Petty Crime Dont Pay

What seemed like a good idea to make a quick buck turns sour...

*

My lungs were burning as though I had never sprinted so fast in my life. But I knew instinctively that it was partly pace and partly the terror and adrenaline that was causing my heart to race even faster than it should. But we had to get away.

"Gemmmmmm..." came the scream from behind me.

I glanced back and saw Sam stumbling, then fall headfirst; a tidal wave of sand erupted as she face-planted.

Thoughts raced. So many in just a fraction of a second.

Keep going? Okay. No. Never

But stopping means being caught, and being caught means?

Beating? Likely. Police? Possibly. Death? Oh God.

It had all been Sam. It was her idea. I tried to talk her out of it.

But I couldn't leave my best friend.

I slowed down, my heart thanking me for the opportunity to reduce a few reps.

Turning to face Sam it was only now I realized how much distance I'd put between us. As I started to jog slowly back towards her it was obvious that my long legs and volleyball training and swimming would have fared better than her short, petite stature in running across the beach. That consideration quickly dissolved from my mind as I saw the figures running hard behind Sam and I realized I had to get to her defense.

I sprinted and reached Sam in time to pull her to her feet as she brushed sand from her hair, bikini top, and the loose shirt that covered it.

The five young men slowed down as they realized this was no longer a chase, breathing hard as they reached us.

"You bitches are going to pay for what you did. What the fuck were you thinking? You're coming back with us."

________________________________________

THREE HOURS EARLIER

"Come on, Sam, you're taking forever."

This was not new. I sat in the chair by the window, legs swung over the arm, idly flipping through the hotel magazine. I'd been ready for a while, deciding on my white shorts (the ones my mom tutted at and said were "barely there" when I modeled them for her) and my blue, floral-patterned low crop top. Hey, through volleyball and swimming I'd earned the right to show off the ass and abs a little bit, and if there was anywhere to do it, it was this Spring Break trip.

Sam emerged, finally, from the bathroom.

"What do you think?"

"I think you'll raise some eyebrows going out like that considering you're...TOTALLY NAKED. Get dressed."

"No, no. I know, smart ass. I mean my make-up. Does it work?"

"Yes. It works. Now take your tiny frame and throw some of your kiddie clothes over it and let's get going."

Sam was hilarious. Always had been. Didn't care about much. And she was tiny, particularly compared to my 5' 11" frame. She was nearly a foot shorter, and looking at her standing there, if you saw her just from the waist down you'd think she was a 10-year old (I'm not sure she'd allowed even stubble down there since the day she realized she could wax it), but from the waist up she had incredibly firm, pert but large C-cup breasts and a now-painted, mature face. Clearly it wasn't the first time I'd seen all of this, either. But the way those boobs seemed to defy gravity on her petite frame never ceased to make me stare for a moment, right until I realized what I was doing.

Sam reemerged from the bathroom, still naked. I tutted, obviously.

She pulled a thong out of her drawer—my god, it was such a small piece of fabric—and pulled it on theatrically as she slumped back on the bed.

"Wow, is it a funeral today?" I joked, my clear commentary on the fact that I was well aware she rarely wore underwear.

"No," she snorted in a fake huff, "I'm wearing this skirt, and as you know, if the wind catches it the wrong way it's been known to blow up...and as much as you think I'm an exhibitionist I really don't want my cooch all over the Internet."

"You mean it isn't already?"

Ignoring my dig, she pulled out a plain black bikini top and strapped it over those breasts. They barely seemed to move. It hardly served to provide support, more just to cover up. Then the pleated black skirt that reached about her mid-thigh, and lastly a red boy's shirt that she didn't button, but just tied the bottom in a knot, meaning the cleavage was on full display!

"I'm wearing the pumps for you," I said, nodding to my feet dangling over the couch.

"Thanks, you giraffe."

Whenever we'd go out we would have to communicate about footwear. I usually wore flats because if I added heels, the size difference wasn't only comical, but actually made it hard for us to talk together if we weren't sat down. So white pumps it was; Sam chose a bit of a heel, leveling the height disadvantage maybe a couple of inches.

Finally, I extricated myself from the chair as Sam impatiently tapped her foot. At least she said I looked nice—no changes, tweaks or fixes needed—as we left the room.

In the lobby, as I headed straight for the main exit, Sam skipped ahead of me towards the check-in desk. She just tapped on it, catching the eye of Chris, the kid behind the counter she had been torturing with her flirting since we got here. He grinned shyly as she showed him some attention, leaning over the counter (I knew the deep cleavage view he would be getting), before she twirled away. I couldn't take my eyes off him as he remained rooted to the spot, transfixed, staring at Sam as she skipped towards me.

"That's cruel."

"Oh, it's fun. He's super-cute. Maybe he'll comp the room. And all I have to do is jiggle these."

With that she pulled at her bikini straps, giving me an eyeful of the jiggle to which she was referring. Again, nothing I hadn't seen before.

We left into the buzzing streets of the downtown nightlife.

________________________________________

"We're not going anywhere but home," exclaimed an indignant Sam, standing up as tall as her frame would allow.

"You bitches think you're funny? You think you're going to pull one over on us? You think you're going to get away without paying?"

"Yes, yes, and, actually, yes," said Sam with what was her unsurprising, trademark snark.

The man, shirtless, tan, and ripped, in a blur pulled back his arm and slapped the back of his hand across Sam's face. She yelped and spun as her feet gave way and she fell into the sand.

Poor timing and wrong company for sarcasm and snark. Hopefully a lesson Sam would remember.

I saw red and leaped at the man who was a few inches shorter than me. But as I did, as my hair flung in front of my face, two arms enveloped me in the strongest grip I'd ever felt.

The man backed off slightly, chuckling in a condescending way.

"Now, now, no need for that."

"No need to hit a woman, you fucking piece of shit," I spat at him.

"Listen, bitch, you want the cops, and we'll press charges for burglary, breaking and entering, and anything else we can think of? Or come along with us, we'll just party like we said we would at the bar, and you'll be on your way."

The other guys around him chuckled slightly. They were all fairly young—in their twenties—but I still couldn't tell if they were Spring Break frat boys living out some gangster fantasy...or they were actual local gangsters. Whatever the case, police and jail—explanations, a record—seemed the worst of the evils facing us.

I felt the arms that had wrapped around me loosen slightly, but only so much as they now rested over my breasts. I tilted my head to the side in that 'I know what you're doing' kind of resignation, and heard a mild chuckle behind me. The shirtless man nodded at him and he started to loosen them further before cupping both my breasts in an ugly grope and, in an instant, stepping back. I turned armed with my most withering glare and a tall, handsome young man beamed back at me, his beautiful white teeth gleaming, his pale blue eyes glinting, and the dimples in his cheeks deepening as his grin widened. I was so caught off-guard that all I could do was give my best "harrumph" and swish away from him, making a point to ensure my head spun enough to make my hair splayed out as dramatically as possible. I heard him laugh again.

I helped Sam to her feet as she rubbed her chin, but she said she was fine, it was barely a tap, and she'd taken the flop for effect. It was an impressive display of attitude, but I knew she was hurt.

We walked sullenly with the men back towards their hotel. I tried to use the time to identify and remember as many details about these guys as possible. While their demeanor had shifted to more casual friendliness I was concerned it was all a show for the public. Still, my spidey-sense was tingling.

"Cheer up," the main man said, lightening his tone, but tinged with more than a hint of malice, "you still have the money, right?"

"No, I spent it in those seconds I was running down the beach, and paid my debts with that big ole face-plant," said Sam, clearly not having learned much in the seconds since the back-hander she received for similar insolence.

"That smart mouth is going to get you in trouble. And to be blunt, you are in absolutely no position to be a smart-mouth bitch, you understand?"

There was the malice. I nudged Sam with my elbow as subtly as I could to let her know I'd really appreciate it if she didn't antagonize this situation any more.

Just fifty or so yards from the entrance to the hotel the leader guy turned to the others and nodded, and immediately they started into a faux happy dance of smiles, chatter, and enthusiasm. They pushed each other playfully, a couple of them threw their arms around mine and Sam's shoulders, all clearly trying to paint a picture of a typically fun group of Spring Breakers displaying all the exuberance of youth, booze, and testosterone.

They nodded and said Hi to the staff at the counter and the bell boy waiting for the next cart of luggage. Cordial smiles beamed back and I could tell we just looked like a gaggle of happy-go-lucky kids reveling in our youth in the last days of summer. I hoped that would hold.

________________________________________

TWO HOURS EARLIER

The bar was busy, no surprise, but not as heaving packed as it had been on previous visits. Probably most visitors were already heading back to their dorms or homes, packing their stories in their luggage, or wearing them on their sleeves (and maybe itching in their pants). Sam and I could get one of those little round tables near the bar so we could sit on the high stools and mitigate the height difference, maybe even talk. We hadn't discussed an actual agenda for tonight, like we had for others (whether we achieved them or not is irrelevant). Tonight was the last night, and if it was a chill chat with my best friend, then that would be just fine.

But of course, we glanced around, checked out who was checking us out, identified interesting potential groups to either join with or chat to or ignore. It was all the usual superficial judgment and our ultimate intentions didn't matter.

A group of attractive young men at a table nearby were hollering at the sports on one of the many TVs lined around the open brick walls. Clearly this was a place that didn't have or enforce any 'no shirts, no service' policy. That was fine by us, frankly; it was quite the pleasant sight and Sam immediately started a little eye contact.

It didn't take long for two tall drinks garnished with fruit and stuffed with pink swirly straws appeared unannounced on our table. The hot blond waitress in her tiny, form-fitting tank top and too short orange shorts smiled and nodded knowingly at us as she placed them on the table. She brushed her head towards the group of guys nearby. Politely we raised the glasses and nodded towards them as they all stared our direction and held their glasses towards us in an air cheers moment. Then they laughed, but we had free drinks, so we win.

Sam needed to use the bathroom and there was no way we'd leave each other alone in a place like this, so that meant we'd go together and likely lose the table. But not on Sam's watch. She tapped one of the guys on the shoulder and asked if he'd guard the table with his life while we powdered our noses. She ran her hand down his arm as she asked and he was only too happy to oblige.

There were only two stalls in this bar, and one was closed and clearly occupied. Not for the first (or last) time Sam and I shuffled into the same stall and in an instant she'd dropped that tiny thong and was peeing like it was her last pee on Earth. The dividing wall between stalls shuddered as though something had fallen into it. It had. A girl's voice giggled...and then a man's voice coughed as though trying to disguise the noise. In the women's bathroom. Then he grunted.

Sam wiped and stood up, shifting to the side to let me have my turn. It was surreal. Sam buried her mouth in her elbow to stifle the chuckles as it became clear that the people in the next stall were getting it on. I finished as quickly as I could and we hustled out to wash up and check ourselves in the mirror, giggling like a couple of schoolgirls. The snickers from inside the stall mimicked ours, and the door opened and a medium height, medium build, unremarkable guy hustled out, looking down all the way as he fixed his belt, but in the mirror we could see his flushed face. Behind him we could see into the stall as the girl stood bow-legged, looking down. She reached between her legs and slowly slid out a condom. Looking up, she saw us watching her in the mirror.

"Haha. He left me a present," she giggled, holding up the clearly used sheath. She turned, held her hand aloft, and dropped it into the bowl in some bizarre grand gesture. Sam and I looked at each other; even Sam was a shocked.

She shuffled out of the stall, swaying her hips as she pushed her skintight dress down her thighs, treating us to a view as she did so.

"Going away present," she stated without a hint of shame, "a story he'll tell for a lifetime." She fixed herself in the mirror as Sam and I finished washing up, then whisked by us and out of the bathroom, never to be seen again. We burst out laughing at the craziness of the situation; I wasn't sure even Sam had pulled such a stunt. Ah, Spring Break.

Back at our table Sam fawned briefly over the guy who had held it for us. From her position perched on the high stool she had to lean forward to speak into his ear so she could be heard. I shook my head. I knew what she was doing. Leaning forward? Deep cleavage. Leaning forward? Has to move her legs slightly apart. Short skirt? He doesn't know where to focus his eyes. She had all the moves: laughing at everything he said, brushing her hand on his forearm, adjusting her straps so the boobs move, and even pulling the Sharon Stone in Basic Instinct move of crossing her legs. I let her do her thing, as used to it as I was, slowly sipped on my drink, and indulged in one of my favorite practices of people-watching.

Ten minutes—at least—later Sam finally returned her attention to me when it seemed the demeanor of her friend and his companions had changed, become serious, subdued. I remained quiet while Sam tried to listen in to the low-volume chat between this group adjacent to us.

After a few minutes Sam suddenly looked up at me and hissed "drink up."

She gulped down her drink and, bewildered, I followed suit. Even more oddly she slid from her stool and started on a circuitous route to the exit, weaving through the throng, bumping into elbows and shoulders without concern. I followed as well as I could and as I was finally able to sniff the cool summer air outside Sam was on her toes, jiggling in a way that suggested excitement but emitted anxiety.

She hissed again. "Quick, quick, no time to lose."

________________________________________

Scouring the lobby for friendly faces I saw Chris in the doorway leading to a room behind the check-in counter apparently being severely berated by a guy I assumed was his boss. He was quivering and clearly going to pay us no attention. Dammit.

The guys—all smiles and high fives—impatiently pressed at the elevator button. Sam and I locked eyes; I could see she was now scared. My heart was racing as I processed what might be about to happen.

The doors opened on the top floor and the laughing and joking ominously stopped. Now we were manhandled more roughly, forcefully, towards a door. Sliding the key card three of the guys entered and the other two bundled us inside. This was clearly a penthouse suite, large, stylish furniture, a huge TV, wet bar, conference table, and two large couches. The two men pushed us onto the couch.

"Drinks for everyone," exclaimed the main guy, arms held aloft.

One of the lackeys duly manned the bar, filling large tumblers with bourbon.

This was not a good sign.

He handed glasses to Sam and I, though I shook my head, recoiling from the vapor that reminded me of gasoline.

"Sweetheart," came the condescending tone of the leader, "you should have a drink, loosen up a bit." And then more ominously "it might help you."

He had a point. Maybe I black out from whatever might happen. Or maybe I need to keep my wits to identify an escape plan. But any plan would probably require Sam to be telepathic. I grimaced as I took a sip of the amber rocket fuel much to the delight of the watching audience. Sam took a big gulp, then gagged. I sensed real fear in her.

"The money. Now."

Sam spilled her drink slightly as she placed it on the ground and fumbled for her purse, hastily retrieving the thick yellow envelope.

"Look, I'm really sorry," she stammered, "I wasn't thinking straight. I needed money for my mom and..." her voice trailed off.

"Quite the mistake," he said as he snatched the envelope, opening it slightly, and strumming through the notes inside.

"It's all there," whimpered Sam.

"It fucking better be, you thieving bitch."

He took out a thick wad of $100 bills and counted through them, glancing up occasionally at Sam and myself as he did so. One of the other guys slid onto the couch next to Sam, looping his arm around her neck as though to threaten if the cash count came up short. His fingers awkwardly ran across her ear, through her hair, and under the shoulder of her shirt, pushing it away to reveal skin. Sam flinched, tightened a little, but didn't say or do anything. His middle finger then slid under the thin strap of her bikini and more obviously he pushed that over her shoulder, leaving it hanging loose. Again, she didn't react. I couldn't see in detail, but his head then seemed to nuzzle into her other shoulder and as he lifted his head his teeth held a piece of her shirt and that was pulled away. As if it wasn't clear before, it was now apparent where this was leading.

"It's short."

The guy draped around Sam straightened up and then keeping one arm wrapped around her, thrust his other hand inside her shirt, and inside the cup of her bikini. Sam barely blinked. With the strap on her shoulder loosened he had easy access. Light chuckles from all the guys fluttered around the room.

"It...it can't be," Sam quietly stuttured.

"Well...darling," his emphasis caused goosebumps to erupt all over my body, "it's short. A grand short."

He walked over to Sam, eyes fixed on hers, before bending to grab her purse, then pulled it open and turned it upside down emptying all the contents onto the floor. He poked at it with his toes, spreading about the lipsticks, mascara, foundation, wallet, keys, small can of hairspray, some random coins, a box of condoms, and some other typical purse detritus.

He leaned down, fixing his face close to Sam's, causing the other guy to remove his arm from her shoulders. He looked down straight at her chest and almost with care, just finger and thumb, pulled her bikini cups from her breasts, placing them carefully underneath, exposing her to everyone.