The Bangover

by Valente, Lili

  “Thanks, will do.” I’m about to reach for my phone when I hesitate and call after him, “Did my friend give you a message for me? Maybe a hint as to how much longer I’ll be waiting?”

  He crosses his arms over his chest with a shake of his head. “No, sorry.”

  I wave a hand. “It’s fine. No worries. I’m not in any big rush.” I point to the ceiling. “And I’m not sleepy, so…”

  Forearms grins. “The casino’s evil plan is working.”

  “No, it’s not,” I say, taking another drink. It’s a little odd-tasting, for sure, but still way better than the coffee. “I don’t gamble. So I’m getting oxygenated for free. I win this round, casino.”

  He laughs. “Good for you. I don’t gamble anymore, either. Every time I lost forty bucks in the slots, I kept thinking that was a month’s gym membership, with a couple of protein smoothies thrown in.”

  I hum in agreement, even though I’ve never set foot in a gym. I get my sweat for free, pounding the pavement from my place to the marina and back again. And I figure lifting my fattest cat, Hitchcock, off my mattress before I head to bed every night is all the weight lifting any reasonable woman needs.

  “But if you’re looking to kill time while you’re waiting,” the bartender adds, “you should check out the carny exhibit.” He points toward the entrance. “It’s just down the hall to the right, before you get to the arcade. They’ve got some cool stuff. A bunch of those old fortune-telling machines that spit out cards and a display from an old Mummy’s Curse ride.”

  I sit up a little straighter at “Mummy’s Curse,” intrigued. “So it’s close?”

  “Real close. And you can take your drink with you if you want. Just get your hand stamped so you can come back through the exit without waiting in line again.”

  “Thanks, I will.” I slide off my stool, tucking my phone into my little purse and collecting my drink.

  “Cool. Enjoy it.” Forearms lifts an arm, looking sad to see me go. But then, he’s right—it’s dead on this side of the bar. It’s strange to think that people would rather wait in line closer to the dance floor than walk twenty feet to reach more readily-accessible alcohol, but people are often a mystery to me.

  It started in elementary school, when other girls my age were crushing on boy-band members I found repulsive and continues to this day as the people in my inner circle drag me to sporting events. They insist I’m going to love Sport X once I see it live, but I always find the snacks the most riveting part of any competitive performance. And honestly, I’d rather eat my popcorn in the dark, staring at a movie screen, the way God intended.

  But old carnival equipment? There’s a temptation I can’t resist.

  I collect my hand stamp at the exit and drift down the hall. I consider calling Colin to let him know where I’m going, but it seems like he’s going to be a while. And if he arrives at the bar to find me gone, he’ll call me, and I can answer. Better that than I risk pestering him in the middle of a tricky conversation with his ex.

  I reach the entrance to the exhibit—a giant, bug-eyed clown’s face with a six-foot hole cut in his mouth—and grin. Oh yeah, this is in my wheelhouse all right. Sipping at my increasingly tolerable drink—my taste buds are going pleasantly numb from the combo of alcohol and citrus—I wander into the first display room.

  There, I find a few fortune-telling machines, arranged haphazardly in the space, almost as if someone has already started breaking down this part of the exhibit. But still, there are a few things left, including an ancient-looking wheel-of-fortune type apparatus and a couple of the more modern gypsy-mannequin-behind-glass variety. Picking my favorite mannequin, an old man in a turban with a leathery-looking face, I slip a quarter into the slot, punch the “Tell my Future” button, and watch as his glass eyes light up from the inside.

  The red glow and the spooky accordion music pumping from the speakers above his head are creepy enough to make me take a bracing drink. His arms lift and his head rolls before he touches a jerky hand to the green jewel in his turban and announces in an ominous voice, “Your fate is sealed, no turning back now. Give Soloman more coins to learn more about your future.”

  The machine spits out a crisp eggshell-colored card that I collect from the slot beneath Soloman’s glass window. Turning it over, I read, “There is nothing to fear, but fear itself,” and harrumph. “Thanks for the platitude, Soloman.”

  I consider trying the other machine to see if I can score a better fortune but decide I should keep moving. I have no idea how large this exhibit is, and I’d like to at least skim through all of it before heading back to the club to get my groove on with Colin. Though, I have to confess, dancing is starting to sound like more effort than I’m up for tonight. The casino must have cut the oxygen supply in here.

  I can feel my lids getting heavier as I cruise through mostly empty rooms—they’ve definitely started breaking this down, and I’m beginning to wonder if I should even be in here—and into a long hallway lined with mirrors.

  I wander across the carpeted space, head spinning as I watch my body morph from a squat goblin with an impossibly long neck to a ten-foot-tall girl with a body like stretched taffy. The images are disconcerting, making me think back to my conversation with Colin before we left the hotel tonight.

  So much of the world is a funhouse mirror, reflecting false images that it can take an entire lifetime to realize are lies. Without good friends and people who love us to help undo the damage, where would we all be?

  “Lost. All lost,” I murmur, draining the last of my drink and smacking my tingling lips, wishing Colin was here so I could thank him for caring enough to challenge me when I need challenging. He’s a good one, my friend. My sweet, sweet friend that I love so much it hurts.

  I fumble for my phone to send him a sappy text, but the drawstring on my purse is being impossible and my fingers are stupid, so I give up.

  Hmmm…stupid fingers. Fuzzy head. Heavy eyes.

  I suspect Forearms must have done a heavy pour on the vodka, a suspicion that is all but confirmed as I totter deeper into the exhibit, getting progressively freaked out by things that usually wouldn’t bother me. I love stuff like half-rotten clown costumes and portraits of people who worked the Freak Show circuit.

  But not tonight. Tonight, I can feel hidden eyes watching me, and spirits lingering too close. By the time I reach the velvety near-darkness of the Mummy’s Cursed Tomb, the one room that still looks pretty complete, my heart is racing, my palms are sweating, and my knees are so wobbly, I really wish there was a place to sit down.

  But there’s nothing horizontal except the coffins scattered throughout the room, and those are filled with mummies in various stages of decomposition. There are freshly wrapped mummies sitting stock straight, their arms extended like sleepwalkers, and mummies with blackened bandages and skeletal faces crawling out of their coffins, as furtive as naughty children sneaking out to steal cookies after they’ve been tucked into their beds.

  And then there are the rest of them…

  Whoever put the finishing touches on the near-naked mummies has horror-movie magic flowing through his or her veins. The monsters are utterly terrifying, rotted corpses with wild eyes that would be at home in a zombie film—one of the really scary ones that keeps you up the rest of the night making your Zombie Apocalypse plan even though you know that the end times aren’t going to go down that way.

  “The end times are going to be stupid,” I tell one of the scary mummies, leaning in to get a closer look at his utterly gross face. “We’re going to get killed by weather, Mr. Gloppy. Or pollen. And sneeze and snot ourselves to death.”

  “God, you really are weird as hell, aren’t you?” a familiar feminine voice behind me asks.

  I spin, and the world spins with me. I stagger to the left, dropping my empty glass as I trip over my own feet and nearly take a tumble to the floor.

  “Easy there, Creepy,” Regina says, righting me with firm hands on my shoulder
s. “Here, let me take that for you.” She grabs my purse, snatching it from my tingling hands with ease before she asks, “Facial recognition on your phone lock screen?”

  I frown. “Wha za wha…”

  I smack my lips, struggling to make actual words come out, but the room is spinning again, whirling, colors swirling into a mix of muddy green, brown, and the candy apple of Regina’s red lips.

  “Sleep it off, sweetie, and you’ll be fine,” she says with a mean laugh. “And I know just the place where a tragic thing like you will feel right at home.”

  I lunge for the mirrored hallway, still sick and confused, but knowing that I have to get out of here, away from Regina. I barely make it one wobbly step in my heels before her arm locks around my chest and drags me backward.

  And then the ceiling is on the floor, and the floor is on the ceiling, and I’m floating, falling, tumbling into something soft, but dusty.

  Really dusty.

  I sneeze, hard, and it clears my head just long enough to realize Regina has put me to bed in one of the mummy’s coffins before the black circle at the edges of my vision closes in.

  Chapter Twenty

  Colin

  Fifteen minutes later, I reach the end of the long colonnade of shops and a staircase leading to the lobby of the Cairo’s connected sister casino, the Valhalla, without any sign of Regina. I do, however, see hammered frat boys spilling French Fries all over the marble floor, a wasted man with urine dripping out from his pants’ leg screaming at his wife about his pension on the phone, and several twenty-something girls retching in potted plants, all of which make me grateful that I’m not a casino custodian.

  With all the free booze flowing, I’m sure repulsive messes are par for the course.

  I’m bracing myself for the return trip when the first notes of ‘Spooky Little Girl Like You’ emanate from my back pocket. It’s the Hidden Kill Bay Bed and Breakfast ring, a realization that’s immediately alarming. Bridget wouldn’t call me in the middle of the night unless it was an emergency.

  “Hey Bridge, what’s up? You okay?” I ask before she can get a word in.

  “I’m fine, but I’m worried about Kirby,” she whispers, “I’ve tried to call her four times, but she isn’t picking up her phone.”

  “She’s in a dance club,” I say, starting back down the hall at a brisk clip. “She probably can’t hear the ring over the music, but I’m headed back to check on her now. I’ll report back as soon as I find her.”

  “Thank you so much,” Bridget says. “And once you find her, stay with her okay? Until we figure out what’s going on with Peter?”

  My brows snap together. “Peter? Her ex?”

  “Yeah, Shep came down to the kitchen while I was starting the scones for breakfast,” she says softly.

  I frown harder. “What time is it over there?”

  “Five forty-five. I always get up early to get the baked goods ready on Sundays, and Shep had his email set to ding so he’d know when the Dark Web guy got back to him. Anyway, the guy found out who’s behind P. Eater, Inc. It’s Peter, Kirby’s Peter. He’s the CEO.”

  “What?” The fingers of my free hand curl into a fist.

  “Like Peter Peter Pumpkin Eater, the nursery rhyme. It’s his company.”

  “So he’s the one…” I trail off, uncertain how much Kirby has shared with her sister.

  “Who filmed you guys kissing in your room,” Bridget pops in, making me grateful I didn’t spill the beans. “Yeah, probably. Or he at the very least hired the person who rented the drone.”

  “Sick fuck.”

  “Looks like it,” Bridget says sadly. “I’m hoping there’s an innocent explanation—I liked Peter, even though he and Kirby were wrong for each other. It’s hard to believe he’d violate her privacy like that. It’s blowing my mind almost as much as knowing you and Kirby are make-out buddies.”

  “I’m sure that is a little weird. Sorry.” I take a breath, holding it as I hurry past the potted plants by the elevator, where a guy with sweaty red curls has taken over plant-puking duty. Shuddering, I make a note never to stay out past two in the morning in Vegas again. Clearly, this is the time of night when the debauchery takes a turn for the repulsive.

  “I meant blowing my mind in a good way,” Bridget says. “The more I think about it, the more it feels like a no-brainer. I mean…of course, right? Of course you two are perfect for each other.”

  “I, uh, um… Yeah, I think so, anyway,” I say, the words ending in a cough as I pass the entrance to the buffet, where the sickly-sweet smell of waffle batter mixes with the scent of steamed fish from the dinner shift.

  Definitely heading home early next time.

  “But don’t tell her I said that,” I say once I stop hacking, shocked to find my cheeks warmer than they were before. I can’t remember the last time I blushed—have I ever blushed? “I’m still trying to figure out how to break the news that I’ve got a thing for her that’s more than a friend thing.”

  “Aw, it makes me so happy to hear that.” Bridget sighs happily. “And I promise I won’t tell Kirby. But please have her text me when you find her, okay? So I know she’s all right?”

  “Absolutely. I won’t let her out of my sight until this situation is resolved. And hopefully, now that we have evidence to connect him to the drone, we’ll be able to get Peter to hand over the footage without a fight.”

  “My fingers are crossed for you guys.”

  “Thanks. And thank Shep for me, okay? Tell him I’ll call later?”

  “Of course,” Bridget says, a hint of something strange in her voice that I can’t quite pin down. “As soon as he wakes up. He went back to bed after he delivered the news. He isn’t used to going without sleep. Or being up at the crack of dawn.”

  I snort. “Yeah, the last time Shep was up before noon was—” I cut off at the hum on the line, signaling an incoming call. Pulling the phone away from my ear, I see Kirby’s name and breathe a sigh of relief. “Hey, Bridget, it’s your sister. Let me take her call, and we’ll text you in a few.”

  “Okay, tell her I love her and I’m sorry Peter’s being awful!”

  I promise I will and click over to the other line with a smile. I hate that I have to be the bearer of bad news about her ex, but I’m still ridiculously excited to hear Kirby’s voice again. Twenty minutes apart is too much, “Hey, Larry, sorry to keep you waiting. I’m afraid it’s been another shit show. Regina saw me coming and ran off again, and I just got a call from your sister with some pretty fucked-up news.”

  “I’m so sorry to hear that,” purrs a voice that is not Kirby’s, making my smile drop so fast it shatters on the marble floor. “I hope her sister is okay, because your fuck buddy sure isn’t.”

  I stop dead in the middle of the hall, my blood freezing. “What did you do to her? I swear, Regina, if you hurt her, I’ll—”

  “Uh, uh, uh, watch it there, big boy. Don’t want to say anything you can’t take back,” she says, before adding in a coy voice, “And I didn’t do anything to your little precious. She got wasted, wandered into a restricted area, and got carted away by casino security. I hate to break it to you, but I think she’s got a drinking problem, Col. Like…a serious one.”

  “Said the woman who’s out at the club swilling martinis while she’s four months pregnant,” I snap back. “And what the hell are you doing with Kirby’s phone?”

  “Jesus, relax, asshole. They were virgin martinis. And she dropped it when she passed out before the cops dragged her drunk ass outside. I picked it up so I could call you and get it back to her.” Regina sniffs. “Last time I do a good deed.”

  “A second ago you said casino security,” I say, dread worming through my gut. Regina’s lying, I can feel it. But why? And where the hell is Kirby? “Now it’s the cops who took her out? Which is it, Regina?”

  “I don’t know, guys in uniforms all look alike to me. But she’s fine. They’ll take her somewhere to sober up. And in the meantime, you and
I can finally talk without a third wheel in the way.”

  “I’m not talking to you, Regina. Not until I know Kirby’s okay and find out where she is. She wasn’t even drinking tonight. She could have passed out for some other reason and be headed to the hospital. I need to find her so can—”

  “Oh, please. Relax. She’s not headed to the hospital. She’s fine.” She sniffs before adding with a dramatic sigh, “I can’t, however, say the same for our relationship. If you don’t meet up with me and make this right, I can’t promise to play nice with you, Colin. I mean, I’m sure you’ll say you want to see your baby, but how can I trust a man who’s so busy worrying about his fuck buddy he has no time for the mother of his child?”

  “Tell me what really happened,” I growl. “Now.”

  “I told you! She passed out. But it’s no big deal. She’ll wake up in a few hours with a fuzzy head and a dry mouth and no damage done. Probably won’t even have a headache.”

  The blood drains from my face. “You did something to her, didn’t you?”

  “What? No, of course not,” she screeches, sounding guiltier by the second.

  “What was it?” I demand. “Chloroform? An injection or—”

  “Jesus, psycho, no. I’m not a criminal mastermind.” She huffs. “I just put a pill in her drink while the bartender was looking at my boobs.” I curse, and Regina hurries on in a slightly slurred voice that makes me positive she’s been drinking more than virgin martinis. “A tiny little one. Baby pill. Small. And I tucked her in safe and sound.” She giggles. “Creepy’s probably feeling right at home right about now.”

  “Where is she?” I demand. “Tell me now, or I’m calling the police.”

  “No! Colin, please, I just want to talk. She’s fine, I—”

  “Goodbye, Regina. I have to call 911.”

  “No, no, no!” she whimpers. “Okay, I’ll tell. I’ll show and tell. Meet me downstairs by the ice cream shop. I’ll take you right to her, I swear.”