apparently traveling three thousand miles to have a conversation.
As I read through the information, I also noticed that there was no return ticket. Not only did I have to leave for the airport twenty minutes ago, I had no idea what—or how much—I was supposedto pack. For a few seconds, I was really, truly irritated with Daisy Dixson and her publicity machine for their lack of consideration. Then, just as quickly, I realized that the oversight may not have been intentional. When you have millions of dollars, maybe this is just the way you roll. Bored with your everyday life? Head to Miami for a couple of days and see what happens. I could either spend the day cursing my new employers or just shut up and deal . . . and perhaps have a good time doing it.
I spent the next ten minutes showering and packing at tornado-like wind speeds, throwing everything I could grab into a duffel bag I used to use for the gym. As it had been two years since I’d actually bothered to go to the gym, I figured I should find some new use for the bag. I was in such a hurry that as soon as I was finished, I had absolutely no idea what I’d even packed. For all I knew, the contents could include an evening dress, no underwear, and a parka. But none of it would really matter if I couldn’t make the flight on time, so I tossed the bag over one shoulder, left Smitty with a neighbor, and drove the 10 freeway like a bat out of hell.
I was lucky in that rush hour had barely begun and traffic wasn’t nearly as horrific as it would have been an hour later. All it took was a little reckless driving and illegal use of the carpool lane and I somehow made it to LAX in twenty minutes, and with only four people swearing at me or giving me the finger. That I noticed, anyway.
By 8:30, I was happily in my first-class seat, drinking a mimosa and having already forgotten the insanity of the morning so far. I was even starting to look forward to my impromptu work trip to Miami. After all, I was traveling with the rich and famous—how bad could it be?
• • •
T he flight landed just before 5:00 P.M. , and by 5:15, I found myself weaving through throngs of travelers in cheap Hawaiian shirts and flip-flops to get to baggage claim. I was still so Zen from five hoursof expensive champagne that I didn’t pause to consider the practical elements of this trip. The first of which were, where was I going from the airport, and how was I supposed to get there?
In light of who I was working for, I think I assumed that a car would be waiting for me at the terminal, but I waited nearly an hour and no one appeared. After a while, I must have looked like quite the idiot, sitting at the curb, watching as people came and went. Eventually, even the airport police began circling me suspiciously, perhaps thinking that my pink Nike workout bag held some sort of explosive device. Just as three cops huddled together and stared at me, whispering among themselves, I pulled out my cell phone and called Jameson.
“Hols!” He answered on the first ring. The guy must have had his Bluetooth surgically implanted in his ear. “How was the flight?”
“Just fine,” I told him. My champagne buzz was wearing off, and the ninety-five-degree, sticky heat was starting to get under my skin. “I’m at the airport now.”
“What are you still doing out there?” he asked me. “Get yourself a car and come play with us.”
“And where exactly would I be going?”
“We’re at the Fontainebleau, in the Presidential Suite. Just come on up when you get here.”
And, as always, Jameson just hung up. I pulled the phone away from my ear and stared at it for a second, willing some sane, normal person to call so that I could have a sane, normal conversation. No one called. I wasn’t even sure I knew someone who fit that description.
I heaved myself off the curb, then started back toward baggage claim in search of a car rental agency. It would be fine, I told myself. Surely
As I read through the information, I also noticed that there was no return ticket. Not only did I have to leave for the airport twenty minutes ago, I had no idea what—or how much—I was supposedto pack. For a few seconds, I was really, truly irritated with Daisy Dixson and her publicity machine for their lack of consideration. Then, just as quickly, I realized that the oversight may not have been intentional. When you have millions of dollars, maybe this is just the way you roll. Bored with your everyday life? Head to Miami for a couple of days and see what happens. I could either spend the day cursing my new employers or just shut up and deal . . . and perhaps have a good time doing it.
I spent the next ten minutes showering and packing at tornado-like wind speeds, throwing everything I could grab into a duffel bag I used to use for the gym. As it had been two years since I’d actually bothered to go to the gym, I figured I should find some new use for the bag. I was in such a hurry that as soon as I was finished, I had absolutely no idea what I’d even packed. For all I knew, the contents could include an evening dress, no underwear, and a parka. But none of it would really matter if I couldn’t make the flight on time, so I tossed the bag over one shoulder, left Smitty with a neighbor, and drove the 10 freeway like a bat out of hell.
I was lucky in that rush hour had barely begun and traffic wasn’t nearly as horrific as it would have been an hour later. All it took was a little reckless driving and illegal use of the carpool lane and I somehow made it to LAX in twenty minutes, and with only four people swearing at me or giving me the finger. That I noticed, anyway.
By 8:30, I was happily in my first-class seat, drinking a mimosa and having already forgotten the insanity of the morning so far. I was even starting to look forward to my impromptu work trip to Miami. After all, I was traveling with the rich and famous—how bad could it be?
• • •
T he flight landed just before 5:00 P.M. , and by 5:15, I found myself weaving through throngs of travelers in cheap Hawaiian shirts and flip-flops to get to baggage claim. I was still so Zen from five hoursof expensive champagne that I didn’t pause to consider the practical elements of this trip. The first of which were, where was I going from the airport, and how was I supposed to get there?
In light of who I was working for, I think I assumed that a car would be waiting for me at the terminal, but I waited nearly an hour and no one appeared. After a while, I must have looked like quite the idiot, sitting at the curb, watching as people came and went. Eventually, even the airport police began circling me suspiciously, perhaps thinking that my pink Nike workout bag held some sort of explosive device. Just as three cops huddled together and stared at me, whispering among themselves, I pulled out my cell phone and called Jameson.
“Hols!” He answered on the first ring. The guy must have had his Bluetooth surgically implanted in his ear. “How was the flight?”
“Just fine,” I told him. My champagne buzz was wearing off, and the ninety-five-degree, sticky heat was starting to get under my skin. “I’m at the airport now.”
“What are you still doing out there?” he asked me. “Get yourself a car and come play with us.”
“And where exactly would I be going?”
“We’re at the Fontainebleau, in the Presidential Suite. Just come on up when you get here.”
And, as always, Jameson just hung up. I pulled the phone away from my ear and stared at it for a second, willing some sane, normal person to call so that I could have a sane, normal conversation. No one called. I wasn’t even sure I knew someone who fit that description.
I heaved myself off the curb, then started back toward baggage claim in search of a car rental agency. It would be fine, I told myself. Surely
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