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Then, bright red words suddenly pop up on the screen:GOLDEN TICKET
Unsure what else to do, I tap on it and see a Westminster address. I take a screenshot of it and a popup comes up:Screenshots are not allowed for safety reasons.
Dammit. I scramble to find my notepad and pen out of my big-ass purse and jot the address down, along withgolden ticket, whatever that means. There’s a time listed as well:9pm-3am.
Interesting.
I want to text Taryn and ask her what it all means, but I won’t. I’ll figure it out.
I look at the clock to see it’s 7:20 p.m. I head to my closet and wonder what I should wear. When she said people can wear masks, I’m assuming a party-type mask and not something Halloween-ish?
I find the feathered mask that only covers my eyes and nose and ties around the back. It’s white with black sequins along the edge, and I wore it once for a themed Christmas party we did one year at the firm.
Deciding to keep it simple, I locate one of my many little black dresses, and choose the one covered in black sequins to match the mask. The strappy black stilettos are a no-brainer to go with it.
Then I remember my tattoos. I thankfully find a long-sleeved lace top that is open at the front and buttons over the boobs, if I want.
I don’t want.
I don’t want to do this at all and I should just crawl into bed.
But loneliness and curiosity win out in the end.
I shower, do my hair and makeup, and decide because I’m feeling playful and put in my blue contact lenses over my brown eyes. If they can only see my eyes, it’ll add to the mystery. After they’re in, I get dressed and look in the full-length mirror. Wow. I feel sexy and my stomach turns over with nerves.
Am I really doing this?
Clock reads 9:02 p.m. I guess I really am.
***
Ipull up to a warehouse-type structure and park the car. There are about a dozen people in line, and most of them are couples.
“You got this,” I whisper to myself in the rearview mirror after applying another heavy coat of red lipstick. It contrasts nicely against my pale skin and I throw it back in my purse. I tie the mask around my eyes and adjust it so it’s not crooked. I’m going to have a bump in my straight, sleek hair by the end of the night from the ties.
Now... Do I bring a purse inside this type of place?
I didn’t think so. I put my ID and debit card into the case holding my phone and get out of the car, tucking the key into my bra. I feel like I’m 19 all over again, sneaking into the nightclub with my fake ID.
The night is cold and I try not to shiver as I wait in line. A full October moon overhead lights the parking lot and a few wispy clouds play in front of it. When I’m about the third one back, I pay attention to what they’re telling the doorman, a guy dressed in a black suit and a sharp haircut.
“Password?”
Shit. Oh! “Golden ticket?”
He chuckles and says, “ID?”
I pull it out and show him.
“App?”
“I’m sorry?” I say, trying not to panic.
“I need to see your app.”
It takes me a second before I realize he wants to see the “secret” app. “Oh, sure.” I pull it up and show him. “I need the QR code.”
“I’m sorry, dude. First time.”
