Luckily the ballroom wasn’t far from the elevator the staff used. She caught a glimpse of Nell and Henry, who were currently protesting right outside the big lobby doors. Technically they were supposed to stay off the actual property, but Nell was a close friend of the owner, who pretty much told anyone who didn’t like it that Nell was part of the daily entertainment and to get used to it. Cole Roberts often sent them hot chocolate when it was cold and let them chant and sing next to the big outdoor patio heaters.
And yes, they often protested those too for their overuse of propane.
Nell seemed to be singing something about killing trees and using them cruelly. She sounded pretty good, and the dancing she was doing would totally keep her warm.
She went up to the second floor and down the hall to the suite at the end, knocking on the door. “Room service.”
The door came open, and she caught sight of a dark-haired man with a towel around his waist turning away from her. “Put it on the table. I’ll be right back.”
Rude, but she walked through the door, flipping the in-room lock out so the door wouldn’t close. She probably wouldn’t have done that if the guest had been a woman, but there it was. She moved into the room, following the elegant foyer to the sitting area of the suite. There was a dining table and she moved there, setting the glass down.
“Your Scotch, Mr…” She opened the bill. Though the guest had already bought the bottle, there was a small fee for storage and service. She didn’t expect much of a tip, and then she saw the name and really didn’t expect one. “Foster.”
Damn it. Now she knew where they’d stashed Brock after his fight with Chet. Could she run before he saw her?
A derisive snort let her know she wouldn’t be getting away so easily. “Damn. You actually work here. Wow. I guess you’re one of those hard-working rural girls I always hear about. Need two or three jobs to support all those kids you had at seventeen.”
He moved to the table and took a long swig of the Scotch.
As long as she was here. “I need your signature, sir.”
His disdain meant nothing to her. She could come back with all the ways he was a stereotypical douche nozzle spending Daddy’s cash and probably always on the lookout for his next woman to sexually harass.
He took another sip and opened the receipt book. “And what if I don’t give it to you, sweetheart?”
“Then I’ll walk away without it and explain that you didn’t want to sign,” she said simply. She was going to put a note in his guest portfolio that only men were allowed to come into his room. She wasn’t going to send her female servers into the predator’s den. She reached for the book.
He snatched it away with the hand that wasn’t holding the Scotch glass. His eyes lit with malicious glee as he downed half the glass. “I think not. I think you need to go get the rest of this bottle. My sister is an asshole. She thinks if it’s left at the bar, I won’t drink so much. So you have a choice. Go get my bottle or I’ll simply order a glass every fifteen minutes and you can bring it to me all night long.”
She couldn’t care less if he drank himself to death. It sounded like a great idea to her. “Not a problem. I’ll have it up here as soon as possible, sir.”
She started to turn, but he reached out and gripped her wrist.
“Hey, I didn’t tell you…” Brock began and then dropped her hand. “I…what the fuck? What did you do?”
She backed up because his skin had gone a sickly white right before her eyes. “Nothing. What’s wrong? Should I call someone?”
He put a hand to his stomach, his eyes going to the glass in his hand. “You fucking bitch.”
He raised his hand and tossed the glass her way. She sidestepped it, glass exploding against the wall and sending Scotch everywhere. It smelled odd—not like she was used to Scotch smelling—but she was too upset to identify the scent. It was all over her blouse. She wasn’t sure she hadn’t gotten cut up from the glass shattering.
She pulled the walkie from her belt and started to call security.
That was when blood poured from his mouth. He hit his knees and his whole body convulsed.
Lucy put her hand over her mouth to stop the scream that was building. She had to do something, and it wasn’t run away. She pushed the button on her walkie and called the only person who could help her right now.
“This is Tyler,” a steady voice said.
“Ty? Ty, I need you. I’m in 210. I think he’s dying. Please hurry.”