I ended up sitting on one of the greens, but a rescuer arrives! A golf cart is here. There’s a man in a suit. He’s saying, “Can I help you?”

I blink up at him and grin. “My prince charming!”

We strike a deal, and he says he will take me out of the palm tree forest, to the Wynn.

“And you work here?” I ask him for the first—or second?—time.

“Yes, miss. I’m a ball boy.”

I giggle. Balls.

“Golf balls.”

He chuckles. “Golf balls.”

He presses the pedal, and I get dropped into the rabbit hole. Lots of lights and pools that glow and other lights, and umbrellas and stuff hanging over gardens, and I see some dancers wearing feathers on their butts and I think I saw a waterfall peeking through the brush.

There’s this lighted path, and we drive down it, and then we’re standing in front of this Zen-ish garden place, and there’s a bunch of tropical trees and a stone path and tables with candles where people are eating stuff that smells good, kind of like tuna, and my guide is biding me au revoir. I’m out of the cart, standing along a tree-lined path. My legs feel shaky.

“Wait—but what do I do now?” I turn around. My guide is gone. I’m by myself.

Oh, God.

I’m not sure how I make it to the penthouses. I’m on the 46^th floor, and the view from the back of the glass elevator makes me dizzy. I step onto the shiny chocolate marble, under big, round, gold chandelier things, and I have a hazy memory of tipping someone pretty generously and mentioning Hunter’s name.

But uh-oh. There’s a problem. This hallway, where the elevator dropped me off, only has one door, and it’s guarded by a solid gold lion. I blink my bleary eyes and try to see it in a different light, but I know décor, and this does not say ‘Hunter’ or ‘Lizzy’ to me. Not at all.

I sink down against the wall, stick my cold hands into my bag, and give my fine motor skills a challenge by searching for my makeup. I giggle as I pop open a compact and refresh my lipstick—see, I don’t look drunk!—and stumble as I get back to my feet. I drop the makeup back into my purse and fish my iPhone out. I dial Lizzy’s number, still smiling stupidly, but when it goes to voice mail, my stomach starts to feel sick.

I’m lost.

I’m lost in a big casino. Not just a casino. A casino wonderland, with an Alexander McQueen boutique and waterfalls and flashy lights and steam and marble and glittery diamond lamps.

“Where is Lizzy?” I whisper to myself.

I’m back at the big, brass elevator, repeatedly banging the ‘down’ arrow. The doors open a couple seconds later, and I ride to the main floor, where I’m dizzied again by the sights, sounds, and smells of the casino.

The décor is glossy and rich, with bold, bright colors, varied textures and fabrics, gazillion-foot ceilings, and expansive, art-lined corridors. If I’m not mistaken, Roger Thomas did the last remodel, and I think it’s…amazing. I’m scrutinizing his extravagant potted plant choices when it dawns on me that I should try to call Lizzy again.

I do, and it’s the same as last time: no answer after several rings, then voicemail.

I pick a comfortable looking, bumblebee yellow couch and sink down onto it. “Lizzy,” I hiss into the phone, “I’m down in the casino, and I need you. Where are you?”

I hang up, feeling tears burn in my eyes, and decide I’m not going to be some drunk girl crying in a casino lobby. Maybe I can walk off my buzz and figure out how to get to Hunter’s penthouse.

Figure it out?

I should just go ask!

Du-huhhh.

I cut through a few private casino rooms filled with people doing special things—oops—and finally make it to an information desk, where I ask a stern-looking middle-aged guy about Hunter West’s penthouse.

He frowns at me. “Ma’am, we don’t give out our residents’ information without prior resident authorization.”

“But…can’t you just call him?”

“I suppose I can try.”

No dice.

When he hangs up the phone, I’m feeling desperate. “You’re sure?”

He nods.

I narrow my eyes at the man, then press my lips together and lean forward a little. Lower my voice, in case bad people are around. “Sir…I don’t mean to be a diva, but…I’m not a bad person. I’m not a criminal. That’s what I mean.” I’m floundering. I stand straighter, throw my shoulders back. Pretend I’m not drunk. “My father is Trent Dalton. You know, the computer guy?” I raise my eyebrows.

“I know who Trent Dalton is, ma’am. Everyone does.”

I smile a little. “Okay, so, then, it’s okay to let me into Hunter West’s room. Up to his room, I mean. Up to. Not into.”

“I’m sorry ma’am. Not without prior resident authorization.”

I nod a few times before turning away.

I call Lizzy two more times without success.

“This is a bad day,” I murmur to myself. “Bad night. This is a bad month.”

A few minutes later, I’m dawdling near a vast room decorated like the pages of a Japanese manga and filled with slot machines, when a bulky man in a staff suit grabs my elbow.

“Ma’am, may I help you?”

I shake my head, removing my elbow from his presumptuous grasp. “No, I don’t need anything.”

He frowns at me, looking suspicious, and I sigh. “I’m looking for some friends, but I’ll find them eventually. Maybe.”

His eyebrows—dark, I notice—scrunch like fuzzy caterpillars. “Ma’am, are you intoxicated?”

I blink, surprised by the question. “Is that abnormal? This is a casino!” I hate to be terse, but I don’t appreciate his manner.

His hand grasps my elbow again. “Please come with me, Miss. We can get this sorted out at the security station.”

“Is this a joke?” I tug against his grasp, trying to wrap my addled mind around what he’s telling me. “Did I get paged or something?”

His fingers, locked around my wrist now, are almost crushing. “Come with me now, Miss. We’ll get this sorted out when we get there.”

I bite my lip, looking him over as he walks half a step ahead of me. My eyes dart all around the hall, crammed with thrill-seekers of every nationality, gender, and age. I can’t find anyone dressed in a uniform like this man’s, and I’m too buzzed to remember what the other employees were wearing.

All my mother’s warnings play in my head like a recording stuck on a loop. All the things she’s told me about being kidnapped. Dad’s wealth is notable. And I told them who I am!

With my heart pounding, I jerk my hand away. “I’ll need to see some ID, sir.”

With my heart pounding, I jerk my hand away. “I’ll need to see some ID, sir.” I back away from him, already glancing around for somewhere to run if he acts shady.

Time seems to hang in place, the bright, loud scene around me freezing as my heart gallops.

The man rushes forward to grab me, looking meaner—more sinister—than he did before, and that’s all it takes. I turn and run.

MARCHANT

When Jenkins stops the Bentley at the doorway of the Wynn, I’m still working on my blunt.

“Hey dude, we’re here,” Jenk calls over his shoulder. He’s got some new tracks thumping, and with his tortoiseshell glasses and his toothpaste commercial smile, he looks a little ridiculous: my 20-year-old chauffeur. The deal is, I pay for his college and he drives me around to shit like this. Call me crazy, but I need it to be someone younger than me. I feel like hell every time I see an old guy driving someone. Shouldn’t he be fly fishing or watching Andy Griffith or some shit?

I didn’t stab the cherry out when I pressed the blunt into the ash tray, so I take another quick hit and nod as smoke pours out my nostrils. “Yeah, I noticed.” The flickering blue glow of the pools in front of the casino makes this difficult to miss.

I straighten my jacket and fuck with my tie and run my fingers through my newly trimmed beard. I don’t want to get out, but…I kind of have to.