Bare-Naked Lola (A Lola Cruz Mystery) (7 page)

Today. I’d stop by today.

“I’ll let you know,” I said, picking a strand of hair from my lips as I stood.

She took an atomizer from the bag, sprayed it into the air, and gave me a shove into the mist. The scented cloud settled around me. Sweet. Subtle. With a hint of apple and honey blossoms.

“A specially blended body mist Victoria makes for all of us,” Jennifer explained.

“Makes?” I breathed in.
Delicioso
.

“Victoria and I, we both majored in chemistry. Years apart, but still.”

I was pretty sure my jaw dropped open. “Chemistry? Really?”

She scoffed. “‘Cheerleader’ isn’t synonymous with ‘dumb,’” she said. She notched her head toward a few of the other dancers. “Tammy graduated at the top of her class with a degree in English, and Joy”—she pointed to a gorgeous black woman warming up in the corner—“Joy is a teacher. She does this on the side.”

“Huh.” Guess I’d been cheerleader profiling, figuring they’d bypassed college for a life of fame and…basketball players.

Wrong
.

The chattering in the room tapered off. Someone lowered the music. I turned around in time to see Victoria gliding through the room. She wore a sparkly, formfitting strapless top and her hair was neatly slicked back just like every other time I’d seen her.

“Are you ready, ladies?” Her voice rose in controlled pep talk fashion.

A cheer erupted in the locker room and after a few more encouraging words from their leader, the dancers turned back to their spaces to finish their transformations.

Victoria floated across the room to me, giving me a once-over. “Makeup’s not bad. Did you have a hand in it, Jenn?”

“A touch of eye shadow and some blush and
voilá
”—Jennifer gestured at me as if she were introducing the grand prize on a game show—“A Courtside Dancer.”

“All I need is an outfit,” I said, eyeing the garment bags Victoria carried. Gold zippers bisected the plastic of each one. My nerves zinged. I’d seen the other girls’ costumes hanging from hooks by their mirrors. Skimpy. And that was an understatement. I was no prude, but I also wasn’t an exhibitionist. Good God, I hoped my family didn’t watch the game on TV tonight.

Victoria hung the outfits on a hook next to Jennifer’s. “You’re responsible for their cleaning,” she said to me, then turned to the room and announced, “Be ready in fifteen, ladies.”

And then she was gone.

I watched, slack-jawed, as the dancers scrambled around, vying for space in front of the mirrors to apply last-minute body glitter, and eventually slipped on their costumes.

Finally, after I couldn’t stall any longer, I rifled through the garment bags, pulled out the first costume of the night, and held it up.
¡Dios mío!
It was tiny! Itsy bitsy, like a miniature yellow polka dot bikini. I’d said size eight but the black jazz pants would fit a ten-year-old.

This could get ugly.

“Ticktock,” Jennifer said.

Right. No more stalling. I sucked in a deep breath, said a Hail Mary for my mother, and stripped down to the thong underwear I’d been told to wear. I wriggled into the first outfit of the night: black second-skin shorts and a royal-blue halter with rhinestones studded all over it. Next to go on were my black dance shoes.

I spun around, spreading my arms wide. “Well?” I asked, catching a glimpse of myself in the mirror. Holy Mary, mother of God. I couldn’t have been more exposed if I’d been buck naked.

Jennifer eyed me up and down. “The boobs need work.”

I cupped the front of the halter and stared at her. “What do you mean, they need work?” I demanded, suddenly protective of my
chi-chis
. I mean, hadn’t Jack said recently that they were spectacular? Or had that been in a dream?

Jennifer laughed, whatever angst she had a few minutes ago about being a celebrity gone. “Relax. I only mean that we need to emphasize the cleavage. Take the top off.”

I hesitated as Jennifer pulled a roll of duct tape from her duffel bag. “Um…”

“Come on, Lola.”

I swallowed as I mustered up my gumption and stripped off the halter. And stood, topless, in front of her. I took back what I’d felt a moment ago.
Now
I felt utterly exposed. It was one thing to undress in a locker room as a high school girl. No choice. But here? Now? Like this? I liked my clothes,
gracias, y adiós
. I bet Xena never had to do this, and I was pretty sure this wasn’t something Manny had ever done for a case.

Jennifer began sticking pieces of the tape to my body, jamming my breasts together in the middle. She didn’t bat a fake eyelash. Apparently taping up another woman’s
chi-chis
was no big deal in her world.

In three minutes she was done and, with the halter back on, I stared in the mirror. Boob job?
No necisito
. Duct tape really
was
a miracle worker.

Jennifer fastened a blinged-out pendent around her neck. “Don’t forget the choker and the earrings,” she told me.

After fishing in the bottom of the garment bag, I found them wrapped in plastic jewelry bags. The choker had an enormous Royals’ emblem hanging from the center and the earrings glowed in the dark. Cheerleader bling. Nice. Taking one last appraisal in the mirror, I threw my shoulders back. I just might pull this off.

I left the dressing room, rounded the corner to the east tunnel of the arena, and found my place in line. Victoria sat at the entrance, headphones cradling her sleek head.

“What’s she doing?” I asked one of the dancers behind me. Cassie, if I remembered correctly. She was the only dancer with crazy-curly, uncontrolled hair, but it worked for her. She had a super-sexy vibe, kind of like she’d just rolled out of bed.

Cassie rose to her tiptoes, then lowered back down. Over and over and over. “Coordinating our entrance with the operations crew,” she said.

She’d answered me. Nice. Maybe I was making progress. If I became a familiar face, hopefully they’d all get used to me and start opening up. Then maybe I’d get somewhere in my investigation.

“Girls.” Two dark-haired men greeted us as they passed. The one that spoke flashed a toothy grin, his ruddy cheeks puffing out with the stretch of his mouth.

“Hey, Larry.” Jennifer gave a flirty tilt of her head. “Steve.”

“Stevie,” Tammy greeted. She threw her hand up to wave at the other man.

The greetings traveled down the line. I waved when their gaze reached me.

“Ah, the new girl. I’ve heard about you,” the one named Steve said.

“Oh?” Just what had he heard?

He engulfed my hand in his slightly pudgy one. His skin was smooth and I noted his receding hairline, firm handshake, and the warm tone to his voice. He could have been the team’s personal greeter. “Very nice to meet you. Welcome to the family.”

“Thank you, Mr.—”

“Steve. Just Steve.”

Just Steve, who knew all the cheerleaders. “And I’m Lola.”

He pushed the other man forward. “And this is my brother, Larry.”

Larry barely acknowledged me before glancing down the line of dancers.

Steve gave an all-encompassing wave. “Girls. Break a leg, each and every one of you.”

“Thanks, Stevie!” The women reached their hands out to Steve as the men passed by, almost as if he were a movie star.

I raised a questioning brow at Cassie.

“The team’s trainer,” she told me.

The way she hesitated made me think she was about to say something else. Like were they really brothers?

“Season ticket holders. They sit right next to the owner’s seats,” Cassie added.

So they were VIPs. Before I could find out any more, Victoria’s voice drifted down the line. “Ready, ladies?”

The team let out a collective
woo-hoo
!

Victoria adjusted her headphones and held up her index finger, telling us to wait. After another few minutes she gave a succinct nod, her gaze traveling down the line, and said, “One, two, three…go!”

Adrenaline surged through my body as I jogged out onto the dimly lit court. Strobe lights and the pulsing beat of the music throbbed right along with my heart. The crowd in the arena was charged. Their energy zipped in a flurry around the court and I felt ready. As ready as I’d ever be.

We spread out, six of us on one side of the court, the other six on the opposite side. We bounced from one foot to the other, extending pointed toes as the Royals’s names and numbers were called out to the cheering crowd, spotlights illuminating their lean, muscular, massive bodies. The team gathered in a circle, breaking a moment later to even more raucous cheers.

The dancers lined up and Cassie leaned in close to me. “Never seen one up close?”

I snapped my jaw back into place. “Nope.”

“Check out Number Fifty-one.”

I searched the back of the jerseys and saw the leopardlike body of the player Cassie was staring at. Charcoal skin. Tattoos snaking up one arm and down the other. Bald—in a sexy way. “Uh-huh.”

“Gorgeous. He’s a rookie. Had a slow start but now he’s running circles around the others.”

I was pretty sure lust had Cassie thinking that Number 51 could leap tall buildings in a single bound.

Who knew? Maybe he could.

The announcer asked the audience to rise, remove their caps, and listen while the “Star Spangled Banner” was sung
a cappella
by a local college music major. The Royals and the opposing team lined up on the court, hands over their hearts.

“What about Twenty-Three?” I asked, noticing his heavier physique.

“Doesn’t play as much ’cause he’s slower.” She fanned herself with her hand. “But he’s hot. Hell, they’re all hot. Why else would I take this gig? I’m going to get me one of them.”

My eyes still searched the crowd—as if the letter writer, or a delivery boy, would be glowing red—as I talked to Cassie. “You’re on the dance team to get close to the players?”

Her response? A wink.

So she wasn’t one of the smarter ones.

The crowd erupted as the singer’s voice stretched an octave and sang, “O’er the land of the free.” Were they cheering because America was free or because she hit the note? I couldn’t tell.

Jennifer turned on cue from Victoria and led us back through the tunnel.

It was a whirlwind after that. I trailed after the girls into the dressing room for a quick outfit change. I followed what Jennifer did, stripping off my halter top. The big difference? She didn’t cringe at the crisscrossed duct tape across
her
chest. I shuddered at the tape across mine. But then again, after a few years, she had to be used to it.

Good God, in a million years, I’d never have imagined myself in this situation.

Jennifer slipped into a tight navy camisole, then slid a shimmering silver scarf-blouse on top of it. I followed suit, adjusting the gaping neck, then changed into the jazz pants—which were more stretchy than I’d originally thought they’d be, but I was still sure were actually made for a child.

Jennifer re-applied her lipstick and so did I. Some of the girls scarfed down food from the buffet table. I walked by and did a double take. The Rice Krispies Treats had vanished.

“They’re always the first to go,” Jennifer said, following my gaze.

I didn’t believe in diets, and I had no problem eating dessert first. But I sure never would have pegged the cheerleaders as free-for-all eaters. “I just thought they would eat salads and fruits.”

“We do. But we also like our sweets.”

Or maybe they had a nasty thing called bulimia.
That
was something I didn’t want to investigate.

We headed back to the tunnel and spent the next ten minutes hovering behind Victoria until a timeout was called.

One of the players, buckled over in pain, hobbled past us, the team trainer by his side. They stopped midway past the line of dancers and Carrie reached out to him. “Stevie, what happened?”

Steve breezed by, taking the player by the arm and helping him along. “Minor injury. No worries, ladies. He’ll be fine.”

“Is it bad?” Cassie said, and I got the impression that she wouldn’t mind playing nursemaid.

I followed them with my eyes. Cassie’s admission that she was on the team only to snag herself a hot ballplayer had my brain working. Rochelle seemed to have landed herself one in Michael Brothers. What if the other players didn’t like the dancers breaking the rules? Or what if…I gave myself a mental head slap.
¡Por supuesto!

It could be a player or a disgruntled wife behind the notes. Of course, that was a hypothesis—one I’d have to flesh out more.

The letter came in the third quarter. A fresh-faced ball boy jogged through the tunnel, an envelope clutched in his hand. Without a word he handed it to Geneva, a dancer who hadn’t needed duct tape to prop up her cleavage, with legs about a mile long.

“Hey,” I called, trying to catch the ball boy’s attention, but he disappeared as play started on the court again. I scoured the perimeter of the arena, but every single person seemed focused on the game. No one was paying any attention to Geneva.

She flipped the envelope from front to back as if she were searching for some indication of who it was from. She hadn’t been at the meeting at Camacho’s, so she didn’t know what Manny had said about not opening the envelope and minimizing touching it to preserve the fingerprints. It seemed like Victoria and Lance hadn’t relayed that information, either, and being undercover meant I couldn’t very well tell her.

Geneva ran her finger under the flap and pulled out a rectangular sheet of paper identical to the ones I’d seen in the conference room at Camacho’s. She read the message, and with a puzzled face, flipped over the sheet.

As casually as I possibly could, I edged toward her just as she turned to Nicole, the dancer standing next to her. “I got one.”

Nicole’s eyes bugged and her lips parted. “Shit, really? Says the same thing?”

I seized the opportunity to butt in. “What’s wrong? What’s it say?”

The message behind Geneva’s scowl was clear: I better mind my own business. She crumpled the paper and tossed it to a passing waitress.