What could possibly be worse than all that?
“What could possibly be worse than what you’ve been through?” (It seemed worth asking out loud.)
He hung his head, giving me a view of his thick, curly brown hair. He pushed his hands into his pockets and looked up at me. “A woman is dead because of Marc Rico—”
My anger quickly melted into surprise, and then fear. I looked at the door Marc had left through and considered the ramifications of accepting his generosity and then turned back to Nick. “We’ll go to another hotel. We never have to talk to him again. But I don’t understand—what does that have to do with you?”
“Let me finish. A woman is dead because of Marc Rico, but she’s also dead because of me.”
3
“I don’t believe you,” I said, for no reason other than my ongoing belief that Nick was a good guy. “What happened?”
Nick didn’t answer. We stood that way, staring at each other with the room service cart between us, for far too long. Nick picked up the champagne bottle again. He held it for a few seconds and then threw it at the wall. The fizzy beverage splashed out of the bottle and stained the fabric wallpaper. The bottle rolled to the foot of the lip-shaped loveseat where what was left of it sloshed onto the carpet. I expected Nick to realize what he’d done, apologize, or offer some sort of explanation.
He turned away from me and stormed out of the room.
I was not having this. I grabbed my handbag and followed him. “Nick! Hold up!”
He climbed on an elevator and the doors closed before I reached it.
I thought I’d already met the skeletons in Nick’s closet, but this one was new—and scary. Nothing about this had come out when the rest of Nick’s family secrets recently became public knowledge, which meant there were secrets about him I still didn’t know. Nick was turning out to be my biggest mystery yet.
I didn’t doubt he was upset. Throwing champagne bottles and leaving me at the hotel wasn’t Nick behavior. Even when he’d lost his company, he found a way to deal with the ensuing outcome. Something about Marc Rico had set Nick off in a way I’d never seen, and that scared me more than whatever it was the two of them had done back in college.
I couldn’t just sit around and let my imagination run wild. But I couldn’t do nothing. If accepting Marc’s generosity had triggered Nick’s unexpected reaction, then I was turning it down. It was a lame attempt to take control of the situation, and I knew it.
Whatever memories Marc’s presence had triggered in Nick, they weren’t going to go away because our room was on a different floor. If being dependent on Marc’s generosity had played a part in Nick’s angry flare up, then I was going to undo that generosity no matter the cost—emotional or monetary.
I rode the elevator down enough floors to make my stomach flip and approached the front desk. Jacques was still working.
“Hi,” I said. “I’m Samantha Kidd,”
“Yes, Meees Keeed. I remember,” he said. “I trust your room is to your liking?”
“No, it’s not. I would like the room you originally offered me.”
“You are in your original room.”
“Not the original-original room. The second original room. The French Countryside room that came with the free champagne.” I thought about the champagne Nick had thrown. “But I don’t need the voucher. I just want a different room.” I pulled out my credit card.
Jacques clicked his keyboard keys. “We have a French Countryside room on ze sixth floor.”
“I’ll take it.”
Jacques clicked his keys a few more times. “Ze daily rate is three hundred. Same card?”
“Three hundred? I had a room with an Eiffel Tower view for one twenty-nine!”
“That was an internet special.”
I slapped my credit card on the marble counter. “Book it.”
I looked around. A steady stream of people came into and out of the casino entrance. In addition to families who appeared to be on vacation, Hawaiian Elvis, in a floral shirt, white pants, and several brightly colored leis, entered the gaming floor. A family of four weighed down with matching fanny packs crowded around a map of the strip. A group of college-aged boys stood to the left, watching a bachelorette party on the right.
The women had on T-shirts that said “To-Do List: Marry Rich” next to an empty square. The tallest of the women, a curvaceous brunette with immaculate makeup, pouty lips, and boobs that defied gravity, wore a cheap white veil that one of her friends was decorating with condom packets. The bride-to-be’s T-shirt had the word “Pending” written underneath “Marry Rich.” A photographer stood a few feet away assessing them through the viewfinder of a sizeable camera.
You gotta love Vegas. Total class.
While I waited for Jacques to finish with my credit card, I eavesdropped on the bride’s phone conversation.
“Where are you? With who?” She ran her tongue over her teeth. “You said you wouldn’t do the bachelor party thing. You promised you wouldn’t get drunk. You’re going to ruin everything.” She was quiet for a second. “Don’t bother. I’ll be at work.”
Yep, class all the way.
Jacques finished with my credit card and ID and I slipped both cards back into my wallet. I handed him the two old room keys. “My fiancé left without taking his room key, so if I can’t reach him, I’m guessing he’ll come to you. His name is Nick Taylor. Can you make a note under his name that our room number has changed?”
“Of course,” Jacques said. His fingers flew over the keyboard. What was he writing in there, the great American novel? “Will there be anything else, Meees Keeed? Would you like me to make arrangements to move your luggage?”
I hadn’t thought that far ahead. “Yes. Thank you.”
I slipped the new room keys into the pocket of my black capri pants and wandered the lobby. I’d half hoped to find Nick here, getting space from the immediate reminder of Marc Rico and whatever the two of them had done way back when.
I called Nick twice, but unless he’d somehow returned to the old room and charmed his way in without a key, he wasn’t going to get my messages. He’d left without taking his phone. And now that I’d changed rooms, there wasn’t much I could do until the bellman arrived with my luggage.
Wandering the streets of Las Vegas in search of Nick seemed a poor way to spend the first afternoon of our getaway. When I first told him about the trip, we’d agreed to spend the weekend together before our respective trade shows.
I returned to Jacques. “How far is it to Flush Casino?” I asked. It seemed as good an idea as any to register early.
“It eees over a mile. You should take ze Deuce. Are you familiar with eeet?”
“No.”
He handed me a glossy map like the one the fanny pack family had and circled a few things. “Eeet eees a double-decker bus that runs up and down ze strip twenty-four hours a day. How long are you going to be heeere?”
“I’m checking out Thursday.”
“Get a three-day pass. There’s a five-day, but you need seeex, so you’re better off getting three and three than five and one. Comprendre?”
“Sure. Three and three.”
He handed me a small card. “It eees twenty dollars. Would you like me to charge eeet to your room?”
“Sure.”
He instructed me to walk to the Bellagio, ride two stops, and exit at my destination. “Trust me. It eees ze fastest, easiest way to get around. You’ll thank me later.”
I followed Jacques’ instructions. The Deuce was not only convenient, it was popular. Both levels of the double-decker bus were filled with a mix of tourists, gamblers, and business people. I slid into a seat by the front and arrived at the convention center seventeen minutes later. Not nearly enough time to shake my concerns over Nick.
***
When the news hit about Tradava’s bad business practices, sales took a nose dive. At first, we hoped the trend w
as temporary. But as sales continued to suffer, it became clear the only way the store would survive would be to cut expenses. And the first place any retailer looks to cut expenses is at non-essential staff.
It is a horrible truth of retail that the people behind the scenes fall into this category. Shipping. Receiving. Hourly assistants. And, occasionally, buyers. It was this last category that explained why I, the lone employee of the catalog department, had been tasked to cover the lingerie shows.
My job was safe. With conditions.
Before I attempted to work for Tradava the first time, I’d spent seven years climbing the corporate ladder at Bentley’s New York luxury department store as the buyer of ladies’ designer shoes. Regardless of what could be said about my varied experience since moving back to my old hometown three years ago, the fact remained that I knew how to be a buyer. Tradava figured that’s what they’d have me do.
Buy. For a store that was slowly going out of business. They gave me the job that I’d left behind when I chose to start over my life, and the success of the company that paid my mortgage relied on my ability to do that job.
In the past six months, I’d placed orders for chocolates, fishing gear, prom dresses, and men’s socks. (I loved men’s socks.) My latest assignment was intimate apparel. It was a no-brainer.
Intimate apparel runs on the highest margins in the store and works on a replenishment model. If a woman buys a 3-pack of cotton panties in size Large, the system automatically generates an order for a 3-pack of cotton panties in size Large. The goal is to never be out of stock in the basics. The only thing they needed was a person with a pulse to click “Approve” on the orders in the system. My cat Logan could have done it. (He’s very smart.)
But basics were boring, and women could buy their 3-pack of cotton panties at the drug store if they wanted. There was no reason to keep reordering 3-packs of cotton panties if the inevitable result was that they’d get marked down. And marking down 3-packs of white cotton panties would mess with the high margins we needed to keep the lights on. Tradava needed something to bring people into the intimate apparel department. Something they didn’t know they wanted.
Over the past six months, life had gotten so monotonous that I’d taken to wearing Days of the Week panties to keep track of time. (I lost Thursday three weeks ago which caused all sorts of problems.) By the time I was given the intimate apparel assignment, I was ready for a change.
That change brought me to Las Vegas.
A helpful concierge and a series of small signs directed me to the Flush Convention Center. I located Registration and stood at the end of a short line. But instead of advancing, a man in a uniform came out from behind the desk and announced registration was closing early.
“You have got to be kidding,” said the woman in front of me.
“This is not a joke, ma’am,” said the Flush employee. “Our team was needed to remove some rowdy patrons from The Heart Club. We’ll reopen tomorrow at eight a.m.”
“Drunks in Vegas? That has to happen all the time.”
“Sorry, ma’am. Heightened security measures.”
I turned and headed back to the entrance. As I walked, I watched a cluster of security guards escort two men who appeared to be stumbling drunk.
I’d expected to see crazy behavior in Vegas. I just hadn’t expected it to be Nick.
4
What in blazes was going on? First, he was friends with Marc. Then he wasn’t. Now, the two of them were practically propping each other up. I watched from the way-too-slow glass elevator as security walked them to the exit. As soon as the elevator opened on the ground level, I burst out and ran toward the revolving glass doors. I had a near-collision with a woman who entered with the same velocity that I left with.
“Excuse me,” I said.
“Watch it!” she replied rudely.
Once on the sidewalk, I looked up and down the street for Nick and Marc. Seconds later, the rude woman came back outside. She walked three feet ahead of me and did the same scanning-the-sidewalk routine.
“Did you see security throw somebody out of here?” she asked.
“Sort of,” I said. “What was his name?”
She crossed her arms. “I’m not telling you his name.”
She didn’t have to. “It was Marc Rico, wasn’t it?”
“Did they say his name? I’ll sue this place. I swear. They’re supposed to protect his identity when he’s in their venue.” She uncrossed her arms and pulled a pack of cigarettes out of her handbag. Her jacket opened, and I recognized the “Marry Rich” T-shirt with Pending written below. I looked back up at the woman’s face. She was no longer wearing the condom veil, but it was the same woman I’d overheard in the lobby of The Left Bank.
The woman took a long pull on her cigarette and exhaled a stream of smoke right past my face. She looked me up and down. “You’re not sniffing around him for money, are you?”
I took an immediate dislike to the woman, and not just because she didn’t seem impressed with my outfit. But the fact remained—or the suspicion, at least—that this woman knew the man who’d gotten thrown out of Flush with Nick. In Vegas, that meant we were practically sisters.
I held out my hand. “I’m Samantha Kidd. Marc is with his friend, and his friend is my fiancé. That’s how I know who he is. And yes, security escorted them out of the casino, and no, they did not use his name.”
“What’s your fiancé’s name?”
“Nick. Nick Taylor.”
“So it’s his fault tonight was ruined. Great. How do I find this Nick Taylor? I have a couple of choice words for him.”
“I don’t think you understood me,” I said. “Nick didn’t do anything. He didn’t even know Marc was going to be in Vegas. We’re here for the trade shows and Nick ran into Marc in the lobby of our hotel.”
“Riiiiight. And let me guess. This Nick Taylor isn’t a businessman in need of some capital to invest in his business? Some once-successful-down-on-his-luck sob story who needs an infusion of cash to get back on his feet?”
She was right about Nick, but there was no way she could know that. There hadn’t been the smallest sign of recognition when I said Nick’s name. Which told me two things: her reaction had nothing to do with Nick, and Marc Rico got hit up for money on a regular basis. But her righteous indignation clashed with her T-shirt, which now appeared not to have been her most well-thought-out fashion choice.
A nagging sense that I knew this woman persisted. “You’re Lydia Moss, aren’t you? The lingerie model?”
“Exactly what are you implying?”
“Nothing. I work for Tradava department stores. I found your Instagram feed while doing market research. You’re a strong voice in the body positive movement.”
The anger faded slightly from the edges of Lydia’s demeanor. She cocked her head and put her hand on her hip, opening the blazer and showing off two of the recently acquired assets. “You’re a buyer?”
To maintain whatever clout that information had gotten me, I went with “yes,” and not “sort of.”
“I was so focused on chasing down Nick that I didn’t recognize you,” I said.
“I had some work done recently,” she said, like we were talking about a mani/pedi and not Botox and boobs.
“Lydia, I think we got off on the wrong foot. Nick and I arrived today and ran into Marc in the lobby while we were checking in. There was a mix-up with our room—from what I overheard, Marc rented out the entire floor where I had a reservation, and when he heard the room he bumped was his old friend, Marc offered to help. I guess the guys reconnected while I was getting directions here. I didn’t know where Nick went until I saw security escort the two of them out.”
Lydia looked me up and down again, this time like she was assessing my credibility and not my capri pants. “You saw them? They were drunk enough to get tossed?”
“Pretty much.”
“Then there’s only on
e thing to do.”
“You’re right. They probably went to The Left Bank. We should head back.”
“You’re joking, right? I’m not Marc’s mommy. I have no intention of setting that standard tonight. This is one of those equality moments.” She opened the door and turned back around. “Are you coming with me?”
“Where?”
“To the bar.”
***
I should have joined Lydia at the bar. I didn’t. I was too busy trying to make sense of Nick’s recent out-of-character behavior. I took the Deuce back to The Left Bank and went to see Jacques at the front desk. “Hi,” I said.
“Bonjour.”
“Remember the man I checked in with? Nick Taylor?”
“Oui.”
“Have you seen him? Did he come back to the hotel?”
“Oui. He and Mr. Reeeco have been enjoying Las Vegas.” Jacques winked and smiled knowingly.
“Did you tell Mr. Taylor about our new room?”
He shook his head. “He and Mr. Reeeco headed upstairs together. I suspect they’re enjoying the fully stocked bar in Mr. Reeeco’s suite.”
“What room is Mr. Rico in?”
“I am sorry, Meees Keeed. I cannot give out that information.”
Fine. I already knew Marc had rented out his entire floor, and if I had to go room by room and knock on doors until I found the two of them, I would.
But first, I had to pee.
I took the elevator to the sixth floor and found my new room. The smell of smoke hit me as soon as I opened the door and I gagged. Jacques hadn’t said anything about this being a smoking room.
I used the bathroom, washed my hands, and came back out. Aside from the smell, the room was nice. Nick and my luggage had been set on matching luggage racks. His cell phone was on the nightstand between two king-sized beds. I picked it up and checked the screen. Two missed calls and a text. All from me.
Panty Raid Page 2