Later

Lies are so easy to tell, and sins are so hard to forgive. It’s odd how even something as simple as a coat of paint can be deceptive until viewed in the right light. I never knew what I preferred—a pretty lie or a sorry sinner—until now.

The room has been redone to have a sleek, modern appeal. Everything is white and minimal with clean lines and the most abstract of abstract art, but the stale scent of cigarette smoke still hangs in the room. It's proof that Vegas is a city out of time, or maybe just one unhinged from reality. If it weren't for the acrid smell assaulting my nostrils, the space might actually seem luxurious. No doubt the renovation had been a ploy to try to convince visitors the hotel is worth the hefty price tag.

Next month, I will have some serious explaining to do when my mom and Hans get my emergency credit card bill. But if this situation doesn’t count as a crisis, nothing ever will.

I sit on the edge of the bed and wait with my hands folded in my lap. Being nervous is strange. Of course, I’ve never called a service before. Until a few days ago, my only contact with call girls had been my shoes on the fliers littering the streets. Somehow it still feels inevitable. I'm in too deep not to follow the clues.

But this room, in this hotel, in this city could never hope to be more than a mirage. Because the one thing tourists never see is the truth. The bones of Las Vegas are rotten, weakened by greed and excess. Even in a fancy hotel room I can’t see past that fact.

A knock on the door startles me, and I stand, smoothing my dress as if I need to impress her. When I open the door, I'm met by familiar, if surprised eyes. The shock mirrored in them quickly shifts to anger.

Stepping to the side, I hold out my arm. “Won’t you come in?”