Paw Enforcement 02 - Paw and Order (33 page)

She offered a flirtatious giggle when he slammed his glass down on the bar. “You are obviously a man who knows how to have a good time.”

“Hoo-hoo! You know it!” With a lift of his chin, Sam signaled the bartender for yet another drink.

They made small talk for an hour or so, during which time Sam plowed through three more triple bourbons. She asked him what Macon was like. He complimented her on her shoes. She asked what kind of pigs he raised. He complimented her on the way her jeans showed off her legs. She asked him where he was staying. He offered—in slurred, bourbon-scented words—to take her back to his room and show her.

“Why not?” She gathered her jacket and purse. By that point, she'd given up on the idea of becoming a pig farmer's trophy wife. The guy was a sloppy drunk with an irritating pet phrase, too boorish for her refined tastes no matter how much valuable real estate he might own. But he might have more jewelry back at his hotel room that she could snatch. As many drinks as he'd had she could probably steal it right from under his nose.

Sam asked the bartender for the tab, signed the paper slip, and slid his credit card back into his wallet, which bore a Hugo Boss logo. The guy might be a pig farmer, but he had good taste.

Sam stood from his barstool, weaving dangerously on his feet as he made his way through the saloon, bumping into people and tables like a ball in a pinball machine. He stumbled on his way out the door, but she was able to catch his arm and prevent him from falling.

The bouncer working the door stepped in front of them and put a hand on Sam's chest. “You're not driving, are you?”

“Nope!” Sam said, much too loudly. “I'm the designated drunk tonight! Hoo-hoo!”

Passersby cast them various glances, some amused, others disgusted. She didn't mind the amusement, but being looked down upon did not sit well with her.

Sam draped his arm over her shoulders, nearly bringing her down when he put too much weight on her.

“You got 'im?” the bouncer asked her. “Sure you're okay here?”

“Yes, thanks,” she said, mustering all the muscle she could to right the two of them. “I'll take care of him.”

I'll take care of him, all right
.

In thirty-seven wobbly steps they were inside the Stockyards Hotel, which sat directly across the street from the White Elephant Saloon. The hotel lobby was painted a terra-cotta color and featured rustic Western décor, much of it either antiques or reproductions. She'd heard that country-western stars Garth Brooks, Vince Gil, and Trisha Yearwood had stayed at the hotel, as well as actors Jim Belushi, Dan Aykroyd, and John Leguizamo. She was proud to be included among the hotel's esteemed guests, though she planned to stay only long enough to relieve Sam of his valuables.

As they made their way through the lobby to the elevator, she ducked her head to prevent any security cameras from getting a good look at her. She doubted anyone could identify her from the grainy videos those cameras seemed to produce, but she wasn't going to take any chances.

It took Sam three tries to hit the right button inside the elevator, but eventually his fingertip made contact and up they went. Sam's room was on the third floor. When he got the door unlocked, he threw it open, the door slamming back against the wall with a loud bang.

“Careful!” she told him. If he continued to make this kind of racket, someone would call hotel security. The last thing she needed was some rent-a-cop banging on the door.

Though only a standard room, the king-sized bed and Western décor were anything but shabby. She estimated that Sam was dropping around three hundred a night for the space. It was the nicest hotel room she'd ever been in by far. The only vacations her family had ever taken were camping trips. She'd been forced to use a common shower and toilet and sleep on the ground, protected only by a cheap nylon tent.

This was
much
better.

This is what I deserve.

Inside the room, Sam headed straight for the phone, scooped it up, and called room service, asking them in slurred, halting words to send up a bottle of champagne. “I met the prettiesht girl … anyone'sh ever … laid eyesh on,” he said into the phone, casting a grin in her direction. “If that ain't cause for … celebration I don't know … what ish.”

When he finished placing the order, he attempted to drop the receiver back into the cradle but missed by a good six inches, the receiver falling to the carpet. He bent to pick it up, but ended up first stumbling forward into the wall, then falling back onto his ass. “Hoo-hoo!” he hollered from the ground, apparently entertained by himself. “Who put this floor here?”

She turned his way. “You sure more liquor is a good idea?”

Sam's mouth gaped with incredulity. “Hell, honey! More liquor ish alwaysh a good idea. Hoo-hoo!”

He struggled to a stand, returned the phone to the cradle, and careened into the bathroom, leaving the door wide open as he ambled to the toilet and unzipped his pants
Zzzip
. He put one hand on the wall to brace himself. “Youshud comoutta … Georgiasometime,” he called out in run-together, barely coherent speech as he filled the toilet, and the floor around it, with hundred-proof urine. “Peashtrees are … purtywhen tharbloomin'.”

Talking to me while he takes a piss?
She felt her gut clench in revulsion and rage. His behavior was too familiar and offensive. What kind of woman did he think she was? Some common tramp?

While Sam did his business, she discreetly cased the room, pretending to admire the Western art on the walls and the view from the window while actually making a mental inventory.
An iPad on the nightstand. A silver horseshoe-shaped ring with diamonds on the dresser. A black leather camera bag with the Canon logo.

She'd bet the camera was top-of-the-line, just like his boots, watch, and wallet. As she looked around she was careful not to touch anything. She didn't want to leave any fingerprints the cops could use to identify her.

She glanced into the bathroom, where Sam was washing his hands. If he hadn't left the bathroom door open, she would've shoved everything into her purse and been on her way immediately. But given that he'd have a clear view of her sneaking out, and that room service was coming, she figured she better not chance it.

Sam came out of the bathroom, unbuttoning his shirt along the way. He plopped down onto the bed, and pulled off his boots, releasing both a sigh and the faint odor of sweaty feet. After tossing his boots aside, he backed up against the pillows, settling in. He grabbed the remote from the night table and turned the TV on, clumsily punching the buttons, inadvertently turning the volume up to a near deafening level until he finally managed to hit the channel change button and find ESPN.

“Could you turn that down?” she called over the din.

“Could I
what
?” he hollered.

Drunken idiot.
Irritated, she darted to the bed, grabbed the remote out of his hand, and jabbed the volume button until it had been lowered to a reasonable level. She then turned away from him and used the hem of her sweater to rub the remote free of any prints.

He patted the bed next to him. “Have a … seat, Rhonda. Let'sh watch … Sportshcenter.”

She wasn't sure which offended her more. The fact that the jerk couldn't even remember the fake name she'd given him or that he'd rather watch some dumb sports show than try to get into her pants right away. It was just as well, she supposed. She had no intention of sleeping with the guy. If absolutely necessary she'd give him a hand job to satisfy him, then once he nodded off she'd round up the goodies and be on her way.

Wait. Could the cops dust his dick for fingerprints?

She wasn't sure. But there was no way in hell she'd leave a potential saliva sample instead.

She sat gingerly on the edge of the bed, casting a glance back at him. His drooping, unfocused eyes and deep breathing told her there was probably not much harm in climbing onto the bed with him. As drunk as he was, it was doubtful he'd even be able to participate in the limited sexual activity she'd had in mind. He'd probably fall asleep in a minute or two. It took everything in her not to shout
Hip! Hip! Hooray!
If she could get out of here without having to touch him she'd be thrilled.

She pushed herself backward and positioned herself up against the pillows on the other side of the bed. Just as she settled in, a knock sounded at the door. The room service had arrived. When Sam went to stand, he went totally off-kilter, falling sideways into the dresser.

She raised her hand. “Sit down, Sam. I'll take care of this.”

He turned and dove back onto the bed, sending the mattress sliding until it lay cockeyed on the box spring.

She answered the door, but averted her face, hoping to prevent the waiter from getting a good look at her. The room service staff wheeled in a small cart loaded with a bottle of champagne in an ice bucket and two champagne flutes. The man looked from her to Sam, apparently waiting for a tip.

“Tip?” she asked, turning to Sam.

“Tip?” Sam repeated, a dopey, drunken smile on his face. “Hell, honey, I'll give you the whole thing! Hoo-hoo!”

This pig farmer is the worst kind of swine.
Huffing, she grabbed his wallet from the dresser and pulled out a ten-dollar bill. Keeping her head down, she handed it to the waiter. “Thank you.”

“My pleasure,” he said with a slight dip of his head. “Enjoy.”

“Bring me that bottle, Rachel!” Sam hollered as the door closed.

“Keep your voice down!” she hissed. Wrapping her hand in a cloth napkin, she pulled the champagne from the ice and carried the dripping bottle across the room to the bed. She thrust the bottle at him. “Here.”

“Hoo-hoo!” Sam called again, wiping at the drops that had fallen to his white undershirt. “That's chilly!”

He yanked the bottle from her hands and clawed at the foil wrap at the top until he managed to remove it. He put the bottle between his thighs to hold it still, put his thumbs on the plastic cork, and pushed with his fingertips. Twice the bottle slipped out from between his legs, but she made no move to help him. She wasn't about to leave her prints on that bottle. Eventually, Sam managed to get the bottle open with a resounding pop.

He raised the bottle and eyed her with pupils that couldn't quite seem to focus. “Here'sh to pretty ladiesh!” he slurred, putting the bottle to his lips, tipping it up and taking a huge swig. He ran the back of his hand across his mouth and held the bottle out to her. “Here! Have a drink.”

Ew.
Like she'd drink from his slobber-covered bottle. Still, she needed to keep up the pretense. She put her thumb over the hole and pretended to turn it up to her lips. When she pulled the bottle away, she gave him a forced smile. “Good stuff.”

“Don't hog it!” he hollered, grabbing the bottle back out of her hands. “Hoo-hoo!”

She made a mental note to wipe the bottle clean once Sam was done with it.

He continued to chug the champagne as if it were Kool-Aid and he were a kid at summer camp. She briefly feared for his liver. Then she realized his liver wasn't her problem.

When Sam patted the bed again, she slid onto it once more, keeping a couple feet between them.

He eased across the space and wrapped an arm over her shoulders, nearly bending her in two with the weight of his meaty limb. He nuzzled her neck. “Time to say my bedtime prayers!
Now I lay you down to shcrew
 … hoo-hoo!”

Dear Lord. Could this guy be a bigger ass?

He continued to drink as
Sportscenter
went on. When the bottle was empty, he went to set it on the night table but missed and instead dropped it to the floor. He reached over and fumbled to pick it back up but had no luck, eventually emitting a “bah!” and waving a dismissive hand.

He slumped lower and lower against the pillows, his head angling back, his mouth falling open. Just as the show wrapped up, he emitted a loud snort then segued into a snore that resembled a chain saw.
Hraaaaaaaaar. Hraaaaaaaaaaar.

Robin Hood's lips curled up in a smile.

He's made this so easy.

She eased his arm off her and sat up.

Hraaaaaar. Hraaaaaaaar.

For God's sake. Does he have to be so damn loud?
She pulled the pillow from behind her and positioned it over his face, fighting the urge to push down on it and smother him.

Though it didn't eliminate the sound entirely, the pillow helped to drown out the snores while she scurried about, packing his camera, ring, and iPad into her purse. Using a washcloth from the bathroom as an improvised glove, she opened his luggage locks as quietly as she could. She found a pair of jeans inside, along with three pairs of socks, four pairs of underpants, and a sweatshirt bearing the Atlanta Braves logo. Nothing of any value to her.

She stepped back to the bed and looked down at Sam's hand.
Dare I try to remove the nugget ring and watch?
Hmmm …

Hraaaaaar. Hraaaaaaaar.

Yes, she dared. This guy was dead to the world.

She reached down and pinched the pinky ring between her thumb and index finger, wiggling it back and forth, back and forth, as she eased it off his finger. She tucked the ring into the front pocket of her jeans.

Now for the watch.
She reached down and put a finger on the clasp, forcing it open. Sam shifted a little as the watch slid down his hand, but continued to snore.
Hraaaaaar. Hraaaaaaaar.
As much liquor as the guy had drunk, he'd be sleeping off his booze for the next week. She grasped the loose fabric on his sleeve to gently lift his arm and grabbed the watch with her other hand as it slipped down and off his fingers. She tucked the watch into her other front pocket.