One more step and, yes, she could see her purse. Faith leaned forward a little more, ready to hiss at her friend to come save her.
But no.
Colleen wasn’t there. Where the heck—oh, great. She was at the bar, flirting with Greg, the waiter.
And here came a little old lady with a cane.
Without thinking, Faith scrambled back to the bathroom, the air cool on her bare shoulders, and leaped into the farthest stall from the door. God, this was so embarrassing! She stood there, waiting for the woman to take care of business. The seconds ticked past. It was getting chilly, too.
Finally! The toilet roared, the woman exited the stall, then washed her hands (thoroughly, Faith was pained to note). A paper towel. And another one. And one more. Then came the blessed sound of the door squeaking open and wheezing closed.
It dawned abruptly that Faith could’ve asked the woman to get Colleen. She dashed out of the stall, causing the toilet to flush again, but the woman was gone...fast little thing, considering the cane and all. Faith tiptoed as fast as she could down the little hall, hoping to catch her. Nope. Speedy Gonzalez, Senior Edition, was nowhere to be seen. And still no Colleen.
Jeremy, however, was just sitting down at the table nearest the hallway.
Cursing silently, she whirled and dashed again before he could see her, back to the sanctuary of the bathroom.
You know what? It was time to go. There was no exit back here, but there was a window in the last stall. Faith could slip out; it couldn’t be too high from the back of the restaurant. She’d jump down, get her damn raincoat out of Colleen’s car, find a pay phone, if the one by the post office still worked, call Colleen and tell her to get her flirtatious ass out of Hugo’s.
It was a good plan, Faith thought, as far as this type of sans-clothing nightmare went. She stood carefully on the toilet seat (it flushed yet again, the hungry beast). The window wasn’t huge; she did a quick assessment of her boobage and the width of the window. Fairly close, but she could make it. She’d have to squeeze out, rather than climb. But, hey, why not? When was too much humiliation really too much? Microfiber Slim-Nation undergarments and sweater-eating toilets were still better than angry wives and adorable toddlers calling you a whore, right?
She stuck her head out the window. Five or six cars, including Colleen’s, and no people. It would be so, so great if her dad just happened to be pulling up at this moment and could save her. But, no, just a dog near the Dumpster. Feral? Savage? Savage and feral? “Hey, cutie,” she said, trying to evaluate its ferocity. It wagged. “Good puppy,” she said. The dog wagged again. A yellow Lab. Not feral.
It was nearly dark, thankfully. Perfect. Time to be Spider-man.
Faith put the heels of her hands on the window ledge and gave a little jump, using her arms as leverage as she maneuvered out the window. Head clear, shoulders clear, boobs clear, stomach clear. Then her momentum stopped abruptly.
Ass not clear.
She wriggled again. Nothing.
The dog barked in delight, sensing some fun coming on.
“Shh,” Faith said. “Quiet, sweetie.” She gave a flop, rather than a wriggle, figuring force might win over torque, or vice versa. Ground her hips down and pushed up with her arms. Kicked her legs, which had nothing to push against. Twisted and pulled. Twisted and flopped. Heaved. Pushed. Grunted.
Nada. Nyet. Nuttin.
Okay, fine. She’d have to go back in and think of something else.
But apparently “in” was not an option, either. Faith was stuck like a cork in a bottle.
“Okay, shit,” she said aloud. Her head was a little dizzy from the two martinis or the fact that her blood supply was being choked off by the window, or both.
Pushing with her arms, she sucked in her stomach, and tried with more gusto. At least the Microfiber Slim-Nation undergarment was slippery. Oh, goody, she got another inch. Glanced back at her butt. Almost there. Of course, if her butt did suddenly clear the window, she’d fall right on her head and break her neck. Woman Who Didn’t Know Fiancé Was Gay Falls to Her Death Wearing Microfiber Slim-Nation Undergarment.
“Come on!” she said a bit more forcefully. The dog barked again, then jumped up, its paws against the outside wall of Hugo’s. “Help me, Lassie,” Faith muttered. She wriggled some more to no avail.
Then the glare of headlights washed over her as a Manningsport police car pulled into the parking lot.
CHAPTER FIVE
AS A COP, LEVI COOPER SAW his fair share of odd things. Victor Iskin had all his pets sent to the taxidermist after they died. Sometimes, he’d invite Levi in to visit, and Levi would sit there, surrounded by motionless cats, dogs and a couple of hamsters. Methalia Lewis liked to show him how fat she was getting by hoisting up her shirt and grabbing her stomach in both hands. But Methalia was eighty-two years old and laughed merrily while doing it, then would inevitably offer him some pie. Joey Kilpatrick kept his gallstones, six in all, in a little glass bowl on the kitchen table, and liked to recount just how horrified the surgeon had been at the state of his infected gallbladder.
But Faith Holland’s head and scantily clad torso hanging out of a window...black bra, too...that was a sight. He turned off the lights and sat there a moment as she wriggled in the fading evening glow.
Guess he should get out of the car. Then again, that was a pretty great view.
He wasn’t one to smile much, as he was often told by Emmaline, the administrative assistant he still regretted hiring. But this...yeah. He felt a smirk coming on. Getting out of the car, he walked over to the restaurant window, which was about ten feet off the ground. Good thing Faith wasn’t a little wisp of a thing; she might’ve broken something falling if she hadn’t been wedged in there.
“Is there a problem here, ma’am?” he asked.
“Nope. Just taking in the view,” Faith said, not looking at him.
“Me, too.” Yep. He was smirking. “Nice night, isn’t it?”
“It is. It’s beautiful.”
He nodded. “What happened to your shirt?”
One of her arms suddenly flew across her gorgeous rack as if she was just aware that he was getting quite a show. “I, um...I had a wardrobe malfunction.”
“I see.” The arm blocking his view couldn’t stay there long; she needed it to brace herself or risk flopping. He waited. She glared. A second later, her arm went back again, treating him to the stellar view once more. Very nice, all that plump, creamy bodaciousness encased in a low-cut bra. Not that he particularly liked Faith Holland, but he did like breasts, and it had been a while since he’d seen such an exemplary pair. “So, what happened?”
Her face grew red. “I flushed my sweater down the toilet.”
“That happens to me all the time.” This earned another glare. “So you decided to climb out the window?”
“Mmm-hmm.”
“Where
