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She scanned the lobby and noticed two women. One wore a T-shirt with Landon Paige’s picture silkscreened across the front, and another sported Vance’s stupid smirking face.
What a visual.
Her nightmare of a past and definitely-not-her-future represented in concert apparel.
She eyed the tray of drinks. If anyone needed copious amounts of alcohol, it was her.
She set the empty glass on the tray and picked up two more drinks.
“Double-fisting already,” the hostess teased.
Hell to the yes.
She bit the top of the umbrella like a rabid beast and tossed it to the ground before downing drink number two. “Oh, yes. How much worse can this night get?” she mused, ready to drain the third glass, when the woman dropped the host vibe and waved her in.
“Honey,” she said with a conspiratorial grin, “word to the wise. Never ask that question in Sin City.”
