West of Sin

by Wesley Lewis

  “Well, at least we know you’ll be armed and Dudka’s men won’t. That should give us a significant advantage.”

  “Hopefully.”

  “What do you mean ‘hopefully’?” asked Tom.

  “The reality of the situation,” said Crocker, “is that we have no way of knowing the limits of Dudka’s reach. I’m not one hundred percent sure he couldn’t get guns into the airport. I know that sounds crazy, but after seeing the precision with which his people torched my trailer, killed Bryan, and abducted Ashley, I’m not taking anything for granted.”

  “And if they do have guns?” asked Jennifer, wishing Crocker would offer a bit of reassurance to counter her growing list of concerns.

  “Then we’ll just have to hope they’re smart enough to realize they have no chance of escape if they shoot me on top of a nine-hundred-foot tower with only one exit.”

  “If that’s your plan,” said Larry, “I hope you really are quicker on the draw than they are, because the Russian mob isn’t known for discretion and sound judgment. They’re known for being single-mindedly ruthless and having more balls than brains.”

  This was not the reassurance Jennifer had been hoping for.

  “I don’t like it,” she said. “We need to think of something else.”

  Crocker’s eyes were sympathetic. “I think this is the best plan we’re going to come up with.”

  “Then we scrap the whole thing and call the FBI.”

  “No,” said Tom, “it’ll work.”

  The defiance in his voice caught Jennifer by surprise.

  “It’s too dangerous,” she said. “If Dudka’s men figure out a way to get guns into the Stratosphere, the whole thing could turn into a bloodbath.”

  “It’s not going to be a bloodbath,” said Tom. “We just need to make a couple of changes to the plan.”

  Jennifer wanted to protest, but Tom’s sudden confidence made her hesitate.

  “What kind of changes do you have in mind?” asked Crocker.

  “There is a safer way to do this—a way that doesn’t involve robbing a casino or relying on crooked cops or risking a shootout at a crowded tourist attraction.”

  “I’m listening,” said Crocker. “What do we need to do?”

  “We need to get my bag from the TSA.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Jennifer surveyed the selection of provocative minidresses laid out on the large round bed. Only one or two had real potential. Most were as gaudy as everything else in the Champagne Suite, which now served as a de facto staging area.

  Even after an hour of hammering out various details and discussing various contingencies, Jennifer still had doubts about Tom and Crocker’s plan. It was complicated and dangerous, and there was no wiggle room. If one part didn’t go according to plan, the whole thing would collapse like a house of cards.

  In the end, it was the conviction in Tom’s and Crocker’s voices that persuaded her to give the plan her blessing. Both men were committed to doing whatever was necessary to save Ashley.

  Tom’s motivation was easy to understand. He’d been in love with Ashley since the moment they met, and he was haunted by the realization that her kidnapping might have been avoided if he hadn’t gotten so drunk.

  Crocker’s motivation was harder to pinpoint. Jennifer wanted to believe he was doing it for her, but the determination in his eyes made her suspect a motivation deeper than a simple attraction to a woman he’d just met. She wondered if something in Matt Crocker’s DNA prohibited him from leaving another person in harm’s way.

  What she wanted at that moment was for Tom and Crocker to hurry and get back from their supply run so that she and Crocker could talk privately before, as Larry now insisted on calling it, the big show.

  Two loud knocks shook the door behind her, followed almost immediately by the slow creak of the hinges. She turned, hopeful that her gunslinger had returned. Instead, she saw Vegas carrying a hatbox and another dress.

  The young hooker had changed into a pink corset and matching thong, leading Jennifer to suspect that the black bustier and ruffle-covered red panties of two hours before had since played a part in some lonely guy’s fantasy.

  Vegas set the hatbox on the bed. “How’s it going? Found any you like?”

  “Umm . . .” Jennifer wanted to choose her words carefully. “I’m just not sure any of these are going to fit.”

  “You obviously underestimate my sewing abilities. Here”—she handed Jennifer the dress she was carrying—“hold this one up so I can see what it looks like on you.”

  Eyeing the gold sequined dress, Jennifer resisted the urge to ask where the batteries went and held it up over her black cocktail dress.

  “Oh,” exclaimed Vegas, “that one would look great on you!”

  Jennifer turned to face the mirror at the foot of the bed. She studied the garment and noted that at the very least, its halter top would be reasonably secure and not too revealing.

  As horrible as the gold dress was, it was the best of the lot. It was as scandalously short as the others, but the neckline didn’t plunge all the way to the naval, there weren’t any cutouts in weird places, and most significantly, it wasn’t made of vinyl.

  “I suppose this could work,” she said.

  Vegas stepped between Jennifer and the mirror and inspected the dress. “The sequins are going to make alterations a pain, but I think we can get away with just taking it in a little in the bust.”

  Jennifer eyed Vegas’s chest. “Yes, you have a bit more real estate up top than I do.”

  Vegas smiled and, in a whisper that suggested a state secret, said, “Between you and me, they’re not real.”

  “No!” exclaimed Jennifer, feigning genuine surprise.

  Vegas winked and took the dress. She inspected the halter top and said, “I’ll have to pick off one or two rows of sequins before I can alter it. Do you want to try it on so that I can see how much I need to take in?”

  Jennifer looked at the dress, which was at least four inches shorter than the black one she was wearing. “Do we have to do it right now?”

  “I think we should. The alterations may take a little while.”

  Jennifer sighed. “Okay.”

  “If you prefer, you can wear the red dress. It’s stretchy enough that it probably won’t need to be altered.”

  Jennifer eyed the shiny red spandex dress lying atop the pile. “No, we need to save that one.”

  She walked to the bathroom and reached into the trash can.

  “What are you doing?” asked Vegas.

  “Retrieving these.” She pulled the discarded pair of uncomfortable lace panties from the wastebasket. “I was hoping to avoid ever seeing them again, but I’m not about to try on that shiny gold cocktail napkin without wearing something underneath.”

  Vegas laid the dress on the bed and inspected the frilly underwear dangling from Jennifer’s finger. “Those are awesome. Why don’t you like them?”

  “Because they’re like a medieval torture device. It feels like they’re made of barbed wire and sandpaper.”

  “How long did you wear them?”

  “I don’t know,” said Jennifer. “No longer than usual.”

  “Well, that’s your problem. Panties like this are good for a couple of hours, tops.”

  “So I’ve learned.”

  “See,” said Vegas, pointing to the crotch, “they don’t have a gusset lining.”

  “A what?”

  “It’s that little cotton pocket sewn into the crotch of most panties. It makes the panties a lot more comfortable, but on a sheer pair like this, it would show through the lace and make them a lot less sexy.”

  “I guess that’s why they look great but feel terrible.”

 
; Vegas smiled. “I made the same mistake during my first week here. On my second or third day, I wore a pair kind of like that as part of my outfit. After working the lobby for three hours, waiting for a customer to pick me, I ended up offering some guy the deal of a lifetime, just to have an excuse to take the damn things off.”

  Jennifer laughed out loud, imagining some lucky fellow being propositioned by a prostitute who was literally itching to get out of her panties. It was the first good laugh she’d enjoyed since fleeing La Condamine.

  Vegas seemed to relish Jennifer’s enjoyment of the anecdote. She offered a coquettish smile and said, “Panties like this should be worn just long enough to let someone else take them off.”

  Jennifer stopped laughing, her mirth replaced by thoughts of Bryan. “That was the plan when I put them on.”

  Vegas appeared not to notice the change in tone. “At least you got your money’s worth out of them.”

  “What?”

  “I mean, even if you never wear them again, at least Matt got to see them, right?”

  “Oh,” said Jennifer, a little embarrassed. “Crocker didn’t see them.”

  “No? You and he didn’t . . . ?”

  “No, it’s not like that between us. Not yet, anyway.”

  “Don’t worry,” said Vegas, “it will be. I’ve seen the way he looks at you.”

  “Really?”

  “I’ve seen him around a lot of girls, but I’ve never seen him look at any of them the way he looks at you.”

  “Oh.” Jennifer wasn’t sure what else to say.

  “He’s certainly never looked at me that way.”

  “Oh.” Now she was afraid to say anything else.

  “I know it’s silly. I know he’s like twice my age. But sometimes when he and I talk, I kind of start hoping that maybe the reason he’s never accepted a freebie from me is because he’s working up the courage to ask me out on a real date.”

  “Oh.” Crap.

  “I’m sorry,” said Vegas. “Please don’t hate me. I’m really not trying to steal your guy.”

  “No, I don’t—”

  “I’m smart enough to know that girls like me don’t end up with guys like Matt. But sometimes he’s so sweet that I forget. You know what I mean?”

  “I do,” said Jennifer. “But you shouldn’t assume that any guy is too good for you.”

  Vegas smiled. “It’s all right. I’d like to see him end up with someone like you. You’re really nice.”

  Jennifer wiped her eyes before tears could form. “Thank you.” She returned the young woman’s smile.

  “Anyway,” said Vegas, pointing to the underwear still hanging from Jennifer’s finger, “either put those on or don’t—it doesn’t make any difference to me—but you need to try on this dress if I’m going to have it ready in time for the big show.”

  “Don’t you start calling it that too,” said Jennifer as she slid the panties on under her dress.

  “I like it. It makes the whole thing sound like it’s just a big pageant instead of . . .”

  A suicide mission? thought Jennifer.

  “Instead of something dangerous,” finished Vegas.

  Jennifer reached for the gold dress and noticed the hatbox sitting beside it. “What’s this?”

  Vegas picked up the box. “These are my babies. If something happens to the dresses, I will eventually find it in my heart to forgive you. But if something happens to these, Vladimir Dudka won’t be the only person after you.” She giggled and removed the box lid.

  The box appeared to be full of hair.

  “What on earth?” asked Jennifer.

  “Wigs.” Vegas reached into the box and pulled a bright red one from the top of the pile. “It’s really not good for them to be stuffed in a box like this, but I wanted you to have as many options as possible.” She held out the red wig for Jennifer. “Personally, I think this one would look great on you.”

  Jennifer took the wig and inspected it. “Will Scarlett think I’m encroaching on her territory as the resident redhead?”

  Vegas laughed and set the box on the bed. “It wouldn’t surprise me. She can be a bit of a bitch sometimes.”

  Before Jennifer could respond, the suite door swung open and Tom entered carrying a suit bag and the type of cheap canvas backpack Jennifer always associated with her first year of college.

  “Hey!” she exclaimed. “Don’t you knock? I was about thirty seconds from stripping down to try on one of these dresses.”

  “Sorry,” said Tom as he laid the suit bag beside the pile of dresses. “But right now my mind is jam-packed with logistics and contingencies, and there is no room for manners or modesty.”

  “Well, make room.”

  Tom hesitated. “Sorry. I should have knocked.”

  “Did you get everything we need?”

  “Everything except my lost bag. Crocker is still working on that.” He turned to Vegas. “You said you know how to sew, right?”

  “Sure,” she replied. “Do you need your suit altered?”

  “Not my suit. This.” He held up the backpack, which still had the price tag hanging from it.

  “You want me to alter a backpack?”

  “I want you to cut the back off of it, hem the edges, and reattach the shoulder straps so that it’s just a shell I can wear over another pack.”

  “Okay.” She took the backpack. “I think I get what you mean. But couldn’t you just carry the other pack inside this one?”

  Tom shook his head. “I won’t have time to stop and switch from one to the other. I need to be able to change on the run.”

  She unzipped the backpack and inspected it. “What is this?” She reached inside.

  “Oh, those are for Jennifer.” He turned to Jennifer. “As expected, the police still have your hotel room sealed off, so I bought these at one of the hotel shops.”

  Vegas pulled out two fancy wooden coat hangers, each holding a pair of expensive-looking white lace panties.

  “Are you kidding me?” asked Jennifer. “All I asked for was two pairs of basic cotton panties. Why didn’t you just buy some while you were at Walmart?”

  “Sorry,” he said, “but the hotel was our last stop, and this is as basic as it gets at Fontvieille Intimates. A saleswoman helped us pick them out.”

  Vegas held up the two pairs of panties, one thong and one bikini cut.

  Tom continued, “We weren’t sure what style you’d want, but the saleswoman said these are the two most popular.”

  “I’m cursed,” said Jennifer. “I’m cursed to spend the rest of my life wearing uncomfortable underwear.”

  “No,” said Vegas, “these are perfect.”

  “They are?”

  Vegas turned the thong inside out. “See?” She pointed to the crotch. “These actually have a gusset lining.”

  Jennifer reached out and felt the material.

  Vegas checked the lining on the second pair. “They should be extremely comfortable.”

  Jennifer finished inspecting the panties and turned to Tom. “I guess you’re off the hook. If Vegas says they’re okay, they must be okay.”

  Vegas continued examining the lacy undergarments. “These are actually really nice. If you don’t end up using both of them—”

  “If we don’t use the extra pair,” said Jennifer, “it’s all yours. It’s the least we can do for all your help.”

  Vegas smiled. “I know it’s silly, but in this line of work, you can never have too much fancy lingerie.”

  “Okay,” said Tom, “I’ll let you two get back to trying on dresses. I’m going to go see how things are coming with Crocker.”

  “No,” said Jennifer, “I’m going to check on Crocker, and you’re going to
stay and help Vegas fix that backpack like you want it. It has to leave here an hour before my dress does.”

  “Fine,” he said. “Just find out if and when we’re going to get my other bag back from the TSA. If we don’t get it, all of this is a waste of time.”

  “I’ll find out.”

  “And don’t be gone too long,” said Vegas, “because as soon as I’m done with this backpack, we have to get started on your dress. We’re cutting it close as it is.”

  “I’ll hurry back.”

  Jennifer dropped the red wig next to the gold dress and looked at the hodgepodge of items lying on the bed. “My small clutch definitely isn’t going to hold everything I’m supposed to carry. I need to find a really big purse.”

  “I have something you can use,” said Vegas. “It’s not really a purse, but it kind of looks like one. I use it to carry all my outfits and toiletries and necessities from room to room while I’m working.”

  “I don’t know what we’d do without you.”

  “Just leave me one of these pairs of panties, and we’ll call it even.”

  “Speaking of which . . .” Jennifer hiked up her dress a couple of inches, reached under, and discreetly pulled off the abrasive pair of unlined panties.

  Tom’s eyes grew cartoonishly large.

  Vegas held up the two new pairs and asked, “Which do you want?”

  “Give me the bikinis.”

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  Jennifer stopped in front of the shoe wall and surveyed the lobby. She now understood why Larry had wanted extra security—the place was packed.

  Neither Crocker nor Larry was visible in the sea of male faces, but she did see Scarlett, her red hair unmistakable, drinking at the bar on the far side of the room.

  Jennifer squeezed into the standing-room-only crowd and picked her way toward the bar. The Prickly Pear’s customers ran the gamut from impeccably dressed to borderline slovenly.