advance without my credit cards, which Richard has." She looks at me. "Hey, could you-".
"Loan you money?" I say with a snort. "Even if I did, we'd still have less than a thousand. You think a guy like Biff would give back a video like that for four figures? I bet he'd hold out for at least five."
"But what else can I do?" Morgan wails.
I start rummaging through my suitcase for my workout clothes. "You come running with me. We drop by Biff's room and see if he's even awake. If he looks like I do, he probably didn't wake up until we banged on his door, which means he probably hasn't seen the text. In that case, you distract him and I'll try to delete the vid from his phone."
"And if he's already awake, or not there?"
I sigh. "We'll just have to think of something else we can use as leverage besides cash. Creative thinking, Morgan. We learned about it in one of my marketing classes - how to get people to buy stuff when you have no advertising budget."
"So, how do you do it?" Morgan asks.
I turn my back to her, yank off my shirt and struggle into my sports bra. I intentionally buy them small so they'll be super-tight, the only way I know that I can run without giving myself two black eyes. If my sports bra is so tight I can just barely breathe, it's perfect. "Well, we'll figure that out as we run. My brain works better when I'm exercising." I grunt as I pull an exercise top, also purchased intentionally too small, over the bra. "Now go get dressed. We can't afford to waste time. Biff could wake up any minute."
Chapter Seven
Guessing a person's income bracket is not just a trick for waiters. It's something you spend years studying in any college marketing program; forget what you think of when you think about who buys a Mercedes, how much money does the average Mercedes owner really make? (It's lower than you think.)
There is no Mercedes parked outside Biff's hotel room. What he does have is an oversized, ridiculously tricked-out pickup truck. And I don't mean tricked out in an I'm-proud-of-my-truck-and-I-want-to-spend-a-few-bucks-on-it kind of way. This thing is so high off the ground, I could easily park my convertible underneath it and still have room to put the top up. It has, for some random reason, these big metal muffler-type things sticking up on either side of the cab. Then there's the pair of longhorns mounted to the grille. If I wanted to segment the market for such a product, I'd call this group "I bought this truck because I'm hung like a hamster".
"You're sure that's his vehicle?" I ask Morgan.
She nods. "I remember almost walking into the damn thing when I left this morning."
She really knows how to pick them.
We walk up to his door and knock. There's no answer, so after waiting twenty seconds or so, I knock again. Harder. "Hellooooooo?" I yell. "The ad on the bathroom stall door indicated that you were hiring for-"
The door swings open and a very bleary-eyed Biff is standing there, a towel wrapped around his waist. I'll admit, he's not a bad-looking guy, but the real reason I want him to drop the towel is because I'd like to see if I was right about the reason he bought his truck.
"Whoa...what's going on?" he asks, looking from me to Morgan, then repeating the process. "Hey, did you bring her back for a threesome or something?"
"Definitely not," Morgan says, clenching her fists. "I just came by because I forgot my...sweater last night."
"Oh...well, come on in, I guess." Biff lets the door swing open as he stumbles backward, still awkwardly clutching the towel.
Morgan moves around the room, pretending to look for her sweater. "I'm sure it's here somewhere. As soon as I find it, we'll be out of your way."
I poke around, pretending to "help" Morgan "look for her sweater". The fact that his phone is not immediately in plain sight concerns me. A lot.
Biff scrunches up his face as if he's rubbing both brain cells together and hoping to form a spark. "I don't remember you even wearing a sweater last
"Loan you money?" I say with a snort. "Even if I did, we'd still have less than a thousand. You think a guy like Biff would give back a video like that for four figures? I bet he'd hold out for at least five."
"But what else can I do?" Morgan wails.
I start rummaging through my suitcase for my workout clothes. "You come running with me. We drop by Biff's room and see if he's even awake. If he looks like I do, he probably didn't wake up until we banged on his door, which means he probably hasn't seen the text. In that case, you distract him and I'll try to delete the vid from his phone."
"And if he's already awake, or not there?"
I sigh. "We'll just have to think of something else we can use as leverage besides cash. Creative thinking, Morgan. We learned about it in one of my marketing classes - how to get people to buy stuff when you have no advertising budget."
"So, how do you do it?" Morgan asks.
I turn my back to her, yank off my shirt and struggle into my sports bra. I intentionally buy them small so they'll be super-tight, the only way I know that I can run without giving myself two black eyes. If my sports bra is so tight I can just barely breathe, it's perfect. "Well, we'll figure that out as we run. My brain works better when I'm exercising." I grunt as I pull an exercise top, also purchased intentionally too small, over the bra. "Now go get dressed. We can't afford to waste time. Biff could wake up any minute."
Chapter Seven
Guessing a person's income bracket is not just a trick for waiters. It's something you spend years studying in any college marketing program; forget what you think of when you think about who buys a Mercedes, how much money does the average Mercedes owner really make? (It's lower than you think.)
There is no Mercedes parked outside Biff's hotel room. What he does have is an oversized, ridiculously tricked-out pickup truck. And I don't mean tricked out in an I'm-proud-of-my-truck-and-I-want-to-spend-a-few-bucks-on-it kind of way. This thing is so high off the ground, I could easily park my convertible underneath it and still have room to put the top up. It has, for some random reason, these big metal muffler-type things sticking up on either side of the cab. Then there's the pair of longhorns mounted to the grille. If I wanted to segment the market for such a product, I'd call this group "I bought this truck because I'm hung like a hamster".
"You're sure that's his vehicle?" I ask Morgan.
She nods. "I remember almost walking into the damn thing when I left this morning."
She really knows how to pick them.
We walk up to his door and knock. There's no answer, so after waiting twenty seconds or so, I knock again. Harder. "Hellooooooo?" I yell. "The ad on the bathroom stall door indicated that you were hiring for-"
The door swings open and a very bleary-eyed Biff is standing there, a towel wrapped around his waist. I'll admit, he's not a bad-looking guy, but the real reason I want him to drop the towel is because I'd like to see if I was right about the reason he bought his truck.
"Whoa...what's going on?" he asks, looking from me to Morgan, then repeating the process. "Hey, did you bring her back for a threesome or something?"
"Definitely not," Morgan says, clenching her fists. "I just came by because I forgot my...sweater last night."
"Oh...well, come on in, I guess." Biff lets the door swing open as he stumbles backward, still awkwardly clutching the towel.
Morgan moves around the room, pretending to look for her sweater. "I'm sure it's here somewhere. As soon as I find it, we'll be out of your way."
I poke around, pretending to "help" Morgan "look for her sweater". The fact that his phone is not immediately in plain sight concerns me. A lot.
Biff scrunches up his face as if he's rubbing both brain cells together and hoping to form a spark. "I don't remember you even wearing a sweater last
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