Quickly, I run to my room and go to the back of my closet, where I’ve stashed the items Maren and I picked up in Savannah. Exactly thirty minutes later, Maren’s text comes through that she’s waiting. I take one last look in the mirror and adjust my wig and fake glasses then grab my purse. Luckily, it’s dark and quiet outside, which means no neighbors are out tonight to see me in disguise.
“You look fantastic with dark hair!” Maren exclaims when I slide into the passenger seat.
I look over at her and gasp. She’s chosen a pixie cut platinum blonde wig and blue contacts for this occasion. My light haired, brown-eyed friend is almost unrecognizable.
“While I’m not sure of the color, you could totally pull off short hair,” I tell her honestly.
She smiles approvingly and takes off, filling me in on her plan. We get to the hotel and circle the parking lot until we find a place in the back that’s hidden by a food and catering truck. Together, we make our way around to the entrance and waltz in casually, going straight to the bar. The place is packed, which makes it difficult to look for the man in the picture R. Dell forwarded to Maren.
It takes half an hour to get a seat at the bar, and by the time we have drinks, there’s still no sign of him.
“I wonder if we need to go to his room.” Maren speaks low enough for only me to hear.
Right as she says it, a group of scantily clad women pour into the bar and immediately begin mingling with the
men standing around.
“Fuck,” the bartender in front of us mutters.
“What’s happening?” Maren leans in suggestively, allowing her top to drop low enough to see she’s not wearing a bra.
It works like a charm, his eyes leveling on her chest.
“Some kind of party. Happens once a month. By the end of the night, we’re wiped out of alcohol, the place is a mess, and we’re stuck playing cock-blockers as we usher these guys back to their rooms.”
“What kind of party?” I mirror Maren’s actions, leaning in to show cleavage.
“I have no idea.” He shakes out of his boob stupor and looks at us apprehensively before walking away.
My mind races with possibilities. Are these escorts? Did we walk into a prostitution ring?
“That was weird. He’s hiding something.” Maren sits back, scanning the room.
“I agree.”
A new group of men walk in, and I spot R. Dell’s husband immediately. He bypasses all the women and goes to the other end of the bar.
“He’s here,” I mumble, then laugh, trying to appear casual.
Maren tips her glass to me in a toast. To anyone paying attention to us, we seem to be two women out having a good time, but I keep my eyes glued behind her, watching as the husband slams back a shot then taps the bar signaling for another.
“He’s throwing back drinks,” I tell her through a smile.
“Any sign of a woman?” Right as she asks, a woman sidles up next to him, and he barely gives her a glance. She tries to engage in conversation, even running a hand up his arm, leaning in close.
He jumps back, swatting her hand away in disgust.
Interesting…
I don’t have a chance to mention it to Maren before there’s a small hush over the area. The air in the room changes as a man wearing a three-piece suit walks in, not talking to anyone. He makes his way to the bar behind me, and the bartender from earlier is immediately there pouring a highball of Macallan Scotch. I catch this out of the corner of my eye in the mirror behind the bar.
No words are exchanged before the man leaves. Over the next five minutes, Maren and I pretend to talk about nothing, keeping up our act, but I witness six men quietly excuse themselves and leave as well.
“Can I get you two ladies a refill?” We nod at the bartender, who is now all business.
The space around us starts to clear up, giving us enough privacy to whisper.
“I saw six men leave, including the husband,” I inform her.