Chapter 5
~ Sammie ~
This is my kind of bed and breakfast.
I grin as I open the unlocked minibar and peruse the contents. Miniature bottles of spirits and wine, cans of soda, and bottles of mineral water are all for the taking and drinking.
I’m sure they’ll add it to Braden’s tab, but he owes me for all the lying. I can’t believe I fell for it, but as experience has taught me, marks fall for the cons they wish were true.
What does this tell me about my wishes?
I twist open a bottle of cheap whiskey and let the contents burn down my throat.
I’m susceptible to dangerous men with hot bodies, rugged looks, and street-fighting skills. If Mitch had actually shown up, we would have ended up arguing instead of flirting. I’ve had three years to think of all the crap I wanted to spew at him.
Instead, Braden appears driving an expensive car.
I crave luxury, like how many times did I run my fingers over the leather seats and the burl walnut wood panels?
I’m a freeloader.
As soon as Braden told me Mitch was treating me to massages, hotels, steak dinners, and more, I swallowed it hook, line, and sinker.
I’m not above a little blackmail, although Braden’s warnings have me rethinking my strategy. For starters, I’m not sure what exactly I have on Mitch that could put him away. I borrowed motorcycle jackets with the nicknames of the hackers and let Mitch wear them whenever he hooked up with me.
It helped implicate the rival gang of hackers when Brittney testified that she saw a guy with the nickname “Back Door” at my apartment the day she discovered a security hole in my router. Since “Back Door” didn’t have an alibi, and his gang were hackers, too, and not innocent, they ended up charged with some of the crimes Mitch got away with.
Swapping a jacket or two might not prove anything.
Anything else?
I empty the rest of the whiskey in the tiny bottle down the hatch and catch my image in the mirror above an antique dresser.
Jiminy creepers. I look like the bag lady from the last Kmart Blue Light Special wrestling match.
No wonder Braden walked away from my loose lips. I open my mouth wide and notice I have lipstick on my teeth. The gray sweatshirt has sweat stains under the armpits, and my jeans have grease spots on the thighs.
Who did I think I was?
Marilyn Fucking Monroe?
I palm my forehead and groan, realizing the video of me doing the Git Up Challenge must never see the light of day. I’m going to have to ask Braden to erase it.
What was I thinking?
I’m so embarrassed, I might as well check out tonight while Braden is sleeping. I bet he ran to his room so he could finally let that big belly laugh he was holding in explode like a massive, shit-laden fart.
Ugh.
I collapse on the fluffy bed and dig my flip phone out of my backpack to call Brilliant Brittney.
I wonder.
Is there anything Brittney owes me?
I mean, sure, I basically screwed her company, but it wasn’t all me, and the publicity helped her sell her company to a larger one for a hefty chunk of change.
That’s right!
