We were dressed like cops.
Well, the kind of cops who shows up at bachelor parties and remove our uniforms to the beat of a boom box.
Oh, no!
Before I could run screaming back to Joey Cheeks, an Amazonian blonde grabbed my hair and twisted it up on top of my head. She pulled a police cap over it and then came at me with a makeup brush. “Girl, you need to watch some makeup tutorials. This foundation is busted,” she said. “Can’t work miracles. Good thing they won’t be looking at your face.”
Not looking at my feet. Not looking at my face. I wasn’t enthused by the process of elimination.
She swatted at my cheekbones and nose with a fluffy brush. “Okay, you’re ready for the raid.”
“The raid?”
A police siren sounded. Lisa came up behind me and, with her hands on my waist, inched me forward like we were doing a conga line. “You know the drill, right? When the siren stops, you go.”
“Go where?”
“Out there. Run to the stage. Make as much noise as you want. The whole point of this is to draw attention to us, and we draw attention to Yarvi.”
“What’s Yarvi?”
“Not what—who. She’s the designer.” Lisa looked at me funny. “Are you okay? Did you eat some of that bad sushi from the VIP room?”
“I was late checking in,” I said. “I didn’t get all the details.”
“Here’s the drill. The siren stops, we charge the runway. Once we’ve gotten everyone’s attention, Yarvi comes out and shoots panties into the crowd. You’ll know her when you see her. Tall redhead with a shoulder cannon.”
“Once we turn everything over to her, we’re done?”
“Pretty much,” she said. “Just do what I do.”
I formed a new plan. Charge the stage. Hide in the back. Disappear when everybody was paying attention to the tall redhead with the cannon. Get back to the booth, grab my laptop bag, and leave.
I could do this.
The police siren wiped out conversation. As we filtered out of the booth and into running-to-the-stage position, I realized what a perfect opportunity this was. None of the vendors would be paying attention to their booths, not while we were running, not while we were on stage, and not after Yarvi had taken the mic and hijacked everyone’s attention. What I needed was to get back to the booth behind Joey’s, get my things, and get the heck out of there while the getting was good.
The siren Woop! Woop! Wooped! for another solid minute. Just when the noise level was borderline unbearable, it stopped. The crowd cheered, and then I was carried in a swell of models clad in Naughty Nightie cop costumes toward the main stage.
Remember the plan, Samantha.
The runway was in the back corner of the convention center, so our journey carried us out of the Blue section, through Orange, Pink, and Green, and past Ingenue, the aisle of emerging designers (White). I temporarily lost myself in the cheerleading team sensation, clapping and laughing and enjoying the company of the other models. Lisa grabbed my hand and pulled me up the stairs.
“You’re doing great!” she said. She turned her back toward the audience, bent over, and flashed her panties to the crowd.
“Thanks,” I said. “This is fun!” I clapped my hands and hopped about a bit like the other models. From our position on the platform, I had a fantastic vantage point—or I would have if I could see over the heads of the other women. Under normal circumstances, my five-feet-seven height plus three-or-four-inch heels would have helped me see over anyone in front of me, but this time I was the shortest of the bunch.
As the rest of them teased the audience with raunchy moves that seemed more appropriate for an after-hours venue, I peeked between elbows, waists, and in one case, thighs, scanning the room until I spotted an altercation at the fringes of the crowd.
Even from a distance, I recognized Joey Cheeks’ Elvis style. He was arguing with Teresa at the back of the crowd, blocking my view of the vendors set up in the White aisle. Where I’d had the intellect to at least attempt to go undercover, he would easily be picked out of a lineup. Although, recalling the number of Elvis impersonators currently working in Vegas, perhaps he wouldn’t.
I moved to the right, behind a row of models, trying to get a better view. Two of the women moved behind me, and as they danced, I got bumped to the front of the pack. I tuned out the panty raid and focused all my attention on Joey and Teresa. He spoke something directly into her ear. Her face contorted with anger. He let go of her. She turned toward him and pushed his chest forcefully. Joey stepped back a few feet and Teresa took off down the aisle.
Joey glanced at the stage and then followed Teresa. I shifted my weight from foot to foot in a poor display of dancing and watched them disappear around the corner.
If they were headed back to Joey’s booth, they’d no doubt catch me when I returned for my things. Especially if the rest of the venue was standing in a pack around the stage in the corner. As I stood in front of mass amounts of people I felt my whole plan dissolve before my eyes. I couldn’t imagine how things could possibly get worse.
And then I felt hands grabbing at my costume. I looked at the other models and, seconds before reality hit, my Naughty Nightie cop costume was torn off in breakaway fashion, leaving me on the stage in my pink push-up bra and panties.
So much for undercover.
18
Plan, shman. I needed out of there, stat!
Recap of problems: My clothes were in a booth in the middle of the convention center. At least one person who I suspected of being involved in a faked suicide/murder was within five feet of that booth. And I was on a stage my underwear.
Amidst bouncing boobs and butts clad in colorful bra and panty sets, a tall redhead took the stage. Judging from the model and crowd reaction, that was Yarvi. She held what looked like a military assault rifle. She raised it in front of her and fired over the heads of the crowd.
The panty cannon. Yarvi was shooting panty samples at the audience, and the audience was going wild. Buyers who had earlier milled about acting as if a convention center of women in underwear was the most sophisticated venue in the world elbowed each other out of the way like desperate bachelorettes clamoring to catch the bouquet at a wedding.
Amidst the melee, I maneuvered my way to the back of the stage and the hat fell off my head. In addition to my more pressing problems was the fact that I wasn’t wearing Yarvi’s underwear line. Any focus on my skivvies would detract from her brand message, not strengthen it. I could use that to my benefit. When I was all the way behind the rest of the women, I slipped off the stage and ducked underneath. Feet stomped over my head like a production of A Chorus Line. On hands and knees, I crawled from one side to the other and waited.
For what, I didn’t know. What I did know was I needed a new plan.
In a painfully long amount of time, the sound of feet on my ceiling scattered. The panty raid was over. If I’d spent more time studying my schedule, I would have known whether the stage was going to be used for another presentation, but I didn’t. And every single piece of information or information-gathering methods I had were in my laptop bag in a row of model’s gear in the booth behind Joey Cheeks’ booth. My schedule. My lanyard. My phone.
My pride.
The only thing that was available was the black fabric that was attached to the stage to serve as the skirt to cover the platform.
I’ve worn crazier outfits.
But removing the skirt from the platform and fashioning it into some sort of garment would draw unnecessary attention to me while I tried to make a getaway.
I briefly wondered, when Nick asked himself What would Samantha do? if he considered the possibilities of hiding under the stage of a major industry trade show in his underwear and the difficulties that lie in the near future. I certainly hoped not. Asking himself that question might lead him to reexamine his decision to invite me into his family.
If there were o
ne place where I could walk around in my underwear and not attract attention, the lingerie show was it. If only I had a friend. If only I had someone inside the show, a designer friend who I could rely on for help. If only—
Amanda Ries.
I crawled to the end of the platform and peeked out between two panels of fabric. The audience had dissipated, but not entirely. Trousered legs stood nearby. Men’s trousers, which meant buyers or vendors but not models. That was no good. I needed camouflage, and in this venue, that meant other women in their underwear like me. I readjusted myself to a more comfortable position and waited.
The opportunity presented itself when a group of naked legs appeared to my left. One set of the legs was chocolate brown and curvy and had a small Fleur de lis tattooed on her ankle. With any luck, there was only one curvy black model with a Fleur de lis tattooed on her ankle, and it was Lisa. And considering I was in Vegas, it seemed fitting to wish for luck.
When the legs were in front of me, I opened a small slit between panels of the black stage skirt. “Psssst! Lisa!”
Lisa stopped. She turned her feet away from me, and then toward me. “Did somebody say something?”
“Psssst! Down here!” I pushed the black fabric so it fluttered out toward her legs and then fluttered back down into place.
The feet stepped away from me.
I lifted the fabric and peeked underneath. “I need a favor.”
“Oh, girl, no.”
“Get Amanda Ries. She’s a designer in the White aisle. Tell her there’s a woman under the stage who needs her help. She’ll know it’s me.”
Lisa’s feet turned and left. I curled up in a ball and hugged my knees. Had I done the right thing? There was a very good chance that letting Amanda decide what to do meant my next outfit would be a jacket that buckled in the back while men in white uniforms took me to the nearest insane asylum.
Or maybe in Amanda’s world, what to do meant calling Nick. I’d never considered What would Amanda do? and a tiny part of me was really, really happy my life hadn’t come to that. Except Amanda wasn’t the one under the stage in her underwear, so maybe it had come to that. I didn’t know what Amanda would do, but my only option at this point was to wait and find out.
A curious thing happens when you spend any amount of time in the dark. Like a sensory deprivation tank, my other senses tuned in to what my eyes couldn’t see. Only a small sliver of light penetrated my surroundings from under the hem of the nylon stage skirt, and even that disappeared when there was no movement on the other side. When the skirt was still, I knew I was alone. When the skirt moved, I knew people were present.
The moving skirt comforted me more than the still one. The lack of movement anywhere but the hem of the stage skirt comforted me in a no-critters-here way. The sliver of light comforted me more than the movement of the fabric. So when the sliver of light vanished and left me in total darkness under the stage, I almost screamed.
There’s a reason people are afraid of the dark. It’s because the dark is freaking scary!
The black fabric buckled inward. It hit my arm and I flinched. The toe of a loafer appeared under the hem of the skirt. I recognized the loafer because I had the very same pair in my closet. It was one of Nick’s designs. And I knew of at least one person at the trade show who had a more than fifty percent chance of wearing one of Nick’s designs other than me.
My suspicions were confirmed when the loafer kicked a pink silk robe under the stage. Even if I could see the tag, I wouldn’t have wasted time trying to read it. I found the sleeves and pulled the robe on, held the front shut with one hand, and pushed the stage fabric aside. There were too many people around. If I crawled out from under the stage, someone would see me.
I bunched the robe up to my waist and used the belt to bind the excess fabric to my torso, and then I crawled. Away from the loafers. Away from the White aisle. Away from the front of the stage. I thought. But when I got to the very back, I peeked under the hem and realized I miscalculated where I’d end up.
I’d expected the coast to be clear, but it wasn’t. A woman stood alone with a phone to her ear. I recognized the track pants and satin bomber jacket immediately: Teresa Kander. I dropped the black fabric and closed my eyes, listening to her conversation.
“I did everything you asked,” Teresa said. “Everything. Lydia’s out of the picture just like you wanted.” She paused for a beat. “I don’t care how it looks for you. I want my money, and I want out.”
19
Those were incriminating words. Or not. Out of context, everybody sounded guilty. I wanted to crawl out from under the platform, chase Teresa, and demand to know who was on the other end of that call. I listened for more of the conversation, but all I heard was silence. When I peeked past the black nylon fabric, Teresa was gone.
And then, while I was looking around for something to verify that I hadn’t imagined the eavesdropped-on conversation with Teresa, the recognizable designer loafers re-entered my view.
“We need to talk,” Amanda said.
“You took the words right out of my mouth.”
***
In a way, I was lucky. Nobody in the intimate apparel industry knew me except those I’d met at my appointment at Joey Cheeks this morning, so as long as Amanda and I gave the Blue section of the convention center a wide berth, the odds of me being labeled an imposter were low. Two very specific things helped improve those odds: me being in a robe and underwear, and Amanda being one of the participating designers. As long as I stayed with her, we appeared to be a designer instructing one of her hired models. Thanks to the new movement toward body inclusivity, my sandwich and pretzel curves weren’t the red flag they might have been just five years ago.
Avoiding Joey’s aisle meant not getting my personal items. Amanda and I left the convention center and went the one place Joey Cheeks wouldn’t turn up: the casino ladies’ room.
It was slightly over the top. Mauve marble fixtures and floors, white porcelain sinks filled with river rocks and a cascade of water that could have solved California’s ongoing drought problem lined the far wall. A tufted pink velvet sofa sat under a six-foot-wide mirror that was mounted in an elaborate gold frame. Wall sconces glowed with soft pink lights that gave our complexions a pretty glow. Note to self: replace all light bulbs with pink ones. Better than a hundred-dollar moisturizer.
I checked under the bathroom stalls (you can’t be too careful) and then joined Amanda on the sofa.
“Are you going to tell Nick?” I asked. I braced myself for “yes” or “maybe” or “probably” or “what’s it worth to keep me quiet?”
“No,” she said.
“Why not?”
“Because he’s my friend and you make him happy.”
“But—”
She held her hand palm-side out.
The first time I’d met Amanda, we’d been passive forces in opposition. I’d since learned that she was a case of what you see is what you get. Amanda didn’t have an inner amateur sleuth like I did. She didn’t need to seek justice or uncover the truth. (She probably didn’t like standardized tests either.) She wanted her life to be uncomplicated, and when it had been complicated, she’d just about melted down.
I’d been the one to solve her problems, and while that hadn’t awarded me a friendship ring, it had leveled the playing field. And now that I knew a little bit about her college roommate’s suicide and the roommate’s relationship with Nick, I understood it was tragedy that bound them, not a past romance. Judging from the guilty feelings Nick carried with him, I doubted he’d ever viewed Amanda as a potential girlfriend. It was a question I’d wondered about for a long time, and I’d now reached a reasonable conclusion.
“I have about ten minutes until my next appointment,” Amanda said, “and I’d rather you’re not at the booth when he shows up, so this is going to be brief. Why were you under the stage in your underwear?”
“It was preferable to b
eing on the stage in my underwear.”
She didn’t say anything for a few seconds. I braced myself for criticism of my insanity or vows to break me up from Nick to protect him.
“Did you see anything suspicious?”
“What?” I thought I heard her, but the question was so unexpected that I preferred to be sure before making a fool of myself with an answer.
“You probably had a good view of the audience while you were up on the stage. I’m guessing that’s why you did it, right? Because what you did was either crazy or brave, and I think it’s best for all of us if we go with brave.”
Sure, except there wasn’t anything brave about my actions. I’d ended up on that stage, not because I’d seen an opportunity to surveil the crowd, but because I’d needed an escape from Joey Cheeks’ booth and ducking out the back and joining Yarvi’s girl squad was my chicken way of hiding. It was typical Samantha luck that my escape plan had backfired on me. And while I could have kept all that to myself, if Amanda and I were ever going to have a relationship that wasn’t rooted in contention, this was my opportunity to take a step in that direction.
“Do you really believe I would strip down to my underwear in a public venue to get a better view of someone who might have something to hide?”
“Isn’t that what you did?”
“Well, yes, but it wasn’t as well-thought-out as all that.”
There are times in one’s life when one knows what one should do. The right thing. And I recognized this was one of those times. I had to do something I never expected to do: confide in Amanda. If she was willing to keep this whole escapade a secret from Nick simply because she knew I made him happy, then I had to accept that her friendship with him made him happy. And if that meant—
Oh, f**k it.
“I was in Joey Cheeks’ booth when his line manager, Teresa, came in with the newspaper that announced Lydia’s death. He said some pretty crude things about her that make me wonder if maybe we shouldn’t look a little more closely at their relationship. And then I heard Chryssinda tell Teresa that he might have killed her to break her contract. I had to get out of there, but the only way out was under the pipe and drape behind his booth. I ended up in Yarvi’s booth, where I was mistaken for a substitute model. I didn’t have any idea what was happening until I was on that stage and the models tore off my uniform.”
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