A short time later, the blinding sun spotlights the pickup area at LAX, which is colored Nickelodeon slime-green—from the sidewalk paint to the square umbrellas. Even the overcrowded trolley I need to take to Terminal 1 to grab a Lyft is a giant rolling booger.
The AC must be broken on this one because it’s ungodly hot. There are very few seats which are already taken, so I end up standing, holding the handrail for dear life. The driver is acting like he’s Sandra Bullock fromSpeed, making me nauseated.
So nauseated, in fact, that by the time I make it to the Toyota Camry I pre-booked to take me to the hotel, the driver takes one look at me and says, “No throw up in my car. No ride.” And proceeds to cancel on me, which is how I find myself in the back of an ancient cab, stuck in traffic, hanging my head out the window like a dog, pleading with my stomach to cooperate, due to the oppressive heat and overwhelming smell of leftover fast food lingering in here.
This is decidedly not the glitz and glam I was hoping for.
“First time in LA?” the cabbie asks over the sound of Beyoncé on the radio and horns honking around us.
“Yeah,” I say.
“Traveling alone and no suitcase?” he asks, suspicious eyebrow raised, which I spot in the reflection of his rearview mirror. “You in witness protection?”
“No.”
“You a spy?”
“No.”
“Running from the law?”
“No,” I bark, growing frustrated by this incessant and ridiculous line of questioning. This day is already proving awful, and my patience is cracking like an eggshell.
“Jeez,” he says with an offendedpff. “Just trying to make conversation.”
And I swear he hits every pothole on the rest of the drive just to spite me.
Let’s do tapas tonight! Pick the place and send me the deetz,Alexia texts me as I’m riding in an elevator with an overly chatty man in a polo who doesn’t seem to notice I’ve stopped listening to his rant about the ice machine being out of order. My brain is like the ice machine—unable to do its basic functions at present.
I reread Alexia’s text to fully understand. Tapas was not in my budget for this trip, but I figure if she is my ticket to a one-hundred-thousand-dollar cash prize and televised revenge against my ex onMadcap Market, then I can spare fifteen bucks on teeny-tiny empanadas. The investment will be recouped.
Refreshing my phone, I switch apps to see if there are any open reservations for two at some of the top Google hits, but sadly, everything looks booked. While the elevator groans upward, I check my other notifications. There’s still no word from the airline on the status of my suitcase, and my mood has soured even more, which I didn’t believe to be possible.
I want to take a shower as soon as I stumble into the hotel room, needing to wash off the stench of travel, but I reconsider when I see what awaits me.
The room is decrepit and smells faintly of mothballs, and the shower is clean—you can smell the bleach—but, against all logic, still appears grimy. I didn’t notice the hotel’s star rating when I booked it. I was roped in by the cheap price tag.
Even the lobby has aTower of Terrorvibe, overused and disused at the same time. I try not to think about it as I take the elevator back down to it and cross to the concierge desk.
Behind it stands a man with thick jet-black hair that’s slicked back to look professional. His skin is pale with darker hues around his eyes. His nose is slender across the bridge, but widens at the bottom like a hand bell. There’s a delicate handsomeness to him that all but disappears when he crinkles up his face at the computer monitor.
“Die!” he whisper-shouts.
“Excuse me?” I ask.
The man’s eyes flick up. “Oh, no. Not you. The zombie.”
The computer screen reflects in the shiny black walls behind him. In the reflection, I notice he’s playingMinecraft. The boxy people and landscapes sprawl across his monitor. He fiddles with his mouse, changing the perspective. It’s trippy from my vantage point.
“Got it,” I huff. “Anyway, I was hoping you could help me. I’m getting tapas tonight with an old friend, Google was no help, and I need a recommendation—”
“Fuck. Not a spider!”
“Where?” I jump away from his cart. Arachnophobia runs in my family. Anything with eight legs can’t be trusted.
The man—Leo as per the engraving on his scratched-up nameplate—laughs. “It’s on the screen.” In the reflection again, I see he’s shooting a spider and it’s hissing and turning red. He clicks his mouse, pausing the game. “What can I do for you?”
I regain my bearings, the tired frustration from earlier rearing its ugly head once more. “Tapas restaurant recommendation for tonight, please.” I know my tone is clipped, but this day has been pressing on me, testing my patience. He lackadaisically shows me a laminated list in a falling-apart binder, and I pick the one that has the coolest name because I think it will impress Alexia who is notoriously hard to please.
