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 one 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.”