The tension spilled into the hotel lounge, where guests were stacking up and going through free liquor courtesy of the management. The three o’clock check-in time had come and gone. Now it was almost five. The manager knew the booze could hold them at bay for only so long, and then it would turn on him. The bar had a theme of eighteenth-century sailing ships, complete with masts and riggings. The manager took over one of the reservation computers himself to speed the process. He nervously glanced over at the lounge and was met with a row of icy stares coming back at him through the portholes.
Detectives and crime-scene technicians began dribbling off the elevator.
The people in the lounge grew surlier as they drank. Except one person. Sitting alone at the bar. The eyes of every woman were on him. Because he was:
Johnny Vegas, the Accidental Virgin.
Johnny didn’t mind the delay because he never intended to stay at the hotel—although he wouldn’t mind suddenly needing a room.
A tap on his shoulder. Johnny turned around.
“Hi there.” The luscious blonde swayed with an umbrella drink in her hand. Twenty-five years old, tops, with a plunging neckline and come-hither green eyes. “My name’s Fawn. What’s yours?”
“J-J-Johnny.”
“Well, J-J-Johnny. My girlfriends and I placed a bet . . .” She looked back at a corner table, where four equally fetching gals whispered and giggled over their own drinks in pineapples and coconuts. Fawn took the stool next to Johnny, except she misjudged and Johnny had to grab her arm.
The bartender looked up with raised eyebrows, thinking,
“My knight in shining armor,” said Fawn, sipping her tropical drink through the stirring straw. “What was I talking about?”
“You had a bet with your girlfriends.”
“We wanted to know how long your ring finger was compared to your index finger.”
“Why?” He curiously held up his hand.
Fawn grabbed his wrist. “Holy shit!”
She pulled up his arm to display his hand toward the table in the corner. Four jaws fell. Then they huddled over the drinks and giggled again and something got spilled.
Johnny looked toward the circular booth and back at Fawn. “What’s going on? What’s with the fingers?”
“It’s supposed to indicate the size of your . . . you know.” She covered her mouth and chortled. “I can’t believe I’m doing this. Normally I would never . . . I’m a little drunk.”
Thirty seconds later, Johnny crashed into the reception desk that was staffed by the manager. “I need a room immediately! I don’t care what it costs!”
“Do you have a reservation?”
“No,” said Johnny.
The manager typed rapidly and grabbed a walkie-talkie. “How’s it coming up there on seventeen?”
“You have to give me something.”
“Excellent. I want it cleaned and ready in ten.”
“Ten minutes! Just make the beds and grab the trash.”
“Trust me,” said the manager, watching Fawn tonguing Johnny’s neck. “They’re not going to mind.”
The manager completed the paperwork with cloned pleasantness. “Here are your room keys. Hope you enjoy your stay.”
Johnny snatched the magnetic cards and dashed for the elevator, dragging a now-shoeless Fawn. They reached seventeen. The hallway was still half full of remaining investigators. Johnny swerved and dodged with Fawn in hand. Her high heels were back in the lobby under a baby grand.
“Watch it!” yelled a police photographer.
“Sorry.” Johnny reached the door and led her into the suite.
The staff actually hadn’t done a bad job. The only noticeable issue was three brown circles on the rug.
Fawn threw open the curtains. “Look at that great view! You can see the Pacific Ocean!” Then she threw off her top.
Johnny gulped as she turned around and he saw the kind of perfectly formed breasts usually found only in artwork. She took a running start—“Yippee!”—and jumped on the bed with a bounce.
She rolled over and squirmed out of her jeans, then twirled them on her foot before flinging them aside. Next, the black panties . . .
Johnny fell back against a wall, the only thing now holding him up.
