“All right,” Mona said, her eyes pointed down the street toward the Maxwell house. “Enough. I know I get on you about work, but you do have a job to do. So let’s do it.”
“I thought you told me to carelessabout my job.”
“I did,” Mona said. “But I don’t want to have to hire you as a busboy at Monads if you blow this.”
“Why would I have to get a job as a busboy at Monads?” Elliot felt his face burn. Just how much did his sister know about his life that he wasn’t aware of?
Mona squinted up toward the overcast sky. “El, Francesca and I are friends, you know that, right? Remember you brought me to that thing...”
Elliot had forgotten. He’d been dateless for a media awards dinner last year, so Mona drove up (in the camper) to attend. She and Francesca had gotten on like a house on fire.
“We’re friends online.” Mona sighed. “She DMed me this week. Told me you might need some backup. Implied that youwouldneed some backup.” His twin paused. “You know that I’m here as backup, yes? That you don’t have to always be the one leading the way.”
Elliot blinked and tried to gather himself. This entire week when he’d been trying to project strength, Mona knew of his weakness. And she was just waiting for him to let her help.
“I should have told you,” he managed.
“You should have trusted me,” she replied.
“I do,” he said.
“Sometimes,” she answered, “when it’s convenient for you.”
“It’s a relief that you know,” he said, and he meant it, “thateverything depends on this story for me. That I have to get it exactly right.”
Mona started toward the camper. “Not everything depends on it, El. Some things do, sure, but not everything.”
The drive to Vegas from Barton was interminably boring. Straight highway, deserted land. The RV still smelled a bit like Birdie, of her expensive Parisian perfume, and Elliot found it hard to get his head on straight in the plume. He’d already outlined the article—the work he was going to have to put in to make all the parts line up just right, so he couldn’t distract himself with the buzz of work in his brain. He’d called Francesca from his driveway after he and Mona cleared the air, after the considerable stress bubble in his chest deflated, and promised her an article by a midnight deadline in time for tomorrow morning’s news cycle.
They pulled onto the Vegas Strip by midafternoon. Mona was driving because she was better in traffic in a vehicle the size of a small home, and she veered the Winnebago into the giant circular driveway of Simon’s hotel. A towering eruption of a fountain spurted gallons of water behind them, and a mob of tourists and valets stood at the ready at the front door. Mona opened the door, grabbed her overnight bag, and handed the keys to a perplexed attendant who was eyeing the camper like it was a mountain he couldn’t scale.
“I know where every ding is on this thing. Take good care of her,” she said, then marched toward the lobby.
Elliot trailed behind her, the whoosh of the automatic doors welcoming him and blowing back his mop of hair. He saw Mona disappearing into the casino, which was just as well: he had work to do and needed to find Simon. He approached the front desk, which had a cascade of crystals adorning the entire wall behind it in typical understated Vegas style.
“Welcome to the Boulevard,” a receptionist said. “Checking in?”
“Yes,” Elliot said. “Mr. Halstead is holding a room for me—two beds. UnderO’Brien.”
She clacked the keyboard of her computer, but before she landed on his reservation, Elliot heard his name being called from across the lobby. He turned to find Simon Halstead walking his way with his arms wide open. He took four steps toward him, and they clapped each other’s backs like old friends. Which they were.
Elliot had met Simon six or so years ago when he was on assignment in London. This was after the night with Birdie but before Simon had gotten involved with her. Elliot was in the UK for a long stint, so the paper put him up at a hotel in Kensington where Simon happened to be the manager. They weren’t too far off in age, and Elliot would decompress at the bar when he wasn’t holed up writing or near Parliament reporting. Most nights, when he was solo, Simon would join him for a pint before turning the shift over to the evening staff.
Elliot hadn’t seen Simon since he’d moved back to the States after the gig in London. But they’d stayed in touch over email, partially, he supposed, because of Birdie. Mona had been the one to tell Elliot that Birdie was in London for a shoot and getting hounded by the press daily. Throngs of photographers chasing her cars, hordes of them outside Claridge’s, where she was staying. Elliot had purposefully placed a moratorium on all things related to Birdie Maxwell since he walked out of her apartment a year earlier, as if even a hint of her in his life would send him snowballing, running back to her like at the end of one of her rom-coms, but he couldn’t say this to Mona.
Did he know anywhere she could go?Mona had asked.You know London as well as anyone. A friend she could stay with, an apartment to crash at?
As a matter of fact, he said, he did. He emailed Simon, who assured him that she would be well taken care of at his quiet boutique of a hotel. No one would think to look for her there. Mona told Birdie, and Birdie checked in, and six months later, Elliot heard that she and Simon were a thing. He knew he couldn’t be possessive over someone who was never his, but his jealousy planted roots all the same.
Today, Simon flagged over a bellman and had him whisk Elliot’s bags up to his room.
“Let’s get a drink,” Simon said. “Before we get into the rest of it, let’s get a pint.”
Elliot laughed. “You know I’m on a deadline, right?”
“You were always on a deadline,” Simon replied, which wasn’t incorrect.
He and Simon moved through the Boulevard’s lobby, past a towering glass art installation of two vibrant red colliding hearts, and with the clang from the casino in the distance competing with a pitter-patter from a waterfall by the elevators.
