Thirty minutes before reaching Vegas, Gypsy realized one thing. She had nowhere to go once she got there, and whatever she chose needed to have enough privacy for her not to be recognized. The moment that Mary Kennedy entered Vegas, every rag magazine would take pictures and harassing why she was there. Settling on a Motel 6, she called ahead and made reservations under the name Jamie Smith. Hookers and druggies frequented those off the strip places. Not the place that you would find the Great Granddaughter of a dead President. She was sure of one thing, though. After tonight, she would be dead, or free. She was prepared for either of the two. Breathing was beginning to be an effort that she was tired of.
As she pulled into Las Vegas, the atmosphere changed immediately. Lights, sin, and money. Lots and lots of money being fed into the one arm bandits at a rapid speed. Where she was going, the sin would cost a pretty penny, but she wasn’t there for that kind of party. Sunglasses on and her long blond hair tucked into a hat, the young girl checked into the motel on the pretense she left her ID at home. Any hesitation by the hotel clerk gone, with an extra fifty, slipped under the counter. Money talks and bullshit walks. That was one of the first lessons she learned in life.
“No overnight guests in the room or you pay more,” ranted the clerk.
“You have no worries. I’m not one of the whores that you bilk out or money, so back the fuck off,” snapped Gypsy. She was not new to this life. She would be shocked if this wasn’t a rent by the hour place. Most of the whoretells were. As she snatched the key from his hand, and exited, Gypsy was sure it shocked the man that the young girl slipped into a Porsche instead of some pimp car. Hell, she never had a pimp, and never would. Her escorting days were ending, and the only clients she took were non sexual.
“What a fucking dump,” she moaned. The blond was without bags, but that didn’t matter. She wouldn’t be sleeping in the place, anyway. She wouldn’t even shower out of fear of a camera in the bathroom. It had happened before to her, and she was making sure that was the last time she let her guard down. Flicking a roach off the top of the motel table, Gypsy tossed a small bag of coke, knowing that she needed to be on her feet and running. After driving all day, she was tired. “Shit, how the fuck can anyone sleep here?” asking, looking around at the stains on the wall, and the half-made bed. She was sure that if she lifted the mattress, bedbugs would run out. Insects gave her the creeps, and this place was a self-made roach motel.
As she looked around for a surface to chop out a line, a pang of disgust hit hard. It was filthy. A small mirror in her handbag would serve the need, and her credit card the tool of choice. A few minutes later with a rolled up hundred, she took the first line down like a pro. “Fuck, it burns,” crying, her hand rubbing under her nose. Packing the other nostril, she swiped her finger over the residue, smearing it down the center of her tongue. “Fuck fuck fuck,” growling, she bent at the knees, her face on fire from the high-grade coke. “Never fucking again,” she promised, but knew that would be broken. Most promises were. She learned that at a very young age. No one told the truth, and everyone lied.
Unable to sit in fear of being eaten alive, she grabbed a burner phone, texting the number she had for Dominic Paloma. This ended tonight, one way or another.
“Hey asshole. Enjoying the read?” she asked. Of course, he was reading the wrong book, and she was sure he knew that already.
“Fucking cunt. I’m going to kill you. I hope you know that? I’ll make sure I pack you full of maggots and let them eat you alive. No one, and I mean no one, fucks with Dominic Paloma,” he grunted.
After a back a forth exchange of sweetness, she told him to meet her at the hotel in 1 hour, but if he didn’t come alone, the cops would wait for him. He swore he would, but Dominic Paloma was the boss of the Paloma family, and he did nothing on his own. His goons made sure of that.
The next part was the fun one. High as a kite, she called Dominic’s wife, explaining to her they needed to speak. Gypsy was sure the woman knew her husband cheated, but did she know on his wedding night he spent it with her before his wife? She would before the night was over. Arranging for the woman to meet her in 45 minutes, that would give her enough time to hide her, and prove to the woman that she was correct.
So far, her plans set. The young girl grabbed a gun from her bag, loaded the weapon, and slipped it down the back of her jeans. Inside of her back pocket, a small switchblade given to her by her grandfather. It had already stabbed her father once, so a little more blood wouldn’t hurt. Pulling her waist length hair back into a ponytail, she watched the clock, jumping the moment the first knock came. If she was right, it would be Mercy Paloma. If she was wrong, she was a dead woman.