I bypass Vegas, veering onto an interstate and following it southeast. It’s 8:30, and I’m starting to get a serious case of belly bats—the more menacing cousins of butterflies.
It takes me almost forty minutes to get past Vegas and into the dry, flat land to the southeast of the city. In that time, I manage to contain my excitement/horror/hysteria by clinging to the ‘fluffy’ part of this place’s nickname. I think about sparkling fixtures, plush rugs, gleaming hardwoods, gourmet foods, and beds so soft you might actually want to climb into them with a stranger.
I veer off the highway onto a smaller, freshly paved two-lane road, its dark asphalt gleaming in the glow of an almost-full moon. Suddenly there are street lamps, and although the land on each side of the road is desert dirt, my GPS tells me I’m within eight miles of my final destination.
Holy shit!
I can’t believe I’m actually doing this.
As I grip the wheel, I wonder who will greet me. Richard? The manager, Rachelle? What if it’s Marchant? When I spoke to Richard this morning, he didn’t say. Why didn’t I ask?
I look down at myself. What if I’m not dressed right? Should I have worn a skirt or something? Maybe something more glam? Black slacks? My trusty old Manolos? I pull over on the side of the road and reapply my lipstick. It’s red, at least. That should be a good thing—I think.
As I flip my mirror shut, headlights, then tail-lights, wink past me. I recognize the shape of the vehicle: a limousine.
I pull back onto the road, excited and frightened to see that, just ahead, a billboard shines over the road.
I squint and slow down.
Selling…Scarlett.
And there I am, stretched out on my stomach, airbrushed and fake-tanned, but still very much the version of myself I was about a week ago when Richard asked me to send these pictures. I’m on a billboard, stamped with the Love Inc. Symbol.
Holy shitballs. Suri did a nice job posing me against white sheets in the great room. I don’t even look like me. I look...like an escort.
My stomach clenches, and I try to feel okay about that.
Another half-mile, and there’s another Love Inc. billboard. This one features a stunning black-haired beauty with yellow eyes and a supple, suntanned body clad in jade green lace. She’s opening a bedroom door, beckoning with her finger, the tiniest cat-like smile on her lips.
Another half-mile and another one. Except this one has an arrow, pointing to a road that intersects mine. There’s a brick guardhouse, and metal arms blocking both the entrance and exit.
Oh my God. I’m really here.
I roll my window down with a sweaty fingertip, and the beautiful face that appears behind the glass is framed by long, curling red hair.
“Scarlett!” She grins. “You’re the VIP tonight.” She leans to the left, and a door behind her, inside the guardhouse, opens. Out steps a tall, bulky man with thinning brown hair and a devilish smile.
“Scarlett.” He stretches his hand out the window.
I grab it. “Richard.” I recognize his voice.
“How do you like the sign?” he rumbles.
I blush. “It looked very...professional.”
The redhead laughs. “Nice save.” Her voice is kind. Warm. “I’m Marie V.” She stretches out her hand, and I smell a pleasant scent that reminds me of sunlight and linen. “It’s my off-night,” she explains, “so I’m on booth duty for a few hours. The clients like being welcomed by a familiar face.”
I nod, because my brain is blown. “Why don’t you drive on through?” Richard says. “The valets will take your car and you’ll be met in the doorway by some women who will help you get acquainted with the place.”
Marie V. leans forward. “There’s food, too. Make them take you to Alan, our cook-slash-guard. Or,” her eyes gleam, “if he’s already on his way back out here, just go grab a sweet roll. They’re amazing.”
She looks so mischievous, so gleeful, that I can’t help smiling. “Thank you. I feel ten percent less nervous.”
“Make it one-hundred,” she says, and Richard chuckles.
“There’s nothing to be nervous about, Scarlett. We don’t bite—unless you ask.”
I can barely think straight as I drive ahead, following a curl of asphalt that rolls through unnaturally green grass, beneath enormous trees between whose branches I can see the winking stars. Lamp posts line the road, but it’s the lush green that really gets me.
It doesn’t belong anywhere near here. In fact, it reminds me a little of New Orleans. Then I remember that Marchant Radcliffe went to Tulane—where he met Hunter—and I shake my head. Well, duh.
The driveway, really more a road, rolls on forever. After almost ten minutes, the trees thin and the iron lamp posts glow a little brighter. I’m reminded of my Hugo readings as I notice the stone wall rising ten or fifteen feet above the drive on my right side, a fountain featuring bare-breasted mermaids, elaborate stone bird baths, gleaming benches, rectangular and circular gardens.