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I almost forgot what third world countries are like. Laying low in the U.S. has made me soft. Or spoiled. I’m not sure which.
Dipping a washcloth in the sink, I clean myself slowly, from fingertips to toes, knocking off the dust and sweat. Working around the sling Scotch tied around my neck.
God, it feels good to scrub the grime away. Seeing all the mess reminds me how livid I am at Pavel. That slimy bastard.
Peering down at my bandage, the one carefully applied by Scotch, I wonder why Pavel didn’t take the chance to blow my head clean off.
I know that’s what I’d have done to him if he hadn’t had that poor child over his shoulder. It was too risky, even though I trust my aim.
But next time I see him, he’s going to meet the business end of my new Sig Sauer. Because I am going to have a new one. Pronto.
And I won’t miss… unless it’s just to toy with him.
That idea amuses me enough to make me laugh out loud.
I finger-comb the tangles out of my hair with my one good arm and give myself a final onceover.
Not good.
But better. And now I only smell like swamp medicine and cheap soap. Shoving the hospital gown in the trash, I weave my way back into the bedroom. Acutely aware of the fact that I have none of my own clothing.
My well-worn boots. My… everything is gone. Except, apparently, my current disposable cell phone which Scotch rescued from my cargo pants.
I lean on the dresser, swaying a little as I pull open the drawers. The first two are empty. I squint into the third drawer, trying to understand what I’m seeing.
Okay, this is weird with a capital W.
A man’s pair of boxers with rainbow stripes—
One hot pink string bikini set.
And a black leather bustier.
Oh, then there’s the socks. A pair of tall white athletic socks with bright green bands around the top.
What the hell?
Great, this is just what I need. If only I was going to a rave. Or the beach in Brazil.
Argh!
I glance over my shoulder at the bathroom where the hospital gown is shoved into the top of the trash can. No. I’m not getting it out.
So, the immediate issue remains. I’m naked.
With two men in the house.
I hold up the bikini… hm. It’s teeny. The triangles on the top aren’t much bigger than pasties.
And the bustier… it might work. But I'd have to wear it with either the men’s boxers or the thong bikini bottom. Great.
If only the boxers weren’t ten sizes too big, they would be the sound choice. But without a belt, that’s not happening.
I’ll just demand Scotch or Andre give me one of their shirts for now and then someone’s going to shop for me. I can’t exactly leave to fly home dressed like a party favor.
I’m scowling at the nutty assortment of clothing options when the door to the bedroom pops open.
Oops.
