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Forty-Three
With tears streaming down my face (that’s right, I’m cryin’ in public), I search for the closest bus station on my phone. I need to get out of this town ASAP and it looks like the next bus leaves in an hour. Perfect.
Wait, no. It won’t arrive in time for my audition. Crap! I search for the closest car rental and summon an Uber to find me somewhere on Las Vegas Boulevard. On the ride over, I call the rental place. It rings endlessly and my heart’s pounding in my ears. Why is this happening?
I try again. And again. Same thing. My stomach twists as we turn the corner. Ugh, I’m gonna be sick. Should I call Bernie back?
No, Olivia, just stay the course. I’ll make it. I have to.
Wait, where are my set notes from last night? My face feels feverish as I open my backpack and tear everything out of it. They’re not here. Shit, shit, double shit. I need those notes. I mentally retrace my steps—I showed Nick my notes before I went onstage, stuffed them in my back pocket, and that’s it. They must be in my suitcase.
“Excuse me, I think I forgot something. Can you pull over so I can check my luggage?”
“Here?” the driver asks.
“Yes, anywhere and fast. Please!”
He yanks the steering wheel to the right and stops at the curb. I scramble out of the car and yell for him to pop the trunk. As soon as I’m in, I dig through the mound of clothes. Next time, if there is a next time, I’m not packing half this crap. My pleather performance pants surface and I check the pockets. Empty. All empty. The notes must’ve fallen on the floor at the hotel.
I glance at my watch, the hand ticking away the minutes I have left before it’s too late. No, no, no, no, no. There’s no time to go back. Dammit!
Scrambling back in the Uber, I attempt to calm myself with a few deep breaths. It’s going to be fine. I’ll figure it out.
Crowds of people surround the entrance to the rental place like it’s Six Flags on a Saturday morning. No wonder they didn’t answer. Oh, Lord. What if there are no cars left? If I don’t get on the road in one hour, I’m toast. It takes both the driver and me to lift my suitcase from the trunk. Dragging it along, I pray to anyone, anywhere for a car. And fast.
“Olivia!” A woman’s voice calls and I turn back. Chuck and Amy walk my way, wheeling their compact luggage behind them.
“Hey,” I say, not wanting to be rude though there’s no time for chitchat.
“What are you doing here?” she asks.
“It’s a long story. Nick’s Jeep was stolen last night and I need to get to my audition.”
“Oh my god, I’m so sorry.” The happy couple now look horrified. If it wasn’t for them, we’d have picked up the Jeep in the hotel garage and be cruising toward California. The truth about Nick still concealed in his cargo. Win some, lose some, I suppose. But I can’t afford to lose The Late Night Show.
“Thanks. It was nice seeing you but I really have to run.” I start for the packed entrance again.
“Olivia, wait!” Amy calls. “We’re on our way to Los Angeles too, remember? Why don’t we save you the trouble and give you a ride.”
Yes, yes! Maybe Chuck and Amy are my true guardian angels.
“Are you serious? You’d do that?”
“You’re my maid of honor, of course we will.”
I fling my arms around her. “Thank you, thank you. Thank you!”
“Happy to help. Where’s your buddy Nick?”
I want to tell her he’s not my buddy anymore but I bite my tongue. “He’s got his hands full here. You know, police reports, insurance. Stuff like that. He’ll get there later.”
“That’s a real shame,” Chuck says. “I’m so sorry.”
I don’t feel sorry for Nick. Not one bit. “Trust me, he’s fine on his own. But I really need to get to that audition so...”
The three of us haul ass out of there and speed off in a little Hyundai Accent toward I-15.
“Where’s your audition?” Chuck asks.
