An older scotch should
breathe a little before drinking.
“It went
well?” she asked.
The
question itself was odd, from her. Nikki was the world’s greatest flirt,
especially with me, and for something as small as a proxy vote to take that
from her was enough for me to pay full attention to the meeting.
“Ruffled
feathers. Confusion,” I said.
A small
smile.
Silence.
It
stretched on for minutes. I studied her without studying her, resting my eyes
on the scotch bottle, but taking in everything about her. But nothing was out
of place. She was immaculately made up and dressed, as always. She was more
enigmatic, today, sure, but she had spells of that.
“Right. So I’ll---”
“Ask,” she
cut me off.
“I don’t
care,” I said.
“Ask,
dumpling. For me?” That small smile grew, and I could tell she was proud of
herself. She had a scheme, and she wanted to gloat about it.
So do I appease her or piss her off?