Sadie nods as I gather my things, heading over to open up the cabinet.
Her face says it all. There was really no point in me saying that, unless she has a wild craving for rice or spaghetti hoops shaped as alphabet letters.
“See you later. I’ll be back by seven in the morning.”
Nothing changes in Vegas, especially on the Strip. People are either trying to grab your money, your attention, or your ass.
So far, I’ve experienced all three, so we’re not off to a great start.
In my early twenties, I didn’t give a fuck who touched my ass. It was attention and I was desperate, and I pretty much went home with any man if he was taller than me and kind enough to buy me a drink.
My chest tightens as I get closer to the auction location, the bar just up ahead.
I stand outside for a moment to gather myself, and inhale one deep breath, like it’s gonna magically dissolve the nervousness.
“Hey,” I say to the security guard. “Carmen. I’m here for?—”
“Right this way.”
He escorts me to an elevator, and we stand in awkward silence waiting for it to arrive.
The awkward silence continues once we’re in the elevator. I watch the guard select a level, and almost shit myself when I see that we’re heading to the basement.
A place where there are no windows.
My heart is thrashing in my chest, but I anchor myself against the mirrored wall and take some more deep inhales.
Being short of breath isn’t new to me. I had my share of panic attacks as a teenager, and I reached a point in my life where I was anxious more times than not. I blame my mom. I love her and I will lay flowers on her grave every year for her birthday, but she was the reason I stupidly blew all of my savings on Botox at the age of twenty-one. That woman stressed me out.
She’d head out and never tell me when she was planning on returning.
I’d drive myself insane thinking the worst…until the worst came.
In life, things happen when you least expect them to. And that’s why I see it as a good thing to be on guard sometimes.
Tonight especially.
When the elevator makes it down to the basement, I make sure to keep several feet away from the guard. It’s warm down here. I suspect that has something to do with the weird, infrared lights that shine from the ceiling. Combined with the plush red curtains and gilded mirrors, it gives the space an expensive, burlesque feel.
“Dressing rooms are this way.” The guard reaches the drapey curtain and comes to a halt. “If you continue in the opposite direction, you’ll find backstage. Please see the board inside the dressing room for your slot time.”
I nod and keep a straight face to pretend that this is all very normal and legal.
“And also, word of advice—look more alive. Patrons and guests didn’t pay thousands in entry fees to look at glum girls. If they wanted to do that, they could just walk up and down the Strip.”
“Noted,” I grit out, slipping behind the curtain before I make an offensive comment about the guard’s face.
The women on the other side of the curtain are beautiful. Way too beautiful to be here.
The walls of the dressing room are painted wine red, vanity units in every direction. It’s hard to find one available because there are so many women here. In the end, a kind lady called Serena shuffles over and lets me share.
And I don’t expect to enjoy it so much.
When you have a baby, you trash your social life without even realizing. I used to neck shots on the weekend with friends, and when that era ended, it was brunch Sunday lunchtime with a prosecco.
But things get quiet when you have a tiny human relying on you to survive.
I never knew how much I missed talking about beauty products and shoes with other women who are also obsessed with those things.
