Girls Just Wanna Have Guns (36 page)

One of the band members grabbed a bag that was lying over an instrument case and hauled out a tiny red kerchief. “This was Della’s, but Trev here paid her to go home. I think she’s about your size.” He handed her the “dress” and the shoes.

“Where’s the rest of it?” When they all grinned, she said, “Oh, no fucking way. You’ll have to shoot me first.”

“Hey, you wanted to be able to get into the benefit without anyone realizing who you were. Best way to do that is for them to think they recognize you because you’re in the band.”

“Or the local hooker,” she griped, but that apparently wasn’t a negative argument for the men.

Just as Bobbie Faye pushed her way into the restroom to change into the dress, she could hear Francesca griping as she came barreling into the lobby area. Her high heels clicked on the tile floor, the sound reverberating off the glass windows; Mitch and Kit trailed behind. From what Bobbie Faye could hear of the conversation, Francesca pulled a serious amount of diva for not being included in any plans except where to show up. Bobbie Faye gritted her teeth and tried to ignore her cousin as she attempted to change into the dress.

There was just no way this scrap of material was an actual item of clothing, and she turned it several directions
before figuring out which part was the top, which just did not bode well. After six tries, wherein she discovered that the part she thought was the top was the sleeve, she was pretty sure she finally had it on correctly. She took a look in the bathroom mirror and knew she could have spraypainted her body and gotten more coverage than this thing, and she tugged and tried to squeeze the boobs better into the bodice of the dress and it just was hopeless. She was going to kill Trevor for this one.

“This is a good room—plenty big enough to shoot someone,” Mitch’s voice rumbled, carrying back to where Bobbie Faye gathered up her own clothes, and there were many simultaneous exclamations from the band members along the lines of
what the hell did he say
and
dude, chill
.

“Don’t worry,” Kit answered the others’ concerns, “he’s not loaded.” And then she proceeded to grill the band as to whether or not they had any prior convictions and just what area of illegal activities did they want to concentrate on, and it sounded like Kit was handing out her business card. Great.

As Bobbie Faye screwed up her courage to walk out of the bathroom, she heard Francesca ask Trevor, “Why are you helping Bobbie Faye? I didn’t think Daddy paid anyone enough to get almost blown up this much.”

Bobbie Faye walked into the lobby in time to hear him say, “I’m not working for your dad anymore.” His voice resonated, deep and warm, sending a shiver up Bobbie Faye’s spine. It stunned her to see the other new arrivals: her dad, V’rai, and her Uncle Antoine—none of whom seemed to faze Trevor. “Bobbie Faye’s my . . .” He looked up just as she stepped into the room and she instantly knew that there was not enough
dress
to the dress because his eyes went completely dark and his smile, predatory. “. . . fiancée,” he finished, striding over to put an arm around her.

“Oh, yeah?” she asked him, laughing, knowing he was joking just to rattle Francesca.

“Yeah,” he said, openly admiring that dress. “I know, Wooing 101. I bought the CliffsNotes version.”

Francesca looked harried and unpolished; her clothes had that thrown-together-in-the-dark look: nothing matched, particularly the still-bright-flamingo-pink-feathered purse, which clashed so mightily with the yellow top that Bobbie Faye thought she might be temporarily blinded. For Francesca, this was the equivalent of a complete psychotic meltdown, and her cousin sputtered, “Fiancée? She’s not wearing a ring!”

“She will be,” Trevor said.

“Does Cam know about this, Bobbie Faye? Because everybody knows he’s your boyfriend and it’s just really not fair for you to get Cam and this guy, too. I don’t think Cam’s gonna be too happy about this.”

Trevor clasped her hand and looked Bobbie Faye in the eye—he was studiously, purposefully not rising to the bait.

“Daddy’s gonna have a cow,” Francesca said when Trevor ignored her. She turned on Bobbie Faye, tapping her toe. “And you! You left me at Aunt V’rai’s! You’re supposed to stay with us, and help me keep Mamma from getting killed. And I don’t think marrying the help is exactly what we talked about!”

“I
am
helping you, Frannie. That’s why I called and told you to meet me here. I know something about how to find the diamonds that no one else knows—and I have a way to make sure they’re the real ones.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Where’s the rest of your dress?” her dad interrupted.

“Don’t even start with criticizing me,” Bobbie Faye warned him. “You weren’t invited. Just Uncle Antoine.”

“Yes, I was,” her dad said.

“Who invited you?” She looked at Trevor and he shook his head, which left only one other suspect, yet to arrive. “I’m going to kill someone,” she mumbled.

“Wouldn’t try it in that dress,” her dad said, “unless you’re planning on flashin’ ’em to death.”

“Etienne, be nice,” V’rai coaxed. “I bet she’s
une beaute fillé, mais non?
”

“And you, Aunt V’rai, don’t even try to make good now. You could have warned me a little more clearly about the whole silo-blowing-up thing!”

“No, she couldn’t,
chère,
” Antoine said, and it was the first time in years that she’d heard him speak. She was startled to hear how much like her dad he sounded—they looked so much alike, it shouldn’t surprise her, but it always had. “Any time she ever tried to help, it only made things worse.”

“And we didn’t think you’d live through anything made worse,” V’rai said.

“Especially when you don’t even have sense enough to wear shoes,” added Etienne.

Everyone looked down at her bare feet and she glared at him.

“I’m beginning to see why you shot him last time,” Trevor offered.

“You have no idea.” Bobbie Faye held up the stiletto heels to him and said, “These straps hurt. Can you—” Trevor dug out his pocketknife, cutting off the back straps, turning them into slides, and Francesca nearly fainted.

“Ohmygod,” Francesca gasped, “you just desecrated the Power of Cute Shoes!”

“And they look great on her,” Cam said, standing in the open doorway of the entrance. Then his gaze trailed up her body and over the snug, too-tight dress and his eyes dilated and he appeared to be very appreciative, and she immediately felt self-conscious. She glanced down at her cleavage and realized everything was almost spilling out again.

“Dammit, this dress is too small,” she muttered and Cam coughed, hard.

“No, baby, I’d say”—and he caught Trevor’s glare—“you’re fine,” he finished, looking back at her.

“Bobbie Faye,” Francesca snapped, “this is not a fashion show, though you really need to let me fix your foundation. You’re supposed to help me find—”

“And Benoit?” Bobbie Faye asked, interrupting her cousin.

“Still in surgery,” Cam answered, and Bobbie Faye felt the knot in her chest. Dear God, just let him be okay.

“You’re not here to arrest her,” Trevor stated, not being all that subtle about putting himself between her and Cam, and why in the hell did she think she could have a
plan
without it spiraling out of control?

“No,” Cam said, and then added, looking directly into Bobbie Faye’s eyes, “you don’t have to protect her from me.”

“Wait—how’d you know I was here?” This was so not going the way she’d expected, and if the cops were coming to the party, she was dead. She really didn’t want to die in a red dress that was probably featured on the Whore’s Uniform Daily web site. Cam made a phone call motion with his hand and Bobbie Faye was going to kill a certain little Bluebird of Telephonitis when she got the chance.

“By the way,” he asked, “how in the hell did you manage to have dispatch convinced you were running through the swamps, heading for Texas?”

“Nina—she landed in New York and she’s been ‘talking’ to me ever since.” Bobbie Faye smiled, thinking about how frustrated that had made Nina, who wanted to get back to Baton Rouge instead of waiting there, misdirecting the cops. “You remember Old Trapper Crowe?” Cam grinned—and she knew he remembered the old Chickasaw Indian who was older than God, who still tooled around the swamps, trading furs and whatever he could. No one knew where he lived, but he had a deep affection for Bobbie Faye and brought her candy every spring equinox. “He did me a favor, took the phone with his dog and a bateau. He could be halfway to Galveston by now.”

“You should stay away from that old
coo-yôn
,” her dad snapped. “He ain’t nothin’ but crazy.”

“Not half as crazy as her own family,” Cam said, his arms crossed, his cop glare hard—and every muscle she had lockstepped into attention.

“You . . .
knew
?” She’d always assumed he believed her dad had died. How had there been so much they had never talked about?

He shrugged. “I suspected, and you look just like V’rai. You didn’t want to talk about it,” he said to her obvious surprise, “so we didn’t talk about it. One of several mistakes I’m not going to repeat.” He gave Trevor a look. One of those male,
you have been warned
stares.

Trevor returned the favor. Tension swamped the room, as aggressive as gang members breathing on their necks, thugs brushing by and hovering too close. She so wanted to get the hell out of there.
Jesus, where was spontaneous combustion when you needed it?

“Bobbie Faye—” Francesca tried again, growing even more upset, but the double doors burst open and everyone spun, with Trevor and Cam and her dad and her uncle and every single member of the band coming up with guns, aimed at the door. Monique squeaked and threw her hands up in the air as she and Ce Ce stumbled into the room.

“Sorry, sorry,” Monique babbled, “but we were in a hurry.” She turned to Ce Ce, who looked scared half out of her wits. “See? I told you we’d make it in time if we broke one-twenty.”

“You let her drive?” Bobbie Faye asked, incredulous. Ce Ce nodded, her massive chest heaving from overwhelming adrenaline, not having yet caught her breath. “And she did one-twenty?” Ce Ce held up three fingers. “One-thirty? Good grief, Ce Ce, how much has she been drinking?”

“Honey, I quit asking after she hit a hundred. I didn’t want to distract her.”

“Bobbie Faye!” Francesca snapped, stomping her foot on the tile, and it echoed. “What’s going on? I thought you were going to find the diamonds!”

“I am,” she said, smiling. “And Ce Ce’s going to do a special locator spell to help.”

John had followed the idiot brother and the drunk of a sister all the way from Lake Charles out to the camp, and just
before he could get completely set up with his rifle and scope, they had all come out of the camp and were leaving. He couldn’t fucking
believe
it. They were gone before he climbed back in his car, and he had to follow them again—keeping a safe distance. He’d hoped to kill everyone else and wound her, and then force the bitch to tell him where the diamonds were. Now he didn’t know what their plan was, and he had a hard time staying in sight of the brother’s car, especially since the Fed on the bike drove like he was God and owned all of the speeding laws.

It pissed him the hell off that they’d driven all the way to Baton Rouge, but he kept reminding himself: diamonds. He’d kill Bobbie Faye after she gave them to him, just for the sheer pleasure of getting to rub her nose in it—that he’d tried to ask her out, tried to be a boyfriend, and what does she go and do? Get a fucking restraining order on him.

He’d tried to make her see reason. They put him in jail for that. Fucking
jail
. She had no idea what they did to him in jail, but she was going to learn. He’d been waiting for this chance for
years
. When the word went out from a fence that a buyer needed her stopped? He jumped at the job. Hell, he’d have taken it for free.

When they got to the Old State Capitol, though, he worried that his quarry might slip from his grasp—there were so many people, he couldn’t see where she’d gone. There was obviously some gala being set up, and lots of press there, so it wasn’t like he could just pop her asshole Fed escort in the street and then force her to hand him the diamonds.

He had to think. There had to be a good contingency . . . ah. He saw it. He knew where he’d set up and there was no fucking way she’d ever get out of his sight.

“This is insane,” Lori Ann griped as she pulled on the waitress uniform. Roy was dressed in a waiter’s uniform already and had his back turned to her; he peered out the door, acting as a lookout.

“Yep,” he said. “Hurry up.”

“Why in the hell did we agree to do this?”

“You’re the idiot that wanted to help.”

“I’m the family drunk! Since when do you listen to me?”

“Since you threatened to e-mail every woman I’ve ever dated with my new home address.”

“Oh. Right. Wimp.”

“C’mon, we have to go plant that thing.” He nodded toward the little GPS unit Bobbie Faye had given them. “Are you ready to go do something stupid?”

“I think that’s the family motto.”

From:
Simone

To:
JT

Followed the coordinates of the phone. Unless she grew a beard and turned into a 90-year-old Native American, I think we’ve lost her.