I lock eyes with the lizard woman across the barbed wire, a dirty cigarette clamped between her lips. If she has a problem looking at my son and me, she should burn her eyes out with the blunt end of the cigarette.
That will fix the problem.
“Come on.” I grab Otis’s hand. “Time to go inside.”
I close the sliding door behind us and watch him play with the toy soldiers that have been strewn all over the carpet for days now.
I should tell Otis to put them away at some point, but I just can’t bring myself to do that. Why should he do as I say when I’m not even giving him a good childhood?
Don’t get me wrong, I’m doing a whole lot better than my own single-parent mother. Since I got pregnant with Otis, I haven’t stepped foot in a nightclub.
My own mother was a member in several different bars on the Strip. Several times a week, I’d get home from school and hear the clopping of her stiletto heels against the floorboards as she announced that she was “heading out.”
But just because I abstain from sex and alcohol, unlike my own mother, it doesn’t make me a good mom, or one that deserves respect.
If Otis’s father was around, we’d probably be living in luxury with an expensive dog breed. But money only buys so much.
They couldn’t pay me a billion dollars to settle down with a self-indulgent asshole like Carter Trescott, or any of the rest of his overpriced-online-course friends.
External circumstances aside, Otis is the only good thing I have left in this world.
I can’t lose him.
The card is back in my hands again for the hundredth time. The edges are no longer sharp, the cardboard bent from the amount of times I’ve been wiggling it back and forth, thinking. But time is of the essence, and while I’m thinking, I’m notdoing.
An Irishman approached me in an empty parking lot at midnight last night and told me that my dream life is well within reach.
When things sound magical, there’s usually a catch.
And the catch is that I’ll have to let a millionaire nobody have his way with me for one night. But in exchange for a financially free life, that sounds like a good deal.
I sneak away into the next room and dial the number. The dialing code is British, not American, which makes me wonder if this Conrad has a valid visa.
“Hello?” A voice crackles over the receiving end. “Conrad O’Neill speaking.”
“Conrad, it’s Carmen.”
“Carmen? Have we met?”
“I’m the woman from last night. You made me spill my coffee and still haven’t reimbursed me.”
“Ah, the grocery store worker.”
That’show he remembers me? How many other women are there?
“I’m gonna take you up on the offer.”
“That’s brilliant news. The auction is this Friday and starts at eleven p.m. You’ll need to come wearing lingerie and at least six-inch heels. Anything taller is fine. Please also bring birth control if you have it. I’ll send you directions to the event shortly. See you tomorrow night, Carmen.”
Birth control? If the men are paying thousands for a night with a woman, they can afford to bring a condom.
Although, if these men are anything like Carter Trescott, they’re probably gonna tell me how wearing latex gives them anaphylactic shock.
I open the message that has just pinged through on my phone—the location of the event. Typing the address into my search engine, I contemplate how much gas I’m gonna have to put into the car tomorrow.
The event is taking place on the Vegas Strip, apparently at one of the most well-known bars in the city.
Vegas really is a shithole, full of criminals and shady businessmen trying to make money illegitimately. Even well-known establishments have something to hide.
