What came next was the spell of Hollywood's freshest face - Bric Martinez. The pretty thing was only just twenty, and sorta stupid rich thanks to her incredible acting - and no thanks to her even more incredible family background. Don't get the chick wrong, however, she wasn't the least bit arrogant. If anything, H-Town was in need of more young stars like her.
See, being the daughter of one of Hollywood's most proclaimed visionaries of this era did make one hell of an impact on her childhood. Being on set since the age of 3 did shape her into one hell of an actor - and having a mother working in the hair and makeup section made her an Ace in this risky game of Blackjack they played.
"You sure you got it?" Tom had asked her twenty minutes earlier, when the glass of white wine was still in his hand, unshattered - post-checking his watch and realising that Alma should be in position by now. He had stood facing the exit, as she faced the rest of the room, that was alive like never before. Lights danced upon the walls and floor, and A-listers from around the world took nothing in them to let loose and dance a little.
Perhaps the expensive booze did help a tiny bit.
All at the same time, this pair stood off to a wall near an exit, yet were going completely unnoticed. Tom's left hand was softly poised at Bric's waist as she whispered back into his left ear with a smirk, "Trust me."
With that, he had smiled, slid his hand along her midriff until he made past her, and carried on with his swift escape. She smiled a sly one, as she placed her thin, tall, and now empty tulip champagne glass upon a waiter's empty black tray. Her shimmery coral coloured lipstick had left a stain on the glass, to which the waiter smiled a little. "I've got to go fix that," she murmured as she noticed, her fingers dwelling on her small, yet full lips, her lively green eyes boring into the spotless glass before she lifted them to meet those of the waiter's browns. Smiling, he reassured her she looked fine, to which she chuckled in response. "Thank you, but I'll freshen it up anyway."
With that, she turned, and left in the direction Tom had, just a moment ago. Perfect timing for them to have left, the posh dress and all other bloody garments dropped and left at the scene.
"Oh," she let out as she bent to pick up the beige stiletto. She let her lips form a pout as she pressed the broken heel back to the shoe with faltering hope, a wave of sadness then clouding her intense green eyes. "Such a shame. How pretty they were."
She then tossed the heel back into place with a sigh and pulled her phone from her clutch to send a single text message to a contact stored simply as Hugo.
The text delivered as quick as her slick fingers had spelt out the three words. She carefully slipped her phone back into her clutch, and then slid it across the corridor's cement floor. She was going to have to get her hands awfully dirty, and what a pity it would have been if her dress were to get messed up.
And so she pulled it up until her mid-thighs, tossing the Armani train behind her as she took into a squat. She examined the bloodstained apparel and the scene altogether, pacing around slowly as her shoes made clink, clank, clink sounds as they met the cement one at a time.
Her phone had let out a high beep then, and she smiled a little coy smile again. It was on its way.
As for the text? Well, three simple words were all it held. Simple enough, anyone would've understood, so for a genius like Hugo, he didn't even have to open the bobbing notification when it arrived.
Bring the body.
Fast forward to the present. The duo stood in a narrow closet, stuffy and dark - and alone. Tom fiddled about for the light switch until he found it, and Alma reached for the neatly folded stack of clothes once he had.
Hugo had put the pile there, prior to the gala. A pair of satin lingerie, a bronze slip dress and saltbox stilettos, identical to the earlier pair.
"Aw," Alma marvelled at the pair of shoes that Hugo had chosen, her eyes wide and glistening. Tom looked at her in question as she said, "He knows me so well."
Tom rolled his eyes and let out a sigh. "Get dressed. We don't have time," he urged her. Her eyes turned steely as they looked up to his.
"I mean, I don't have all the space in the world, now, do I?" she asked back, slightly ticked off. With that, Tom leant deeper into the wall his back faced, and Alma let out a smile of gratitude.
"Thank you!" she forcefully beamed, obviously irritated with Tom's impatience.
He smiled back, one of both mock and slight sincerity - amusement in its plain. "You're oh-so-welcome!" he chirped out in a tone of stunning high pitch. His eyes then turned to narrow slits, and his voice dropped back to its raspy self. "Now hurry the fuck up."
