Page 39 of Chasing Lynda

Probably not. Between the guys arriving at the beach and the people from church, I guess I was more than a little distracted. I don’t totally fess up though. “Hmm, I—”

He raises his voice, reminding me of my dad when people didn’t immediately follow his instructions. “I should’ve fucking known it! But after all, what did I expect from a bunch of bimbos standing in line to show their fucking tits to a crowd of paying guests?”

I flinch, moving the phone a few inches away from my face. “Mr. Monroe, I—”

He snorts, half laughing but his voice is still dripping with irritation. “It’s Buck. Mr. Monroe was my father and I haven’t seen that asshole for the best part of a decade. So, you didn’t listen when I was explaining and you didn’t read the flyers with the rules of the contest?”

I don’t have a chance to confirm that I didn’t, he continues to explain, that question and the tirade mostly rhetoric. “The winner would get three-hundred bucks, meal vouchers and a stay in one of our junior suites for the weekend but in the fine lines it explained that a condition to redeem your prize is to model for a few pictures for the resort website. Pictures that I need to take now, before the party.”

I can’t take pictures and be on a website! What if Aaron sees them? He’d be here in a heartbeat.

I was right that this all looked too good to be true. “I—Mr. Monroe ... I mean, Buck, I don’t—”

“I expect you by the indoor pool in ten minutes, or I’ll have to call the runner up—who, by the way, had way better tits than yours and a better ass, if you ask me. So? How is it? Are you going to be a good little piece of white trash and come down here, or am I giving your room to Starla? She’s coming to the party anyway, so—”

The words leave my mouth before I even have time to think about it properly. “No. No, I’ll be there.”

Monroe grunts, the contempt in his voice replaced by satisfaction. “I thought so. There’s a black shopping bag with the hotel boutique logo on the coffee table of your reception area. Wear the shit in that bag and get your ass over here, before I replace you anyway!”

I hang up the phone, taking a deep, shuddering breath. Maybe if I had more sense, I’d just take my rucksack and leave.

I’d disappear like I was planning earlier, before I stumbled upon the wet t-shirt contest.

But is leaving Bridgeport that urgent? Even if anyone was to recognize me from the resort’s website, I’m sure it’ll take a couple of days for it even go up?

I knew it was a good idea to leave Bridgeport when I saw those people from church earlier; but I don’t think a photo on a website will make a huge difference to my situation.

I can still have one normal weekend, I think finding the bag Monroe was talking about.

I look inside, finding a tiny, white tube dress with a thick golden zipper closing the entire front; the garment is as tight as a second skin and not only are my boobs almost spilling out of it, it’s so short that it barely covers my ass.

I sigh, putting on the sky-high wedge sandals that accompany the dress and wondering who chose this outfit.

I’d bet my ass it was Monroe, I think, making sure that my door locks behind me and heading toward the floor elevator.

10.

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