“You need something fun today,” she declares.
I just nod, because really, what else can I say? Nemo is perfect. He’s got the little fin; I’ve got the broken ovaries.
“Would you like a drink?”
I must look like shit. I laugh and pull out the bottle of Pinot Noir from my Belkin bag.
She laughs, too. “Oh, so it’s a bad, bad day.”
I nod again, feeling too tired to think of anything to say, and she takes the bottle and brings me a glass filled with the crimson liquid.
For the next two hours, Esmerelda refills my glass…a lot of times. Every time I finish, she refills it. I toss them back just like Adam, and watch the little orange fish swim around the screen with a strange, dull feeling—like I’m living inside an empty aquarium.
When we touch down at the private airport behind the Wynn Casino, in downtown Vegas, Esmerelda laughs at me, and ruffles my newly styled, short hair. “I never seen you drunk, Suri Dalton.”
I blink blearily at her. “I don’t ever get drunk.”
“I didn’t think you did.” She squeezes my arm. “Would you like me or Lonnie—” that’s the pilot— “to walk with you?”
I shake my head, feeling the plane tilt around me. I wonder if we’ve landed yet. “Um, no. I’m fine.”
“If you’re sure,” she says.
Apparently, the plane is landed. I catch a glimpse of lights outside the window, then point weakly to the bags, and Esmerelda nods. “We’ll get them to Mr. West’s room. Don’t worry.”
“Thank you.”
As I float toward the plane’s door, she says, “Go have some fun!”
I tell her I will, and hold on tightly to the railing as I make my way down the stairs in my sexiest jeans, red Lanvin ballet flats, and a flowy white Marc Jacobs blouse I got last time I went shopping on Rodeo Drive.
I wander toward the glossy-looking high-rises with only my purse on my shoulder, and it’s then I realize I have no idea where I’m going. I’ve only been to Hunter’s penthouse once, and in my drunken state, I can’t seem to understand how the trees and grass around me will lead me back there.
I look around. I’m past the airport now and on a…golf course? I giggle. This is not good. I suck at golf. I can’t see Hunter West in a golf shirt. Pretentious Casual—that’s what I’ll call his style. Lizzy sold her clubs when her dad left so she can’t play, either. Golf sucks! I twirl around. There are palm trees strung with lights. So many lights! They make me dizzy!
I ended up sitting on one of the greens, but a rescuer arrives! A golf cart is here. There’s a man in a suit. He’s saying, “Can I help you?”
I blink up at him and grin. “My prince charming!”
We strike a deal, and he says he will take me out of the palm tree forest, to the Wynn.
“And you work here?” I ask him for the first—or second?—time.
“Yes, miss. I’m a ball boy.”
I giggle. Balls.
“Golf balls.”
He chuckles. “Golf balls.”
He presses the pedal, and I get dropped into the rabbit hole. Lots of lights and pools that glow and other lights, and umbrellas and stuff hanging over gardens, and I see some dancers wearing feathers on their butts and I think I saw a waterfall peeking through the brush.
There’s this lighted path, and we drive down it, and then we’re standing in front of this Zen-ish garden place, and there’s a bunch of tropical trees and a stone path and tables with candles where people are eating stuff that smells good, kind of like tuna, and my guide is biding me au revoir. I’m out of the cart, standing along a tree-lined path. My legs feel shaky.
“Wait—but what do I do now?” I turn around. My guide is gone. I’m by myself.
Oh, God.
I’m not sure how I make it to the penthouses. I’m on the 46th floor, and the view from the back of the glass elevator makes me dizzy. I step onto the shiny chocolate marble, under big, round, gold chandelier things, and I have a hazy memory of tipping someone pretty generously and mentioning Hunter’s name.
But uh-oh. There’s a problem. This hallway, where the elevator dropped me off, only has one door, and it’s guarded by a solid gold lion. I blink my bleary eyes and try to see it in a different light, but I know décor, and this does not say ‘Hunter’ or ‘Lizzy’ to me. Not at all.
I sink down against the wall, stick my cold hands into my bag, and give my fine motor skills a challenge by searching for my makeup. I giggle as I pop open a compact and refresh my lipstick—see, I don’t look drunk!—and stumble as I get back to my feet. I drop the makeup back into my purse and fish my iPhone out. I dial Lizzy’s number, still smiling stupidly, but when it goes to voice mail, my stomach starts to feel sick.
I’m lost.
I’m lost in a big casino. Not just a casino. A casino wonderland, with an Alexander McQueen boutique and waterfalls and flashy lights and steam and marble and glittery diamond lamps.
“Where is Lizzy?” I whisper to myself.
I’m back at the big, brass elevator, repeatedly banging the ‘down’ arrow. The doors open a couple seconds later, and I ride to the main floor, where I’m dizzied again by the sights, sounds, and smells of the casino.
The décor is glossy and rich, with bold, bright colors, varied textures and fabrics, gazillion-foot ceilings, and expansive, art-lined corridors. If I’m not mistaken, Roger Thomas did the last remodel, and I think it’s…amazing. I’m scrutinizing his extravagant potted plant choices when it dawns on me that I should try to call Lizzy again.
I do, and it’s the same as last time: no answer after several rings, then voicemail.
I pick a comfortable looking, bumblebee yellow couch and sink down onto it. “Lizzy,” I hiss into the phone, “I’m down in the casino, and I need you. Where are you?”
I hang up, feeling tears burn in my eyes, and decide I’m not going to be some drunk girl crying in a casino lobby. Maybe I can walk off my buzz and figure out how to get to Hunter’s penthouse.
Figure it out?
I should just go ask!
Du-huhhh.
I cut through a few private casino rooms filled with people doing special things—oops—and finally make it to an information desk, where I ask a stern-looking middle-aged guy about Hunter West’s penthouse.
He frowns at me. “Ma’am, we don’t give out our residents’ information without prior resident authorization.”