Red flag, anyone?
Thank God Patrick got in a kiss and fondle before having a crisis of conscience. The entire tryst lasted no more than ninety seconds, including Patrick explaining he was turning over a new leaf and changing his way of life. Pathetic.
After the little lady with the hard tits and loose morals left the garden and the sulking Patrick behind, Sam was thrilled to see that he wasted no time meeting the middle Byrne sister on the dance floor.
River must have seen Sam’s pictures and realized her New Year’s Eve kiss was just a heaping helping of sloppy seconds.
If only he could have witnessed the embarrassing reveal. Ah, well. Sam couldn’t be everywhere. For his last bit (maybe) of small mischief, he was more than pleased.
Sam’s current situation had him waltzing through Tulsa’s airport. Today, his disguise was what he dubbed ‘Travel Drag.’ He wore a long, flowy, floor-length batwing maxi. It was a purple, pink, and yellow plaid number with dark pink velvet half boots— understated gaudy chic.
No wigs or facial hair. He wasn’t about to travel all day itching in an uncomfortable plane seat, though he was flying first class.
In case the Tulsa police were monitoring the airports, waiting for his face to pop up on camera, he went with a bright purple head scarf, copious amounts of heavy foundation, outlandishly long eyelashes, rainbow glitter eyeshadow, and bright pink lipstick. He’d drawn the lips on, exaggerating the shape and size. The best part of fully covering all his features was the bejeweled, oversized, bright pink glasses.
Wearing his version of Travel Drag was a perfect mix of‘Look at me, I’m glorious’and‘Don’t you dare stare, you Neanderthal.’Sam lengthened his stride, added an extra bit of hip swing, and made the airport terminal his personal runway.
* * *
Dublin was a beautiful city.He looked forward to exploring, but there were a million things to do— like destroying Hugh O’Faolain’s family —before he could fully relax. As soon as the plane landed, Sam went straight to his decently clean hostel where he’d prepaid three months’ rent online.
Hostels weren’t as easily tracked as traditional hotels, so it was an obvious choice. Once he checked in, he was pleased to find that the proprietress, or hostel ‘mom,’ was a geriatric, walker-scooting, foot-dragging, vision-impaired woman. He quickly ditched the drag and morphed into his new, long-term disguise. Meet Robert Smith, Robbie to his friends— if he’d had any.
Sam met some interesting clients through his dark web @SammySoGood business. He made a few inquiries to his video renters about finding a source for false identification, and one gentleman came through big time. The man he recommended asked exorbitant prices— worth every dollar.
Robert Smith had an ID, an education, and several jobs with references. Most of the references were no longer valid, or they went to one of the fraud specialists’ teams, who would give Robert a glowing review. That service was only available for three months. Sam wouldn’t need the provision longer than that.
He planned on screwing with Patrick’s ex-girlfriend, River, while planning the ultimate Twisted Love Story featuring Rowan Byrne, Josephine O’Connor, and Sammy, of course.
He seriouslycould notthink about that for very long, or he’d be rash and try to get to the women before he’d had enough time to learn the lay of the land, so to speak. The lay of the land involved reconnaissance of the family guards and their routines.
Sam tried not to toot his own horn, but come on, who wouldn’t feel honored that such privileged families had to hire professional guards because of little ole him. It would be fun to see how close he could get without them being any the wiser. His new persona was going to work perfectly.
Robert Smith was a thirty-five-year-old with a ridiculously nondescript pageboy haircut dyed a mousy brown. He kept his natural blue eyes, so he didn’t have to mess with contacts, but he was sporting thick tortoiseshell glasses, no prescription, of course. His attire would consist primarily of skinny jeans, Vans, and oversized sweaters. A wannabe hipster without a clue, bless his heart.
Sam already researched businesses in close proximity to the Byrne sisters’ design firm, Triskelion Territory Designs. There were a few coffee shops and bookstore combos in the vicinity that would be perfect for Robert. One of the jobs on his resume included several years as a barista. In reality, he once owned a fancy coffee machine.
So, a coffee shop should be an easy hire, and hopefully, the Byrne sisters and Josephine O’Connor would frequent the establishment. He planned on laying low, scouting the area to get an idea of where the Byrnes hung out— and letting their guards get used to seeing him in the neighborhood.
This was the stake out of a lifetime. Patience. Patience. Patience. Sam needed a bicycle. He needed to establish a routine for Robert. Grocery shopping, haircuts, restaurants. It would take a few months to blend in.
Challenge accepted.
16
Dear River,
I miss you. I don’t want to hurt you further by bringing up New Year’s Eve at Wolves, but I need you to know.
After we made love the first time, I’ve never been more afraid in my life. I had always believed relationships couldn’t work. We made such a good team as friends, something that I believedcouldwork. When we went past friendship, the very real possibility of me losing you because of that— scared me.
So, New Year’s Eve, I was still running scared, but I decided I couldn’t live without you either. I never noticed the woman in front of me until she touched my chest. I was only looking at you. You saw her touch me and grabbed a man’s hand to dance. You thought I hurt you so you would hurt me back. Proof in my mind that relationships didn’t work. They couldn’t work. And what we had, our friendship, was ruined now too.
When she asked me to go outside, I did. I knew it was a mistake before I stepped out those doors. She was someone I’d hooked up with the year before at some club. She didn’t matter to me, and I didn’t matter to her.
And I... damn it... I would rather die than hurt you again, but I read that the wronged person often wants full disclosure— that it’s better to know everything than imagine it worse.
I sat on the bench. She straddled my lap. I did place my hands on her, an automatic response. I didn’t want to be there. I didn’t want to be doing what I was doing. I thought of you. That I’d rather be inside where I could still watch you. Which, I think, makes what I was doing even more disrespectful to you. She kissed me. Her hands were on my chest and in my hair. I kissed her back for thebarestmoment before stopping the whole charade.
