My quick speed slows to a snail’s pace when I walk into an extravagantly grand bathroom. Scanning my eyes around the room, I drink in the black marble countertops, artisan glass sinks, and a ginormous clawfoot tub. If I wasn't concerned about receiving another visit from the Wicked Witch of the West, I’d be tempted to drown away my hangover in that heavenly-looking tub.
Snubbing the pleas of my aching muscles, I make my way to the double vanity to splash some cold water on my inflamed face. Confusion muddles my brain when bright rays of sunshine bounce off my blonde locks. If the brightness beaming through the rooftop window is any indication, I only have mere hours before my scheduled flight home.
My first visit to Vegas was planned as a fly in and out in one night affair. My odds of winning Teacher of the Year were small, but the privilege of being nominated saw me cashing in my parents’ frequent flyer miles for a whirlwind weekend. From the swirling of my stomach and thumping of my head, whirlwind is an extremely adequate word to describe my once in a lifetime solo getaway.
Clutching the edge of the marble counter, I drag my heavy eyes over my reflection in the mirrored wall behind the vanity, eager to see what has caused my muscles to be taut with the odd combination of agony and pleasure. Deciding to start my avid assessment at a less risqué part of my body, I drop my eyes to my pastel yellow-painted toes. The fiery heat gifting my face with a pink hue has extended to the lower extremities of my body. Other than my legs being bronzed with the effects of a desert sun, the lower half of my body is in the same condition it was before I arrived in Vegas.
Munching on my bottom lip, I continue with my in-depth perusal. My avid scan stops mere inches from the lower half of my body when my eyes lock in on an accessory I didn’t have Friday night.Oh, sweet Jesus. What in the Lord's name is that?
Stumbling backward, I scrub my hand over the thick black ink scrawled across the curve of my right hip. My heart rate rockets into dangerous territory as I scrub, scratch, and scour my skin. Even with my hip on the verge of bleeding, nothing works. The four-letter word scrawled across my skin won't budge.
“Who the hell is Rico? And why is his name tattooed on my hip?” I mumble to my wide-eyed reflection.
I plant my backside on the edge of the black marble tub and bury my head in my hands. This is not me. I'm the safe friend. The good girl. I'm a kindergarten teacher for crying out loud! I don't go to Vegas and get a man's name tattooed on my hip. I grade papers, hunt garage sales every Sunday for low-cost books for my students, and I knit booties for the babies in the NICU at my local hospital. I don't get drunk, and I most definitely donotget tattoos!
Maybe I’m dreaming, and I haven’t arrived at Vegas yet? Maybe those sleeping tablets I guzzled down with a wine spritzer while squeezed between a man whose body odor smelled like a cat’s food bowl and the lady who had an extra toe are messing with my mind.Yes!That makes perfect sense. This is all just a big bad dream.
Ouch!!!
Nope, I’m not sleeping.
Rubbing my leg, I soothe the sting of my nasty pinch while I struggle to unscramble the confusion muddling my brain.
Minutes pass in silence with nothing but a sea of blackness greeting me. There's one thing my over-fried brain can decipher.I need to get out of here.
Yanking my knee-length floral skirt up my tense thighs, I fasten my cotton push up bra around my back. My movements are unsteady, inhibited by the thumping of my hungover head. After snagging my dusty pink cotton blouse off the vanity and slinging it around my shoulders, I run my fingers through my ratted hair. With the number of knots in my hair, my usually straight locks have a bolder, more risqué look to them.
“Ha! Who are you trying to kid? You look like you’ve just arrived home after starring in an 80’s music clip for Bruce Springsteen,” I mumble to my disheveled reflection.
Pretending I didn’t wear any panties yesterday, I make my way back into the main room of my suite. The elderly maid found my clothing easily as it was left where it fell, but my shoes are proving to be quite the challenge. After searching every inch of the floor space, I drop to my knees and crawl under the bed. I inwardly gag when I find a strip of condoms stuck to the satin bed ruffle. The pounding of my head reverts to a lower region of my body when I notice the three strip of bare-skinned condoms are empty. My heart rate kicks up a gear when the quickest flash of a memory filters through my brain.
Oh, lord!I ripped open one of those condoms with my teeth while…. while…Darn it!My memories have converted back to black.
Flicking the used condom packaging to the side, I outstretch my arm to my orthopedic sandal wedged in the furthermost corner. Don't judge. Have you ever walked the entire strip of Vegas before? I did—for three hours solid! Comfortable shoes are not a recommendation. They are a necessity.
I freeze and suck in a large gulp of air. That was my first recollection of arriving at Vegas. Other than recalling portions of the plane ride over, my memories of my last twenty-four hours are best described as hazy.
After snatching my second sandal from its hiding spot in the middle of the ginormous bed, I fasten them to my feet and head for the door. Hazy memories, drunken mistakes, and googling how to have a tattoo removed without your parents finding out can wait until my feet are safely back on my home turf of Ravenshoe.
Exhaling a nerve-cleansing breath, I push down on the gold embossed handle and swing open the door. My brows hit my hairline. For how elegant this hotel is, they have a very laidback approach to security. None of the rooms have the swipe locks most hotel chains have, and not a peep hole can be seen. The more I take in the chandeliered hall, the more my heart restricts.This isn't a hotel, is it?
Dammit!
I make my way down the hallway, my feet padding along the chunky woolen rug in silence. Renaissance paintings line the walls, and the aroma of garlic lingers in the air. The beat of my heart merges into dangerous territory when I hit the end of the hall. Two men whose shoulders are the width of my height are standing at the edge of the stairwell, talking to each other in a foreign language.
“Hello,” I squeak out when the sight of me stifles their conversation.
Snubbing their imprudent stares, I race down the stairwell. The galloping of my heart matches the stomping of my feet as I charge through the massive unknown residence. My tornado pace comes to a shrieking halt when a handful of women suddenly bombard me. Lace and satin materials are shoved in my face as they fire a range of questions at me. Well, I'm assuming they are questions as I don’t understand a word they are saying.
Their approach reminds me of my backpacking adventures in Bali, Indonesia. If you haven’t experienced the craziness of a street market in Bali, you haven’t lived. It's the equivalent of shopping at Walmart high on crack. That’s another assumption, as I’ve never touched a drug in my life.
Not understanding a single word the group of ladies are flinging at me, I spin on my heels and scuffle down a dark and dingy corridor on my right. Their hair-raising battering is left for dust when I encroach deeper into the hall. My heart beats triple time when the scent of fear lingers in the air. From the way the women stop at the end of the hall and eyeball me with a snick of panic in their eyes, anyone would swear I just entered the gates of hell.
Taking no notice of their odd reaction—and my brain pulverizing my skull—I continue striding down the dark, dingy hall. Just like the hallway my room is in, this corridor is lined with doors. But unlike the hall my room is in, this corridor isn't as elaborately decorated, and these rooms have locks—big clunky deadbolt locks. I stop dead in my tracks and furrow my brows.Why would there be locks on the outside of the doors?
My retreating steps out of the dingy space stop when I hear the faint murmur of voices tinkling down the bland corridor. Slanting my head to the side, I level my breathing and prick my ears. My regular breathing pattern returns when the distinct noise of men talking sounds into my ears.
Pretending the twisted feeling in my stomach is from my raging hangover drilling my skull into the next century and not fear, I pace towards the collection of deep, masculine voices. The swirling of my stomach eases when I catch the occasional sentence spoken in English between the heavily accented voices.
