Infinity + One
Page 78
He saw me coming, and he eyed my stupid ball cap briefly. I yanked it off and ran my hands over my flattened, hat hair. Damn. I left the glasses on though. Vanity would get me nowhere.
I set my purse on the counter, and his eyes widened a little. The buttery, yellow leather screamed expensive, and he met my gaze with a tad more approval. His nametag claimed his name was Pierre. I was sure it wasn’t—but then again, my name was really Bonita.
“I need a dress. Think Oscar-worthy. Sleek, full-length, no bling, size four. And I need it today. Now. I also need a suit that will fit my friend over there without alterations,” I drawled, the Tennessee more noticeable than ever. It was like that when I got nervous.
Pierre’s eyes widened even farther as he looked beyond my shoulder to where Finn was sitting.
“You mean Thor?” he gasped.
I laughed. Finn did look like Thor. “Yeah. Thor.”
“What’s your budget, sweetie?” he said conspiratorially. Oh, yes. This man could help me.
“Two thousand for the dress. A thousand for the suit. Another five hundred for shoes, socks, underthings, everything. I’ll throw in another couple hundred for jewels, obviously fake, but they need to look real. And I need discreet.”
Pierre pursed his lips and tapped them with a manicured finger. Then he picked up his phone and punched in a number. He repeated my list of demands, even the part about Thor, and asked, “Can you do it?”
He listened for a few seconds and said, “I’ll send them your way.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
THE 2012 BLACK Charger owned by Malcolm “Bear” Johnson was recovered in Albuquerque, New Mexico, last night during a drug raid on a popular, local nightclub called Verani’s. Local law enforcement and DEA coordinated the sting in the early morning hours, detaining everyone inside the club. People in the club report seeing Bonnie Rae and an unidentified male believed to be ex-con, Infinity James Clyde, who for a time, was believed to have possibly abducted the singer. Interestingly enough, the songstress turns twenty-two today. Fans of the singer have been sending messages on social media, wishing her a safe return and many birthdays to come, but doubts about her innocence are mounting. Club-goers claim Bonnie Rae Shelby actually sang to them before the bust went down. A bartender on duty claims Bonnie Rae was clearly at the club to purchase drugs, though it isn’t clear at this time why the singer and her companion were not apprehended by police. Police sources say there were some vehicles reported stolen in the area around the time of the raid, and that it is likely the pair have stolen yet another vehicle in their attempt to evade capture.
Ms. Raena Shelby has put out yet another statement that her granddaughter is being held against her will, and that she believes Mr. Johnson was attacked by Shelby’s captor or captors, when Mr. Johnson didn’t provide sufficient ransom for her release. When pressed for more information on ransom demands, Ms. Raena Shelby claimed she could not comment further.
PIERRE TURNED OUT to be a Godsend—albeit a slightly expensive one. He took the $200 I slipped him with a whisk of his hand and without a blink of his eye. But when I mentioned needing a room for an hour to freshen up, he gave us two keycards for the indoor pool, which had restrooms and showers, and he didn’t charge me. I almost wept. Every girl knows you can’t go dress shopping with hat hair and old makeup. It would be like trying to run a marathon in cowboy boots—you were screwed before you even started. Finn was nervous about being separated, even for a shower, but after seeing the mostly empty pool area and restrooms, he caved. Forty-five minutes later, still dressed in our old clothes, but with clean skin, hair, and teeth, and fresh makeup for me, I think we both felt a whole lot better.
We were directed down the street several blocks to a wedding chapel with a giant, stained-glass window and a mural of Elvis as an angel painted along one side. A man dressed like Little Ritchie was playing the piano, and a wedding was in session as we made our way past the room designated for nuptials to a long hallway. Pierre had insisted the hallway led to a set of stairs that would take us to Vegas’s best kept secret—a wedding boutique that was so fabulous (his word, not mine) that only the locals were aware of it, and only the most well-connected locals, at that.
We clomped down the stairs until we reached the bottom. An unremarkable door with a little gold plaque above it greeted us with the word Monique’s. Monique’s had a nice ring. Not as nice as Vera Wang . . . but we were in Vegas, and Vegas was more about cash than class, and I was a hillbilly, so I didn’t know what I was getting picky about.
We pushed through the door and were greeted by creamy neutrals and soft lighting. It smelled like vanilla and leather. Expensive but approachable.
Monique was a tiny woman with a beehive she’d borrowed from another decade. She paired the beehive with all back—slim black trousers and a fitted black shirt covered by an equally fitted black vest. She wore men’s dress shoes—white with black toes and heels, and no jewelry besides the horn rims she paired with deep red lipstick. Her style was the love child of Amy Winehouse and Sammy Davis Jr.—and it worked. I expected a thick, fake, French accent, but instead she greeted us with a smile and a twang as thick as my own. I felt like hugging her and breaking into a Loretta Lynn tune, but I restrained myself.
With a few questions she took charge, sending Finn away with a man who was as large as she was small, as furry as she was sleek, and nearly as impressed with Finn as I was. I hoped he was safe. Finn shot me a nervous glance before he disappeared behind an ornate partition. And then Monique started pulling dresses with the speed and focus of a squirrel storing nuts, mumbling as she did, eyeing me through narrowed eyes magnified by her giant glasses.
I set my purse on the counter, and his eyes widened a little. The buttery, yellow leather screamed expensive, and he met my gaze with a tad more approval. His nametag claimed his name was Pierre. I was sure it wasn’t—but then again, my name was really Bonita.
“I need a dress. Think Oscar-worthy. Sleek, full-length, no bling, size four. And I need it today. Now. I also need a suit that will fit my friend over there without alterations,” I drawled, the Tennessee more noticeable than ever. It was like that when I got nervous.
Pierre’s eyes widened even farther as he looked beyond my shoulder to where Finn was sitting.
“You mean Thor?” he gasped.
I laughed. Finn did look like Thor. “Yeah. Thor.”
“What’s your budget, sweetie?” he said conspiratorially. Oh, yes. This man could help me.
“Two thousand for the dress. A thousand for the suit. Another five hundred for shoes, socks, underthings, everything. I’ll throw in another couple hundred for jewels, obviously fake, but they need to look real. And I need discreet.”
Pierre pursed his lips and tapped them with a manicured finger. Then he picked up his phone and punched in a number. He repeated my list of demands, even the part about Thor, and asked, “Can you do it?”
He listened for a few seconds and said, “I’ll send them your way.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
THE 2012 BLACK Charger owned by Malcolm “Bear” Johnson was recovered in Albuquerque, New Mexico, last night during a drug raid on a popular, local nightclub called Verani’s. Local law enforcement and DEA coordinated the sting in the early morning hours, detaining everyone inside the club. People in the club report seeing Bonnie Rae and an unidentified male believed to be ex-con, Infinity James Clyde, who for a time, was believed to have possibly abducted the singer. Interestingly enough, the songstress turns twenty-two today. Fans of the singer have been sending messages on social media, wishing her a safe return and many birthdays to come, but doubts about her innocence are mounting. Club-goers claim Bonnie Rae Shelby actually sang to them before the bust went down. A bartender on duty claims Bonnie Rae was clearly at the club to purchase drugs, though it isn’t clear at this time why the singer and her companion were not apprehended by police. Police sources say there were some vehicles reported stolen in the area around the time of the raid, and that it is likely the pair have stolen yet another vehicle in their attempt to evade capture.
Ms. Raena Shelby has put out yet another statement that her granddaughter is being held against her will, and that she believes Mr. Johnson was attacked by Shelby’s captor or captors, when Mr. Johnson didn’t provide sufficient ransom for her release. When pressed for more information on ransom demands, Ms. Raena Shelby claimed she could not comment further.
PIERRE TURNED OUT to be a Godsend—albeit a slightly expensive one. He took the $200 I slipped him with a whisk of his hand and without a blink of his eye. But when I mentioned needing a room for an hour to freshen up, he gave us two keycards for the indoor pool, which had restrooms and showers, and he didn’t charge me. I almost wept. Every girl knows you can’t go dress shopping with hat hair and old makeup. It would be like trying to run a marathon in cowboy boots—you were screwed before you even started. Finn was nervous about being separated, even for a shower, but after seeing the mostly empty pool area and restrooms, he caved. Forty-five minutes later, still dressed in our old clothes, but with clean skin, hair, and teeth, and fresh makeup for me, I think we both felt a whole lot better.
We were directed down the street several blocks to a wedding chapel with a giant, stained-glass window and a mural of Elvis as an angel painted along one side. A man dressed like Little Ritchie was playing the piano, and a wedding was in session as we made our way past the room designated for nuptials to a long hallway. Pierre had insisted the hallway led to a set of stairs that would take us to Vegas’s best kept secret—a wedding boutique that was so fabulous (his word, not mine) that only the locals were aware of it, and only the most well-connected locals, at that.
We clomped down the stairs until we reached the bottom. An unremarkable door with a little gold plaque above it greeted us with the word Monique’s. Monique’s had a nice ring. Not as nice as Vera Wang . . . but we were in Vegas, and Vegas was more about cash than class, and I was a hillbilly, so I didn’t know what I was getting picky about.
We pushed through the door and were greeted by creamy neutrals and soft lighting. It smelled like vanilla and leather. Expensive but approachable.
Monique was a tiny woman with a beehive she’d borrowed from another decade. She paired the beehive with all back—slim black trousers and a fitted black shirt covered by an equally fitted black vest. She wore men’s dress shoes—white with black toes and heels, and no jewelry besides the horn rims she paired with deep red lipstick. Her style was the love child of Amy Winehouse and Sammy Davis Jr.—and it worked. I expected a thick, fake, French accent, but instead she greeted us with a smile and a twang as thick as my own. I felt like hugging her and breaking into a Loretta Lynn tune, but I restrained myself.
With a few questions she took charge, sending Finn away with a man who was as large as she was small, as furry as she was sleek, and nearly as impressed with Finn as I was. I hoped he was safe. Finn shot me a nervous glance before he disappeared behind an ornate partition. And then Monique started pulling dresses with the speed and focus of a squirrel storing nuts, mumbling as she did, eyeing me through narrowed eyes magnified by her giant glasses.
