Текст книги "Unmaking Marchant"

Автор книги: Ella James

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Текущая страница: 2 (всего у книги 14 страниц)

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SURI

NAPA, CALIFORNIA

FRIDAY, APRIL 19, 2013

The first thing I notice is how gross my mouth feels. I swish my tongue over my teeth: unbrushed. Ugh.

I lift my head and find myself at the work desk in my bedroom. My stiff neck protests as I turn to search for the wall clock. Based on how tired I feel, and by the dim light filtering through the long, pale green curtains, I’m guessing it’s still early. Which is why, when I see the actual time, I shriek.

“Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaah!”

I’m up and running to my bathroom, because it’s nine fifteen. I have an appointment in the vineyard in less than an hour. Still, there’s time to shower. Something quick, and I’ll let my curly, brown hair air-dry on the drive over to the Bernards’ country home. I lean over to turn the shower faucet, my hair falls over my shoulder, and out of the corner of my eye, I notice a web of pink that makes my blood run cold.

I whirl around, fully facing the wide, long mirror and seriously almost cry. That pink stuff is bubble gum. I fell asleep chewing bubble gum, and now it’s in my hair!

“AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!”

I pick and pull at the mess, but it’s overtaken the entire left side of my head. I glance around the bathroom, searching for a clock that isn’t here. Of course I don’t have time for an emergency trip to Julian, my stylist. But I can’t go to the clients’ house with gum in my hair. It’s a consult. They won’t hire me if I look like a crazy bag lady.

“Damn, damn, damn!” I tug open a drawer, grab my small, stainless steel scissors, and get to chopping. Fifteen minutes later, I’m dressed in a red Armani pants suit with a slouchy fedora. Underneath it, my now-straight hair hangs just a little bit below my chin.

My shoulders feel too light. My face looks blunt and sharp and not like me.

I grab my makeup bag and dash out the front door, down the porch, toward my lilac Land Rover, still dotted with dew under an overcast sky.

I know for sure I’m having “one of those days” when a bird smacks into my windshield before I even get out of my driveway. It’s cute and small and brown, and based on the tailspin it takes in the wake of the Land Rover, I’m guessing I just punched its ticket to bird heaven.

Lovely.

As I jet from Crestwood Place, a columned, brick home on one-hundred acres just outside downtown Napa, to the valley, I try driving with my knees, something my father absolutely loathes and something I’ve never been great at. I manage to run off the road once, smear my eyeliner (top and bottom) on my right eye, and put on the wrong color eye shadow, so I appear to be going for an emo look.

Lovely.

When I’m finished with my makeup, I flip the mirror up, press the pedal to the floor, and turn up some Florence and the Machine, holding onto the wheel as I fly down hills, around curves, past acres and acres of grapes. I make it to the Bernards’ house only two minutes after our set appointment time of ten o’clock.

The crumminess of the day is once again confirmed when I climb out, briefcase on my shoulder, smile polished and ready, to find Dr. and Mr. Bernard standing several feet apart in their freshly sodded lawn, screaming obscenities at each other.

Behind them, their sprawling Tuscan-style home stands empty, waiting for my finishing touch, but as their heads whip to me in unison, I know it’s not going to happen.

“Miss Dalton.” Mr. Bernard strides forward, trying to greet me, and his wife throws a wine glass at his shoulder. It shatters, falling in glittering pieces to the lawn as my mouth drops open. He turns around. “Honey, now is not the time or—”

“Yes it is the time!” Her shoulders are heaving, her long blonde hair bouncing down her back. She’s wearing scrubs, no makeup, and she looks like she wants to murder her husband. “You lying, cheating, small-dicked bastard—”

“Miss Dalton,” Mr. Bernard starts. “Perhaps another—”

“No.” The woman turns to me. “No other time. This is my money, my vacation house, and he won’t get a thing after I divorce his cheating ass!” Panting, she quickly gathers herself and adds, “Sorry, Suri. We’ll have to try this another time. Give your mother my regards.”

I stand there only a second longer before Mr. Bernard turns to go inside. His wife intercepts him, shoving him toward the garage. “Don’t you even think if stepping foot into my home you fucking asshole.”

Just great. I lost this job. I don’t have another booking until mid-May. This leaves me with enough to pay the essentials, but not as much as I need if I’m going to save for a trip to Paris in the winter.

And—damnitty damn!—I cut my own hair for these people. Because I didn’t think I had time to get to Julian’s.

My shoulders slump. I climb into my car. Turn down the Florence. Turn up some Bon Iver. But listening to Bon Iver while driving out of the valley reminds me of my good friend Cross Carlson. Cross, who last November had a motorcycle accident on one of these very vineyard roads. Cross, who a mere week ago was the recipient of my… My what? My desperate advance? My half-naked body and enthusiastic lips? My dashed dreams? My fledgling hopes? I roll my eyes at myself and turn down the music. I’m sick and tired of replaying the sad scenario with Cross. Putting the moves on him was a stupid thing to do—one I probably wouldn’t have done had I not still been in a state of shock and alarm over the way things ended with Adam.

Adam.

Ugh.

I’m tired of thinking about Adam, too, and I’m tired of slow, sad songs.

I roll the windows down, find some Sara Barilles, and am headed toward Julian’s studio when my mother calls. I hit ignore. She calls again. And calls, and calls, and calls.

I sigh and answer. “Do you need me, Mom?”

“I do, as a matter of fact. Where are you, darling?”

“Leaving the Bernards’ house.”

“Oh that’s right. How did it go?”

More than thirty years of being married to an uber secretive tech tycoon has made my mother very discreet—or maybe she always was. I give her a quick rundown of the situation at the Bernards’ house, figuring she’ll hear it soon enough from Dr. Bernard, anyway, since the two are good friends. I’m almost to Julian’s, and am feeling a little less pessimistic about the world, when Mom asks, “So…are you going to New York?”

I nearly choke.

“You haven’t asked to use the jet this weekend.”

“That’s true,” I hedge. “I thought I might just…go commercial this time. You know, since I’ve used the jet so much this last year.”

I can almost see her jaw drop over the phone line. “Book and board? Well, what time are you leaving, darling? You know, there may not be anything left in first class.” Her voice lilts up on “first class,” as if this is a catastrophic possibility.

“I know, Mom. But I can handle business class.” I’ve flown that way a time or two, and I’ve yet to get pick-pocketed, infected with scabies, or kidnapped for ransom. “I am a business owner,” I remind her.

“I know.” It’s half sigh; again, like this is a shame. “I assume you’re on your way there now?”

“Um, in just a little while.” Not. I’m an outright liar now. I blink at the tidy buildings around me, feeling like a goldfish on a rug.

“Well aren’t you going to miss the big event?”

I exhale slowly, tightening my grip on the steering wheel. “Mom, what event?” I know I’m busted before the words leave my mouth, but what am I to do? I’m not keeping up with Adam anymore. It’s unhealthy.

“I knew it,” my mother cries. “Something is going on with you and Adam!”

“Is it?”

“He has a book signing at the Time Square Bookseller in three hours, Suri.”

Despite myself, I feel my stomach flip. “What do you mean, a book signing?”

“For the décor book, darling. The one you and he thought up. For the series?”

Sweat prickles under my hairline. “What series?”

“The series of home books on…crafting and art and, you know. I noticed the write-up in the Times didn’t mention your name. I thought it was a joint project. What’s going on, darling?”

What’s going on is Adam stole my idea. My idea.  Sure, we talked about my idea together—a series of simple, colorful coffee table books on home décor and cooking. I’d originally thought of them as fun gifts for my clients, but Adam had urged me to dream bigger. “This could be a hit. Like HGTV,” he’d said. “Everyone is interested in this stuff. It’s really hot right now.”

We outlined the chapters for the home décor book on a weekend trip to La Jolla. Or rather, I did. I left the notes in his Audi, and when we started to argue over the outlines for the second, third, and fourth books, Adam suggested we drop the project.

I bite down on my lower lip. That was almost a year and a half ago! Adam poached my idea before we even got engaged!

“Suri, darling—”

“We broke up, mother. Okay? A few weeks ago, right before you had your bunion surgery, Adam and I decided to break things off. I told Rachel and Edith, and I asked them not to tell you because I was waiting for the right time.” I’d known it would take the news a while to reach my mother, who’d been confined to bed for several weeks after her surgery.

She sniffs. “It’s clear the right time never came. How long were you going to wait, darling?”

“Of course it didn’t come. Who wants to talk about things like this?” My hands, around the steering wheel, tighten as I turn right at a red light.

“Suri, I’m your mother. Does your father know?” I can tell by her voice that she’d be more annoyed if he did, so I’m relieved that I can tell her, “No. I haven’t told him yet.”

“I can’t believe this. Suri, it’s just terrible! What happened, darling?”

I pull into the parking lot of a retro-looking building that houses, among other things, Julian’s. I lean down and put my forehead against the steering wheel and sigh, like I’m five years old and being asked to eat my green beans. “Mom, if you want the full story, can you just ask Rachel? I don’t feel like going into it right now.”

“You can’t tell me anything?”

I sigh again and close my eyes. “I can tell you it just wasn’t right, for either one of us. We’d been together so long we didn’t know it, but I don’t think I was what he really wanted, and I don’t think he’s what I want.”

This isn’t the real reason things ended, of course—it ended with me hurling my ring at Adam’s head, where it bounced off and landed in the pool—but I’m surprised to find it definitely feels true. Adam wants a dandelion, someone who bends with him and doesn’t ask questions. I want…well, I want someone who’s not an ass. Someone who doesn’t have a drinking problem. Someone who’s spontaneous and fun. Someone who actually wants to live in the same state as me. (Adam felt coerced, I think, into moving back to California). Someone who likes to go down on me. (Adam never did—not really). Someone who’ll eat a cheeseburger and go flying in a hot air balloon with me. (Adam only ate steak, and he hated heights).

My mother clucks. “I’m truly sorry to hear that, Suri. I’m sure it’s been difficult for you. I’ll try not to feel insulted that you didn’t tell me sooner.”

“Please do try. It’s me, not you. I mean it.”

“Oh, I understand.” She says this as if maybe she actually doesn’t. “That does explain why you haven’t been asking to use the jet. You’re not flying business class at all, are you?”

“Not this weekend, but that doesn’t mean I don’t or won’t.”

“Of course not. In the event of an emergency.”

“Right.” I roll my eyes. After reassuring my mom I’ll call her if I need her, I’m off the phone and staring at the front of Julian’s building. I should just get out and go inside and show him the mess I’ve made of myself.

Instead, I hold out my left hand, where today I’m wearing one of my grandmother’s emerald rings, and I flip down my visor’s mirror to take a look at the tiny plastic tooth sitting where my lower left incisor used to be. It got knocked out the night I fell, and after Adam finally called a taxi home, I had to drive myself to Edith’s boyfriend’s house so he could give me a stitch inside my lip. He’s a resident at the local hospital, and thank god he keeps a first aid kid at his house. The official line to Edith was that I got so mad at Adam, I ran into a doorframe. I think she believed me. No one would ever dream that Adam could be mean to me. Not affable, gentlemanly Adam.

Just the memory of that night leaves me feeling exhausted and discouraged, so I guess I walk into Julian’s looking down and out. His assistant, Sally, gets me a glass of lemonade and two shortbread cookies, and sets about getting someone to give me a back rub while I wait for Julian to finish the client he’s working on.

When he finally sees me, Julian slaps both hands to his cheeks and starts to laugh. Which makes me laugh a little. “That bad, huh?”

“What happened?”

“Bubble gum,” I tell him solemnly.

I spend the next hour getting cut and dyed and styled. As usual, I don’t glance in the mirror until he’s finished. When I do, I gasp.

“Julian, you made me blonde!”

“Not blonde. I brought out your eyes with highlights.”

I cackle insanely, because while maybe he did, he also made me look even more un-me than I looked before.

“I look like…”

“A model? Yes you do.” His brown eyes shine.

“A model,” I say slowly. And it’s kind of true. The hair’s that good.

I fling my arms around Julian’s neck and he pats my head. “I heard about your nasty break-up, doll.”

Wow. “You did? From who?” I haven’t told anyone hardly, and I didn’t think Adam had either.

“Brina Lulle came in the other day.”

My stomach sinks at the mention of the petite dancer from our high school class. “She’s going for him, isn’t she?”

Julian shrugs. “You didn’t hear it from me.”

“Promise,” I say, holding up my hand.

I drive home feeling… I don’t know. Betrayed? I broke up with him, and even though I think it’s what we both needed, Adam certainly didn’t agree when we spoke last, three days after that night at the pool. He’s probably embarrassed. Hurt. He’s probably saying he broke it off with me.

I didn’t expect him to spend a year in a monastery or anything, so it shouldn’t bug me—the idea of he and Brina; and my post-break-up track record is blighted by my embarrassing attempt to seduce a friend, after all.

But I’m lying if I say it doesn’t.

I shift my attention to the darkening clouds above the county road that leads from town to my house. A few seconds later, a misty rain begins to fall.

I try to feel normal. To feel okay. But I can’t shake the pessimism, the nauseating unease that’s been following me like these storm clouds for the last few weeks.

What bothers me, I think, as I ride toward my empty house, is how far I am from where I thought I’d be right now. Not with the business. Northern California Interiors is doing better than I could have hoped, and believe me, I’m grateful for that. I’m much different than Mom, who seems satisfied doing the cliché wife thing: charity ball this, gala for the children that. Her work actually is important, but I find so many of those things boring.

I’m glad I’m getting to do what I enjoy, and I’m glad I had a good enough year last year that I was able to buy Crestwood Place from my parents. I don’t like freeloading, and I wanted to make the home mine officially. I was able to help my best friend Lizzy by offering her a room here, rent free, before she met Hunter West—the heir to the West Bourbon fortune, a savvy investor,  and, as of several weeks ago, Lizzy’s fiancé. That makes me happy, too. So life’s not all bad.

The bad part is losing the sense of pride I had whenever I would think of what a great pair Adam and I were. We’d been together since ninth grade, and everything about Adam was familiar and comfortable—at least until it wasn’t. While my mother is “darling” this and “darling” that, and works in her free time as a school counselor, entirely pro bono, Adam’s mom is this take-no-prisoners criminal attorney who dyes her brown hair bright orange because she thinks it’s ‘feisty’; his dad is a second-grade teacher for children with learning disabilities. Adam’s younger sister Mallorie and I used to be able to talk about anything. She was like my sister.

I’ve wasted years feeling content and settled with Adam, and now I have nothing to show for it. I don’t like being single, not because it’s un-fun, but because it makes me feel off-balance. Like a bike with one tire flat. And yet, when I think of dating anyone, it’s the last thing I want to do.

I’m about to turn into my driveway when I remember it’s midday on a Friday, meaning the gym where Lizzy and I learned Tai Chi has an open sparring hour.

I am so going to that.

I do, and it feels good, and afterward I’m driving home when Lizzy calls. She’s in Vegas, where she’s been shacked up with her fiancé, Hunter, for the last few weeks. She claims to be happy at the casino where Hunter has a penthouse, but today I can tell something’s bothering her.

“Suri…hi. What’s up?”

“Driving home from Tai Chi.”

“Oh, the happy hour thing?”

“Yep. Felt good, too.” I don’t tell her it felt good because I imagined I was sparring Adam. I haven’t told anyone what happened that night at the pool. No one except my cousin even knows he had—has—a drinking issue. It’s not that I never plan to tell…it’s just I can’t bring myself to talk about it yet.

“I’m jealous,” Lizzy says, and I remember we’re talking about the gym.

I wipe a trail of sweat from my temple and stick my tongue out at the phone. “Maybe you should come see your BFF, then.”

“Maybe you should come see me. Like, say, tonight?” I know Lizzy, and despite the on-its-face simplicity of her suggestion, I can tell something’s up.

“Tonight? Have you been deserted by your man folk?”

“Yeah, he’s got that charity hearts tournament I mentioned the other day.” Hunter West is a professional poker player. I wonder how he does at Hearts.

“So you’re looking for a girls’ night?”

“Something like that.” I can practically see her chewing her lip, the way she does when she’s nervous.

I’m about to press her for details, but she says, “What do you think? Could you come short-notice? We could try the slots. I could even take you to Love Inc. to meet the girls.”

I make a face, and I guess she’s as good at imagining my face as I am hers, because Lizzy says, “Just kidding. Kind of.”

Love Inc. is the high-end brothel where she auctioned her virginity. It’s owned by this guy named Marchant Radcliffe, who happens to be Hunter’s fratty best bro from Tulane.

I’ve glimpsed the guy at a party or two, and he always seems so…pimpish. Don’t get me wrong: He’s got amazing clothes, and from what little I’ve seen of him, he’s not hard on the eyes—wild, brown-blond-red hair he wears kind of spiky, and a sexy beard—but he’s got a certain swagger I just can’t tolerate. Like he has sex with a different woman every night and he’s just so…proud of himself. Like he owns two huge brothels, filled with women willing to satisfy any man’s sex fantasies.

Oh wait—he does have two huge brothels filled with women willing to satisfy any man’s sex fantasies!

I wrinkle my nose. “No thanks on that part.” I’m sure Lizzy’s new escort friends are nice and all, but…they’re escorts. “But I’d love to come see you at the casino. I finally let the cat out of the bag about Adam to my mom today, so I’m sure the jet will be ready at a moment’s notice. She’ll probably think I need some girl time.”

“Oh my God, you finally told Gretchen…”

And so begins an hour-long conversation, during which I tell Lizzy all about my day and she tells me absolutely nothing about hers. In fact, the longer I talk to her, the more convinced I am that something’s going on. I consider asking her outright, but while we’re on the phone I send my mom an e-mail, which she answers immediately from her iPhone, letting me know the jet can be ready in an hour. She hopes I have a wonderful weekend, where I focus on just me! Smilie face!

Soon I’ll be in Vegas, and I’ll find out what Lizzy is hiding.

* * *

My mood plummets as I pack. My iPhone’s calendar alerts me at exactly four o’clock that it’s time to take an ovulation test. If I were going to ovulate this month, my doctor thinks today would be the day. Actually, I can’t believe I haven’t taken the test already. It’s a testament to how scattered I am lately. For the last six months, since I’ve been working with an expert OB-GYN in Beverly Hills, I haven’t ever forgotten to take the test on O-Day. Of course, there hasn’t ever been an O-Day, so maybe I forgot today because I’ve finally given up.

My reproductive system is a lemon. I’ve got two ovaries, but they don’t release eggs monthly. I got my period for the first time when I was sixteen, and I had it until I turned nineteen, when it disappeared, never to return.

I drop a strapless bra and a blouse into my suitcase and trudge into the bathroom, where a quick test confirms what I already knew: I’m not ovulating today.

Woohoo.

Most months, I spend hours obsessing over what this means for me; what this meant for Adam and I. Today, I just don’t have the energy.

I toss the test in the garbage can, push my purse onto my shoulder, hoist my hang-up bag over my other shoulder, and drag my rolling suitcase to the elevator.

Arnold gives me a ride to my family’s airport, not much more than two hangars in a giant field between Napa and the valley. On the way, I make like Adam and pop the cork on a bottle of Pinot Noir. Stupid Clomid. Stupid all the other drugs I’ve tried. Stupid Dr. Haynes. Stupid ovaries.

I guess it’s a good thing I’m single now. I’m never going to give any man children.

I shut my eyes and take a few deep swigs straight out of the bottle. And when we arrive at the airport, I stuff the bottle into my purse—probably just like Adam, too, if he carried a purse.

I focus on the feeling of my legs moving as they carry me from the limousine to the blue and grey Boeing Dad bought when I was in high school. I pay attention to my arms as they clutch my luggage. I clench my stomach underneath my shirt. I think about my ovaries below my stomach.

What’s wrong with me? So far, nobody knows. Maybe I don’t care, I think as I hike up the plane’s fold-out stairs. Maybe I’ll be an old maid with a hundred cats. Or dogs, because cats are just difficult.

Even the thought of a hundred darling dogs depresses me, and as soon as I see our family’s long-term flight attendant, Esmerelda, I realize that, just like at Julian’s earlier, I must be wearing my mood all over my face. She throws her arms around me and leads me to the most comfy, recliner-style seat on the jet, and starts a movie on the flatscreen right in front of me: Finding Nemo.

“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 46^th 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.”

“But…can’t you just call him?”

“I suppose I can try.”

No dice.

When he hangs up the phone, I’m feeling desperate. “You’re sure?”

He nods.

I narrow my eyes at the man, then press my lips together and lean forward a little. Lower my voice, in case bad people are around. “Sir…I don’t mean to be a diva, but…I’m not a bad person. I’m not a criminal. That’s what I mean.” I’m floundering. I stand straighter, throw my shoulders back. Pretend I’m not drunk. “My father is Trent Dalton. You know, the computer guy?” I raise my eyebrows.

“I know who Trent Dalton is, ma’am. Everyone does.”

I smile a little. “Okay, so, then, it’s okay to let me into Hunter West’s room. Up to his room, I mean. Up to. Not into.”

“I’m sorry ma’am. Not without prior resident authorization.”

I nod a few times before turning away.

I call Lizzy two more times without success.

“This is a bad day,” I murmur to myself. “Bad night. This is a bad month.”

A few minutes later, I’m dawdling near a vast room decorated like the pages of a Japanese manga and filled with slot machines, when a bulky man in a staff suit grabs my elbow.

“Ma’am, may I help you?”

I shake my head, removing my elbow from his presumptuous grasp. “No, I don’t need anything.”

He frowns at me, looking suspicious, and I sigh. “I’m looking for some friends, but I’ll find them eventually. Maybe.”

His eyebrows—dark, I notice—scrunch like fuzzy caterpillars. “Ma’am, are you intoxicated?”