Fourth allowed for a bit more individual expression. All the major properties on the Strip participated. Some had private fireworks shows choreographed to a headliner concert. Some had public displays of pyrotechnic excess. All had pool parties with celebrity hosts. And for those of us riding herd on the whole thing, sleep would be at a premium.
Somehow, I was the first to arrive at the office. The ongoing construction in my new corner of this command center obviated the need for a lock and key. Anyone could step through the gaping hole that would someday be an appropriate private entrance—or so they promised, but I had my doubts. Flicking the lights on as I wandering into my old office space, I found myself still curiously wired even after only four hours of fitful shut-eye. Bucked with life, I stuffed my Birkin in a drawer, then locked it and pocketed the key.
Before I lost my nerve, and bracing for the always colorful greeting I knew would be forthcoming, I whisked off the cover on the large birdcage in the corner next to the picture window overlooking the lobby below.
Newton, my multicolored, foul-mouthed Macaw didn't disappoint. "Bitch! Slap you! Slap you bad!"
"Glad you remember me, Bird." I grabbed a slice of browned apple from the plate next to the cage and stuck it through the bars, taking care not to offer the bird any of my delicate flesh—he had a hard time discerning between the tasty and the tender.
After eyeing me, he slid warily across the bar toward the delicacy. With a "Fuck you," he snagged the morsel, then promptly retreated to the other side of the cage to savor it. At least my relationship with the bird was straightforward—I fed him, he tolerated me, sorta like a lot of marriages I'd witnessed. Maybe that explained my difficulty with commitment.
With the bird fed and mollified for the moment, I busied myself with coffee preparations—Don Francisco Vanilla Nut, my caffeine delivery vehicle of choice. Cupping my hands around the warm mug, I inhaled the aroma, then took my first tentative sip as I wandered into the war zone. After flipping on the light, I peeled back the plastic sheet protecting my desk and chair, and settled in.
I was still anticipating my second jolt of java when an angry male voice shattered my joie de vivre . "Lucky, you damn well better be in here!"
Coffee flew as I jumped at the shout. Thankfully, I managed to avoid staining my white shirt and slacks, but the papers on my desk took a direct hit. Grabbing a paint cloth, I dabbed at the liquid pool.
Xavier Sang, all five feet and a couple inches of wiry male, stuck his head through the doorway. "You and me, girl, we gotta chat."
With his straight hair dyed an unnatural shade of bright red and hanging across his forehead, the clean flat planes of his face unmarred by even the hint of a beard, his eyes dark and slanted to give him just the hint of exotic, Xavier looked more like a kid heading to UNLV than the master miracle worker he was. The latest in a long line of a very prominent Chinese family who made their fortune working magic with gunpowder, he was my big bang expert. I'd always wanted to ask him about his name—Xavier wasn't exactly a common choice for the Number One Son—but I'd never worked up the nerve to be that rude.
"Oh good," he remarked as he stepped over a paint can, then plopped down in a chair across from me—he didn't bother removing the tarp. "You really are here."
"Not yet fully caffeinated, that would be overstating." I dabbed at the last of the coffee-stained papers—something about a new fire ordinance in effect for the upcoming celebratory displays. After the fire at the Monte Carlo, we'd had one heck of a time getting the county to once again allow fireworks from the rooftops.
Xavier steepled his fingers as he pressed them to his lips. "What's the other guy look like?"
"What?" I tossed the rag in a box that served as my trash bin.
When he lowered his hands, I could see his smile.
Somehow, I was the first to arrive at the office. The ongoing construction in my new corner of this command center obviated the need for a lock and key. Anyone could step through the gaping hole that would someday be an appropriate private entrance—or so they promised, but I had my doubts. Flicking the lights on as I wandering into my old office space, I found myself still curiously wired even after only four hours of fitful shut-eye. Bucked with life, I stuffed my Birkin in a drawer, then locked it and pocketed the key.
Before I lost my nerve, and bracing for the always colorful greeting I knew would be forthcoming, I whisked off the cover on the large birdcage in the corner next to the picture window overlooking the lobby below.
Newton, my multicolored, foul-mouthed Macaw didn't disappoint. "Bitch! Slap you! Slap you bad!"
"Glad you remember me, Bird." I grabbed a slice of browned apple from the plate next to the cage and stuck it through the bars, taking care not to offer the bird any of my delicate flesh—he had a hard time discerning between the tasty and the tender.
After eyeing me, he slid warily across the bar toward the delicacy. With a "Fuck you," he snagged the morsel, then promptly retreated to the other side of the cage to savor it. At least my relationship with the bird was straightforward—I fed him, he tolerated me, sorta like a lot of marriages I'd witnessed. Maybe that explained my difficulty with commitment.
With the bird fed and mollified for the moment, I busied myself with coffee preparations—Don Francisco Vanilla Nut, my caffeine delivery vehicle of choice. Cupping my hands around the warm mug, I inhaled the aroma, then took my first tentative sip as I wandered into the war zone. After flipping on the light, I peeled back the plastic sheet protecting my desk and chair, and settled in.
I was still anticipating my second jolt of java when an angry male voice shattered my joie de vivre . "Lucky, you damn well better be in here!"
Coffee flew as I jumped at the shout. Thankfully, I managed to avoid staining my white shirt and slacks, but the papers on my desk took a direct hit. Grabbing a paint cloth, I dabbed at the liquid pool.
Xavier Sang, all five feet and a couple inches of wiry male, stuck his head through the doorway. "You and me, girl, we gotta chat."
With his straight hair dyed an unnatural shade of bright red and hanging across his forehead, the clean flat planes of his face unmarred by even the hint of a beard, his eyes dark and slanted to give him just the hint of exotic, Xavier looked more like a kid heading to UNLV than the master miracle worker he was. The latest in a long line of a very prominent Chinese family who made their fortune working magic with gunpowder, he was my big bang expert. I'd always wanted to ask him about his name—Xavier wasn't exactly a common choice for the Number One Son—but I'd never worked up the nerve to be that rude.
"Oh good," he remarked as he stepped over a paint can, then plopped down in a chair across from me—he didn't bother removing the tarp. "You really are here."
"Not yet fully caffeinated, that would be overstating." I dabbed at the last of the coffee-stained papers—something about a new fire ordinance in effect for the upcoming celebratory displays. After the fire at the Monte Carlo, we'd had one heck of a time getting the county to once again allow fireworks from the rooftops.
Xavier steepled his fingers as he pressed them to his lips. "What's the other guy look like?"
"What?" I tossed the rag in a box that served as my trash bin.
When he lowered his hands, I could see his smile.
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