Page 106 of Bad Seed
“They do,” he muses, running his fingers over the tomato’s tattered skin.
“And, I mean, Vegas is wild, but I don’t have pants on and you’re completely naked. That’s gonna cause some looks. A lot of looks. All the looks.”
Women will be tearing each other to pieces to get at him. Men too.
Aubry gives me a quick smile, then he bends back behind the tomato. “I’ve got an idea.”
?
“I LOOK LIKE an idiot.” My arms stick out at my sides because it’s impossible to drop them.
“Keep moving,” Aubry orders. He doesn’t hold my hand, but he keeps almost touching it as we work our way through the crowd.
“Sorry, sorry,” I mutter, apologizing every time one of the support struts leaps out and stabs someone. “This is a terrible idea.”
“But it’s working. Look. We’re almost to the garage and no one’s looked twice at us.”
I find that very hard to believe.
Glancing to the side, I stare up at the man dressed like a jalapeño. Or at least attempted to. The costume could only close somewhere slightly above his belly button. And his thighs tore the leg holes to shreds. So instead of looking like a goofy hot pepper, Aubry looks more like a gorgeous half-naked man in the world’s weirdest swimsuit.
Meanwhile, I am a tomato. A tomato deflated on one side, but I am red, I am round, and I am getting stabbed with every step. If it wasn’t my life on the line, I’d have thrown this thing off.
“We just need to make it one more floor,” Aubry assures me.
Right. That’ll be easy.
When he first suggested we wear the band’s costumes I thought he was mad. Knocking out guards and dressing in their clothes seemed more feasible. But for some reason, when they weren’t getting poked, no one’s given a shit about us. They really do run different here in Vegas.
People are hustling but not in the panicky way. More the ‘bar’s closed, so might as well meander back to the car’ kind of way. I start to shuffle on my feet when the world shifts from cheap tile to concrete. We’re almost out.
“Hey!”
I jerk upright and glance back. Aubry lays a hand on my tomato shoulder. “Keep walking.”
Nodding inside the suit, I try to pick up the pace. But sure enough, one of the men in suits starts to wade through the crowd for me.Oh shit. Oh fuck. They’ve spotted us.
I stare up at Aubry, glad that he made a hole on the top for my head to stick out at least. He’s gritting his teeth and his eyes shine with the same look he got when he throat-punched that guy. This is bad. This is so bad. He strains his hand out to try to shove people to the side. I don’t need an invitation to take off through the gap.
A man in a suit steps in front of me. With a glower that could drain the sun, he stares down at me. “I know who you are.”
Shit. Shit. Shit!
He makes a Y with his fingers and shakes them at me. “Captain Roma!”
“Yep,” I cry out. “Big, big fan. I love all their songs.”
“Awesome.” He gives a quick nod of his head and I return it, realizing he’s not staring at me, but the grinning face of the vegetable stretched across my stomach.
Aubry takes my hand and tries to pull me past while keeping his head down. The guard returns to checking everyone else who’s not dressed like a giant tomato. I breathe a sigh of relief, when he suddenly shouts from behind us. “See you in the crisper!”
“Yeah, you too,” I call back.
With a groan, Aubry veers off from the crowd. Aside from a woman in a very tiny apron and a bikini top, no one stops us as we reach a red truck parked in the deepest shadows of the parking garage. Aubry only releases my hand so I can get inside.
Once we’re situated, he starts the engine.
I peer out the windows, occasionally looking back to the hissing cat in the carrier behind me. But as he starts to back up, the crowds shift. Tourists become men in suits. Men in suits with guns.
