Murder at The Blues Stop Page 2

  “Are you always this personable, or is it just me?” The man seemed to be going out of his way to be ornery. Would it kill him to give me a compliment or two?

  He rocked back on his heels and folded his arms across his chest. “Let’s get this straight. I don’t like being railroaded.”

  “I didn’t railroad you,” I huffed before continuing. “I know you’re new to this bar-owning thing, but I’ve been popping in and out of them all of my life, even before I was legal. People need more than a singer. Even a good one. They need ambiance. They need fun. It’s called entertainment.” I shook my head.

  He stared at me. “I don’t do fun.”

  “I kinda got that.” With that, I took my glass of water and walked away.

  The man brought irritating to a whole other level. I should have known it would be futile to expect anything but surliness. Annoyed, I went into the back room and vented to Donna before the next set started.

  “I thought you said Shane usually left by eight. It’s nearly nine thirty, and it looks like he’s settled in for the night.”

  She shrugged. “He’s probably going to stick around and see how you do.”

  I should have suspected as much since Mr. Cranky Pants personified control freak. “He said something about moving me from the hotel once the bar closes. But I’d hoped he’d make himself scarce until then.”

  “Believe me, his bark is much worse than his bite. He’s mad because Mack made the decision to hire a new singer without consulting him. He’ll get over it.”

  “But in the meantime, he’s taking it out on me,” I grumbled as we made our way back onstage.

  One set slid into the next and before I knew it, it was closing time. Which was good news and bad. I’d gotten through my first night in what I would consider passable fashion, even with the meager crowd. The bad news was that now I was going to be stuck with HIM. I racked my brain to think of an excuse to avoid it, but he didn’t seem to be the type to back down once he decided to do something.

  Shane folded his arms across his chest. “You’re better than I thought you’d be.”

  “Don’t start giving me compliments; I might get a big head.” It was about time he said something nice to me.

  I perched my butt on one of the unoccupied barstools and sipped a glass of water. As I tapped my polished red nails against the bar, I tried to think of something else to say as the silence stretched between us. Typically I wasn’t at a loss for words, but somehow with him it felt as if I had to measure each and every syllable before opening my mouth.

  He spoke after what seemed at least an hour or more of unending silence. “I’ll let Mack finish up so we can get you settled in that apartment.”

  “It’s silly to pay for a hotel room for the night and not at least wait until check-out time. It’s not like the Holiday Inn is one of those four-hour-nap places.” My attempt at humor didn’t even rate a smile from him.

  “You’d be surprised at the number of married men and women I’ve nabbed doing exactly that. Nice hotel, fancy security, they let their guard down.”

  Something about the look that crossed his face made me believe he got a vicarious thrill out of catching people engaged in illicit affairs. I wondered why. Had a girlfriend cheated on him? Was he a cheater himself? Even though curious, I didn’t dare pursue it—especially now that he was being almost civil.

  Instead, I nodded in agreement as if we’d had this same conversation a million times before. “That’s right, you’re a detective and only a bar owner by default.”

  “I hope to rectify that soon.” He pulled keys from his pocket. “We’d better get going.”

  “Everything I have is unpacked. It will take me a while to pack it all back up again.” Translation: My hotel room looked like a disaster area since I’d gone through my entire wardrobe trying to figure out what to wear for opening night. It would take hours to get everything reorganized, repacked, and ready to go.

  The last thing I needed was to have him watch me while I gathered my things. No doubt he’d be tapping his foot in irritation with his patented scowl firmly in place the entire time.

  Pulling out an iPhone from his pocket, he searched the screen. “It can’t wait until tomorrow. I’m booked until after check-out time.”

  “Will paying for an extra day break the bank?” I liked living in hotels. That way I didn’t have to cook or clean. Everything I needed or wanted was close by twenty-four seven. Normally, I didn’t have to explain I was a high-maintenance kind of gal. Either this guy was dense—which I highly doubted—or he didn’t care about my creature comfort.

  “It might. Mack is paying you twice as much as the last singer, plus expenses.” He shrugged. “This place is leaking money. I’m trying to minimize the damage.”

  “You need more people to fill the place up.”

  “Brilliant,” he grumbled, putting away his phone and turning to straighten some of the bottles in back.

  The last thing I wanted to do was sit in a car with this man. Geez, I felt cranky just being around him. “I could take a cab back to the hotel tonight and move out in the morning on my own. That way, I wouldn’t put you out.” And I wouldn’t have to endure his less than stellar company. A definite bonus.

  He eyed me for a second or two, clearly doubting my sincerity, then shrugged. “No big deal. It shouldn’t take long.” Without giving me an opportunity to respond, he walked toward the door and held it open. “Don’t worry. The upside is Mack and Donna both know you’re getting a ride with me, so if you end up dead, the police will know where to look.”

  Wow, he’d actually made a joke, as evidenced by the cheeky half-smile he gave me as I sashayed past him out the door. “Now I feel much better,” I mumbled, not quite sure how else to respond.

  Every tap of my heels against the sidewalk seemed to echo as the quiet of night settled around us. A few cars passed by, but not many. In the distance, the wail of a police siren echoed, breaking through the silence. A cool breeze whispered against my exposed skin, raising the hairs on my arms.

  We walked about a block in silence before stopping near a sleek black Porsche. He pressed the remote before heading to the passenger side and opening the door for me. I held back the snide remark about his unexpected bout of chivalry and settled inside. He closed the door and walked around to the driver’s side.

  Despite the perpetual bad vibe emanating from him, I felt more relaxed than I would have expected. Stretching out in the seat, I allowed my legs to reach their full extension.

  “Why Chicago?” he asked while pressing the button to start the car.

  Although part of me had expected the question at some point, it still caught me off guard. I’d figured he’d remain quiet during our short ride, but, no doubt suspicious by nature, he couldn’t resist the opportunity to probe.

  How did I know what was going through his head? Because he was like my brothers, except they used charm to cover up their suspicious natures. Shane wouldn’t know charm if it slapped him upside his face.

  “I needed a change of scenery. When this gig came up, I jumped at the opportunity.”

  “Bull.” He shifted gears and glanced at me. “There’s more to your story than that. You’ve lived in Florida your whole life. Your family is there. Your support. Why come all this way for a change of scenery?”

  “I don’t know if it’ll make you feel any better to know this, but I’ve had a series of bad relationships, bad karma, and bad luck. I needed a place to shake off the stink, as it were.” Oversimplification, but it might be enough information to satisfy him for the time being.

  Shane chewed on that for a few minutes before he spoke again. “I’ll buy that’s part of it, but there’s more you’re not saying.”

  “Florida can be a nasty place this time of year. Coming up north seemed like a welcome relief.” I didn’t need to tell him everything. He didn’t need to know that I’d had a no-good manager. And he definitely didn’t need to know that despite exuding confid
ence, I still fell for every line of crap a guy gave me. My naiveté rivaled that of my five-year-old niece at times. I wasn’t going to get into the gory details of a life that caused my family to question my judgment ninety percent of the time.

  Surprisingly, he let the matter drop. “My brief foray into Florida was in the middle of a hurricane so you don’t need to tell me about bad weather.”

  “Bad timing? Bad luck? Or one of those storm chasers looking for trouble?”

  “None of the above or all of the above, depending on your perspective. In the Army I went where I was told. Usually, at least.”

  A rebel. That wasn’t any big surprise. “Didn’t take you for the military type, but I should have guessed. You have a certain rigidity about you.” Turning in my seat, I gave him a hint of a smile. “Lining up the bottles and glasses behind the bar like we were standing in an inspection line was a good clue.”

  “Some things you can’t shake no matter how hard you try.” Between his driving prowess and the empty streets, we were already close to the hotel.

  “You’ve traveled the world. A woman in every port, no doubt.”

  “Only when the mood arises.” He cleared his throat. “So to speak. I’ve never been much good at that long-term-relationship thing.”

  “We’ve already established you’re anal and afraid of commitment. What else is lurking behind that gruff exterior of yours? What other secrets are you hiding?” If he wanted to play twenty questions, I had every right to do the same.

  “What you see is what you get with me. I’ll never be accused of being charming or polite or beating around the bush. My partner Garrett takes care of that end of the business.” He smiled, which prior to this very moment, I hadn’t thought was possible. “Unfortunately, you probably won’t get a chance to see the charming side of the business; Garrett’s gone away on personal business for what could be several months.”

  “I see.” Of all the bad luck. “With the charming side missing, won’t that put a dent in business?”

  “Most people don’t care if their detective is charming, as long as he’s good. If people want straight answers, I give them. You want to know if your wife is cheating on you, I’ll lay it out. But I’ve also learned that sometimes people don’t really want the truth. They don’t want to know their decades-younger trophy wife is stepping out on them because they can’t get it up anymore without the help of Viagra. Or that the sight of their potbelly and sagging butt isn’t a turn-on, even with a fat bank account.” Cynicism cut through his words.

  “I bet a lot of people are hoping their suspicions are false, even though the evidence is right before their eyes.” Hadn’t that happened to me a time or two, or three hundred? Most times I’d have to get slapped square in the face with evidence, or I’d stay exactly where I felt most comfortable—blissfully ignorant.

  “Exactly. And when I point out the obvious, guess who they get mad at?”

  “So you don’t like managing a bar, and you don’t like being a detective. What do you like to do, Mr. O’Neil?”

  He pulled in front of the hotel, got out, and came around to my side when the doorman opened the car door. To my surprise, he grasped my elbow as we walked inside. In retrospect, I suspected he was probably worried I might run upstairs and barricade myself in my room and refuse to check out. If I thought for a minute I could outrun him, I might have tried.

  As further evidence he didn’t trust me, he dismissed my plea wherein I asked him to wait in the lobby. Instead, he took my key card and pressed the elevator button. “I never said I didn’t like being a detective. In fact, I enjoy the puzzle, figuring it all out, digging for evidence. It’s the people skills I’m lacking in.”

  Understatement of the century. “If you could live your life alone, that would be perfect. Is that what you’re saying?”

  “Pretty much. Except for the occasional night of straight-up, no-commitment sex, of course.” He gave me a wicked smile which I felt clear down to my vajayjay.

  As I tried to understand this new masochistic side to myself, the elevator dinged, signaling my floor. After walking the short distance to the room, he swiped the key card through the slot, opened the door, and followed me inside. He stopped dead in his tracks and did a slow visual sweep of the room.

  Uh-oh. I’d seen this coming.

  Hands on his hips, he scowled. “Tell me you had a break-in.”

  Discarded clothes and underwear covered the bed. Shoes were strewn all over the floor. We had to dodge a graveyard of discarded Jimmy Choos and Manolo Blahniks as we moved around the room.

  “Nope. Pretty much the way I left it.” I shrugged, hoping against hope he’d get frustrated and go downstairs to wait. I didn’t want him eyeballing me the whole time. “I guess you know why my mother calls me Hurricane Gabriella.”

  He showed no sign of leaving. Feeling the tiniest bit self-conscious, I began to pick up shoes while working my way toward the closet.

  He drew his hands through his thick hair, utter exasperation playing across his features. “This makes me crazy.”

  I’d be willing to bet his closet was organized by color, with each hanger exactly one-half inch from the one next to it. A small cache of shoes no doubt stood in perfect line formation on the floor.

  “You can go downstairs and wait.” He acted as if it were the first time he’d ever seen a little bit of a mess.

  “I’ll help. I’d like to get to bed before six a.m. if it’s all the same to you.”

  Anxious to get away from his scowl, I made my way toward the bathroom. “I’ll get started in here.” Besides, if he saw the proliferation of hair products and makeup haphazardly strewn about, he’d freak out for sure.

  “I’ll start filling these suitcases and hope they’ll fit into my car. You do know this gig is only for a month, don’t you?” As he unzipped a suitcase, he glanced up.

  “I tend to overpack. I’ve got a lot of stage clothes, and I never know what I’m going to feel like wearing on any given night. I like to be prepared for anything.” Misplaced guilt had me explaining something which I considered completely understandable given my profession.

  “So I see.” As he spoke, he picked up my blue sequined dress, folded it carefully, and placed it into one of the largest suitcases.

  By the time I’d finished in the bathroom with makeup, hair stuff, and bath products not-so-neatly shoved into a duffel bag, he’d packed the majority of my dresses and had made a dent in corralling the vast shoe population. Two full suitcases were loaded and ready to go. Not only was this guy orderly, he was fast.

  He eyed me as he opened one of the drawers and shoveled out half the contents of Victoria’s Secret’s underwear department, and placed the garments in neat stacks within the third and final suitcase. The intimacy of the moment zinged along my spine, and for the first time in a long while, I felt my face flush while my hormones stood at attention. A visual of twisted sheets and sweaty bodies slammed into me with the subtlety of a freight train.

  Goose bumps broke out on my arms as I suddenly had the crazy idea of doing something incredibly stupid. How could I even think about sex with somebody who was such a control freak? Sex should be uninhibited, fun, spontaneous. He’d admitted he didn’t do fun.

  Sex with him would be like humping a robot. Wouldn’t it? Oh God, did I really want to think it might very well be the opposite?

  I forced my mouth back into action. “O’Neil. With your dark hair and blue eyes, I wouldn’t have figured you for Irish.”

  That worked for a few seconds until I started thinking about his torso and what it would look like. I had no doubt his abs would be sculpted and toned. Would his chest have a sprinkling of hair or be more like a fur coat? Similar questions ran through my curious mind until he spoke.

  “Nope. Got the name by default.” He avoided looking at me while he continued his mission to pack every article into its proper place.

  By default? What did that mean? A mystery to circumvent my sexual fantasie
s could be a good thing.

  While I desperately wanted to probe, bringing out the torture devices if I had to, something made me stop short. “My mom’s Italian. My dad was Spanish. They were opera singers and met in Italy. My dad’s been dead for ten years, but I still miss him every day.”

  “What happened?”

  “Heart attack. He died instantly. It took us a while to pick up the pieces, but my family is tight and pulled each other through. I have two brothers, one older, one younger, two sisters, and a niece. When you count all my cousins and second cousins… let’s just say it’s a good thing we live in Florida because family gatherings have to be outside. One house couldn’t handle all those people or all that noise with everyone talking at once. How about you? Do you have any siblings?”

  “A stepbrother.”

  “Does your brother live in Chicago?”

  He nodded. “Yep. But we don’t talk. He’s the good O’Neil boy. I’m the bad one who inherited the name by proxy.”

  As I worked through his phraseology in my mind, I put my hand on top of the last suitcase and zipped it closed. “Your stepdad adopted you?” Although he was doing a good job of convoluting the story with innuendos and bits of information, it was the only thing that made any sense.

  “I’m Italian and Native American. But I never knew my biological father since he took off before I was born. My mother wouldn’t marry my stepfather unless he legally adopted me.” He gave a wry smile. “Coercion works great at strengthening that father-son bond.”

  I wasn’t a shrink, but even I knew his revelation explained a lot about the man Shane had become. “Your mom?”

  “Dead. She died in a car accident when I was seventeen.” His eyes went misty for a second before he recovered.

  I gulped in air, feeling the pain emanating from him in giant waves of grief, even though his mother’s death had to have been a very long time ago. “Your stepfather?”

  “Are you kidding? That son of a bitch is alive and kicking, still doing his damnedest to make my life a living hell.”

  “How so?”

  “He’s a detective on the Chicago police force, along with my stepbrother. Need I say more? The last thing you want to do is have a cop for an enemy. My good fortune, I have two.”