Read Double Strike (A Davis Way Crime Caper Book 3) for Free Online

in 3B when our phones tweeped at the same time.
    #StrikeItRich quick meet @5 Employee Training B. Orien-tation reschedule tomorrow @8 Theatre C. No shows ~NO!WAY!~ DM @ElspieBabie #GameOn
    It took Fantasy and me ten minutes to decipher it. We had a meeting at five in an employee training room. The orientation that hadn’t taken place today because of the lightning strike this morning was rescheduled for tomorrow. If we couldn’t make it, although we’d better find a way, send a direct message.
    So far, our only glimpse of Strike It Rich had been the social media blitz of it all. It rolled out eight weeks ago via Facebook, Instagram, Twitter, and Vine, which I’d never even heard of. To earn their way into the sweepstakes, hopefuls had generated forty-seven million social media impressions, including more than fifty thousand likes on Instagram, twenty-two million impressions on Twitter, half a million hits on Tumblr, and seventeen thousand new Facebook fans. It was the buzz, and the Baby Boomers were furious. They didn’t even get on the line. How were they supposed to qualify?
    The Social Media Director, a fourteen-year-old hipster, was driving us crazy. She spoke in hashtags, dusted glitter over her makeup, wore her long dark hair in a bouncing palm-tree ponytail that burst out of the crown of her head, and she didn’t eat, she juiced. She carried a big jug of thick, dark green slush around that she regularly slurped from, and it was disgusting. We received notifications from her around the clock, and had suffered through numerous #StrikeItRich promotional videos she kept posting on Vine and YouTube, all ridiculous, and all requiring a giddy response from us (#DoUsASolid! #WeighIn! #Comment! #Like! #Share!) Her Pinterest page was nothing but baby hedgehogs, Miley Cyrus, and #StrikeItRich propaganda, and she constantly electronically requested we go look at it. She gave me a pingy headache right between my eyes.
    She’s the Social Media director for Strike It Rich and her name is… wait for it… Elspeth Raiffe. Fantasy and I called her Hashtag. Sometimes we called her Hashtag Elspie. When our assignments had come through a few weeks ago—we’d applied for, traipsed around half naked for, and been hired as, Strike It Rich cocktail waitresses—No Hair had overheard us complaining about Hashtag Elspie’s giddiness and I got the lecture again.
    “Davis.” No Hair scowled at me. “We’ve been over this and over this. Do not call that girl anything except her given name.”
    “Her given name is stupid.”
    “Her given name is Elzbath.”
    “You don’t even know her name, No Hair.”
    I grew up in a town of four hundred, where everybody knows your name. When I’d landed the job at the Bellissimo, I met more people in thirty days than I’d met in the previous thirty years, and keeping up with everyone’s names had been impossible. Easier, for me, was to assign nicknames, and No Hair didn’t like it a bit. We’d reached an agreement, after I accidentally called a high-roller Mrs. Claus (total accident, he’s a really nice man, who looks just like Mrs. Claus) that he would continue to allow me to call him No Hair instead of Jeremy (old habits and such) if I would agree to call everyone else by their real names. He insisted it made communication between us easier if he didn’t have to try to figure out who Cleats and Glows in the Dark were.
    Whatever.
    “Why are we on cocktail duty, No Hair?” Fantasy had asked. “We’ll run our legs off.”
    “Would you rather empty garbage cans?”
    Cocktails it is. Although, I didn’t do a very good job of pouring myself a cup of coffee and coming out of it without injuries. This cocktail waitress gig would be a challenge. “Do we get to keep our tips?”
    “Davis!” And then another lecture. Yes, we were highly compensated already. Yes, people would line up around the block for our jobs. Yes, Richard Sanders would be very disappointed in my