Free Almost Too Far (Almost Bad Boys #3) by A.O. Peart Page B

what to think.  
    “Libby, I know this is upsetting but look at it this way,” I explain. “Helga always clears all her plans with you. And I agree this was inexcusable to just go off and worry you like that. Heck, we all were scared. But, I think, that was a spur-of-the-moment thing. She wanted to feel in control again. Am I right, Helga?”
    “Shit, girl!” Stella laughs and claps me on the back a bit too hard. “You’re made of the right stuff. You and I need to hang out together.”
    Libby still looks unconvinced. Colin must’ve noticed because he’s coming to my rescue. “Libby, come here. We’ll get you some hot tea with lemon. Natalie will stay with Helga and Stella. I need to contact the police to call off the search anyway.”  
    They walk off toward the bar. Libby turns her head to look back at us, as if making sure Helga’s not dashing for the door to go on the next ridiculous adventure.  
    “Call off the search?” Helga cocks her head, looking inquisitively at me.  
    I sigh, long and heavy. “Well, we reported you missing.”
    “Missing? I was gone no more than two or three hours! Aren’t you all a bit jumpy?” She glares at me.  
    It’s rather a comical scene, since she’s so short and her expression is naturally good-humored. I bite my lip to keep from bursting out in laughter. Stella cracks up behind my back, and that doesn’t help me keep my face straight.
    Helga chuckles, all her frustration gone. “Hey, Stella! Maybe we’ll make it into the police blotter section in The Seattleite Weekly.”  
    “That would be a hoot! But for that we need a scandal.” Stella claps her hands.
    “Okay, okay, no scandals please, or Libby will rake our asses over the coals. What do you want to play, Birthday Girl? Bingo?” I stop both of them from formulating another “brilliant” idea.
    “Poker, of course.” Helga puts her fists on her hips and flashes a wicked smile.  
    “Poker it is. Hey, did you know that Agatha and Melba are here, too?” I motion them to the poker table where three of my girlfriends are already playing. Now I wonder where Ali is. I better go look for her.  
    “Don’t tell me those two old farts are at the slot machines.” Stella arches her eyebrows thickly painted with black eyeliner.
    “I bet they are.” Helga sits down at the table right next to Jena. Stella plunks down in the chair next to Caroline.  
    The dealer greets them immediately, and a cocktail waitress appears from nowhere. I swear, these people know how to run this business smoothly. I order an appletini—just like Caroline and Jena already have—and both Helga and Stella get whisky on the rocks. My head is throbbing and I’m not sure if alcohol is a good idea, but I take a sip anyway. The drink is smooth, cold, and syrupy, just the way I like it.  
    I want to find Ali. She must be somewhere close to the performing band, but I really want to keep as far as I can from the stage where Last Year’s Bikini’s lead singer is doing something questionable to the microphone stand, and two guitarists wildly bob their heads in the rhythm of their hell-derived music. I’m wondering if the long, curly hair they all sport are their own, or rather well-fitting wigs, when a woman in tight jeans and a cropped shirt scrambles onto the stage and runs toward the leader singer, arms outstretched.  
    Everything seems to happen so quickly. The woman grabs the singer’s hair and yanks hard. He hits the floor, the microphone tumbling down on top of him. The speakers screech, the security guys rush to his rescue, the people scream, and I stand dumbfounded, saying to myself, “Huh, so it is real hair. I’ll be damned.”  
    Four muscular security guys in casino-issued t-shirts jump swiftly onto the stage. Two haul the girl off the musician, and another kicks the microphone stand to the side. The fourth one helps the lead singer up. The three other band members are clustered around them, flapping their arms in