“That seems unfair to single people,” I point out. “Does this car company discriminate against the unmarried?”

  He sighs. He so utterly can’t even with me. “Lady, I don’t have time for bigger battles. I was trying to help you out. If you tell me you’re married, I’ll give you the discount.”

  “Someone’s a fairy godfather,” I say, smile blazing.

  “Not really. I get two percent on husband-wife signings.”

  And he’s a hustler too. Gotta respect that, I suppose.

  I tilt my chin up at Nolan. “Hey, hubs.”

  He drapes an arm around me and plants a loud, wet kiss on my cheek. “Hey, wifey.”

  “Wonderful,” the man replies, already typing it in.

  Nolan keeps his arm around me as we finish the paperwork. Settle down, Nancy. We are simply friends who travel together to cities where we once kissed. And we’re even better friends for a discount.

  Who wouldn’t be?

  A deal is hard to resist.

  We cruise down the highway toward the hotel I located on a budget travel site online. When I made our travel plans, I couldn’t find any rooms at even the cheapest hotels on the Strip. Apparently, there’s a cell phone convention in town, and those phone-makers love the City of Sin. So, we’re headed for a place a couple of miles from the Strip.

  Maybe we won’t even have rooms near each other. A little distance between us when night falls will surely keep Nancy in check. Maybe.

  Nolan drives, following the directions to the Teddy Bear Inn. As he slows the car, the word “vacancy” beckons from the hotel’s street sign, though without the “va.”

  “Get your cancys here,” I say as Nolan flips on the blinker.

  “I’ve always wanted a cancy,” he quips, pulling into a parking space.

  “You’re gonna have everything your heart desires tonight, then,” I tease.

  Teasing is good.

  Teasing is us.

  I’ve so got this.

  I sling on my backpack, and we head to the lobby. It’s everything the broken-ass sign outside promised. A clogged drain belches near the entryway. Room 102 has a pile of stained towels sitting outside the door. The glass window to the lobby is fogged and cracked.

  We are slumming it, but hey, more money for the food offerings for the grandmas.

  When I push open the lobby door, a bell announces our arrival, though it’s less like a chime, more like a buzz saw. Behind the front desk, a burly man with beady eyes rips off a hunk of a Red Vines and smacks his lips loudly as he chews. “Wazz up?”

  “Hey there. We want to check in,” Nolan says.

  “Cool. Check-in’s at three,” the man says, pointing to the clock.

  “That’s in, like, two minutes, man,” Nolan says amiably, giving his best help me out here, bud grin.

  “Exactly.” The man takes another bite of the licorice like he’s ripping off a chunk of gazelle for dinner and stares at Nolan as he chews.

  One hundred twenty seconds later, the man finishes his snack and pushes his Red Vines tub to the other side of the desk. Pasting on a cheery grin, he seems to transform as he says, “And now how can I help you?”

  “Surprisingly, we wanted to check in,” Nolan says.

  “Excellent. What an absolute delight to have you here at the Teddy Bear Inn.”

  A few minutes later, he hands us each a key to our thirty-nine dollars-a-night rooms. “You two will be right next to each other. And if you need anything, the rooms adjoin too. Just rap on the door next to the TV, and it’s almost like a portal to the other room.”

  “Sounds exactly like a portal. Not almost,” I correct.

  Oops.

  That was the dick in me talking.

  “We like to make some things easy,” Red Vines man whispers, then gives an exaggerated wink.

  Dude, a portal to the man I daydream about isn’t making my life easy.

  Being in Vegas isn’t erasing my wandering thoughts.

  Sleeping near Nolan won’t settle my pulse.

  But we’re here for business, so we head down the hall together. “Meet you in an hour to begin our journey,” I say to Nolan, then unlock the door to my room, grateful we aren’t sharing one since who needs that temptation?

  Not me.

  Definitely not me.

  5

  Midnight Road Trip

  Emerson

  * * *

  To say I want to die is an exaggeration, and I am not prone to exaggeration.

  But it’s with zero hyperbole that, two minutes later, I mutter, “I’m going to die.”

  With a scarf jammed against my mouth and my overnight bag in hand, I fling myself out of my room. I hold my breath as I pound on Nolan’s door.

  He bursts out a second later, his carry-on slung on his shoulder, and without consultation, we bolt down the hall, running for our lives.

  If we can just make it to the light.

  It’s close, so close.

  Almost there.

  I slam a hand on the door, stumble out of the vomitorium motel, and into the afternoon sunlight of the parking lot, gasping.

  Palms on knees, I gulp in the fresh air. I fan it into my mouth.

  “I’m convinced the prior guest ran an embalming clinic in my room,” I tell him, heaving.

  “Mine was a secret test lab for how long it takes for food to go bad. The last item they tested was Limburger cheese.”

  Not to be outdone in the smell arena, I counter with, “Mine also had the distinct aroma of toe jam.”

  “Mine smelled like belly button lint,” he says, determined fucker.

  A retch hits the back of my throat and I gag, feeling it down to my toes. “You win. Woman down,” I say, waving the white flag since that’s a nasty scent.

  “We can’t stay here tonight,” he says.

  “Ya think?”

  “Seriously. We need to find a room on the Strip, Emerson, even if we have to crack open a piggy bank.”

  “Agreed, but the Phone Geek Show is in full swing. Maybe we can sleep in the car if we can’t find a room. It’s better than that,” I say, pointing at the putrid Teddy Bear Inn.

  But time’s a-ticking; we’ll have to deal with the room situation later. The Impress Dot and Bette Project, featuring amazing Vegas food, begins now.

  It starts at The Cosmopolitan, home to Momofuku and its divine Brussels sprouts. The first order of business is to stop there and snag some goodies to review with the two besties in their home.

  Actually, the first order of business is to freshen up, and since I couldn’t do it in the Teddy Bear tar pits, I pop into a luxurious ladies’ room off the casino floor. A love seat graces a lounge area, and as I reapply lip liner in the mirror, I make an executive decision.

  I march out to meet Nolan by the Wizard of Oz slot machine and issue my declaration: “It’s official. I will sleep in the ladies’ room here if I have to.”

  “Cool. The men’s room is pretty sweet too. We can be Cosmopolitan stowaways.”

  Next up, we climb back into the little red rented Hyundai and head to the nearest 7-Eleven for a review of gourmet pretzels and Slurpees. When we’re done, Nolan drives to the other food spots to grab the dishes for our trio of samplers.

  Meanwhile, I edit on the go then hit post on our quickie episode. Next, I tackle a hotel search, but I have no luck finding an available room that won’t require a new bank loan. “We might be better off just driving back to San Francisco tonight,” I suggest after coming up empty.

  “Brains and beauty. Let’s do a midnight road trip.”

  “We’ll take all the photos.”

  “For your road trip collection,” he says.

  In vivid flashes I imagine snapping shots of this trip with Nolan—goofy smiles, cheeky looks, silly poses. I’d put them on the mantel, let him share space with my other collection.

  “You know it. And we can review all the convenience stores on the way home,” I add.

  “You are hardcore, Emerson.” He waggles his eyebrows. “And I mean that in all the good ways.”

  I laugh, shaking my head. “Yeah, I’m not sure hardcore is the compliment you think it is.”

  As we slow at a light, he shrugs. “Maybe it is.”

  And maybe it could be.

  Like in another world where we weren’t besties, where we weren’t business partners hanging on by a thread. Maybe then, he’d say we could be together in some way.

  Like in the bedroom for one night.

  Maybe he’d say he’d help me let loose all my deep, dark fantasies. That he knows them already.

  And perhaps I wouldn’t mind sharing them with him.

  But those what-ifs aren’t my reality, so I’m left with this—he’s possibly the world’s biggest flirt.

  Yeah, that’s the guy I know so well.

  The flirt monster.

  A little later, the back seat is brimming with our offerings. We putter through a cute neighborhood a couple miles away from the hubbub of the Strip, following the robotic GPS voice until we’re pulling into the driveway of a stucco house graced by oversized cowboy boot statues on the lawn.

  Texas meets Vegas.

  Dot and Bette wait for us on the front porch, lounging in rocking chairs, glasses of lemonade in their hands, smiles on their warm faces. Dot wears a red gingham dress. Bette has donned teal gingham.

  It is love at first sight.

  They are the antidote to Super Saver Squish Me to Pieces Airline. The opposite of The Teddy Bear Smell Chamber of Horror.

  My soul feels calm.

  It could also be that I’ve had a long, stressful day. Being back in this city kicks up memories.

  Still, as I step out of the car and shut the door, my heart skitters with a crazy sense of hope. A hope I haven’t felt this strongly since Nolan said yes to the show more than a year ago.

  Maybe I can finally turn this into a bona fide online hit. That’s what Callie wanted for us back when she asked me to launch How to Eat a Banana with her a few years ago. We created the show together for fun, as a little side thing. Slowly, we found an audience. Then, she died, and the show went on hiatus as I went to pieces.

  But, thanks to friends and family, I pulled myself together and devised a new plan.

  Nolan was back in the States and looking for a gig.

  Maybe I could convince him to be my new partner. To start it over.

  One chilly fall afternoon, I took him to his favorite mac-and-cheese shop—since the guy just loves that dish—plied him with the Gouda specialty and asked him if he wanted to be my new co-host.

  “Want to get the band back together? Only the band would now be you and me?” I asked.

  Fork midair, he paused. “You want me to be your second banana?”

  I laughed. “No, we’ll both be first bananas. Like Callie and I were. Or not. I mean, we didn’t even call ourselves bananas. It was just a funny name because there’s no way to eat a banana innocently.”

  He nodded a few times as if deeply considering the offer. “Bananas are ripe for innuendo.” Another pause, then he sighed contently. “All right. I’m in. When do we start?”

  I squealed. “Are you sure? It’s that simple?”

  “It’s that simple.”

  The next week, we relaunched the show, finding our own sexy shtick, amping up the flirt and the banter since, well, we could.

  The show evolved, reflecting our tastes and style. Still, the Web series keeps me close to Callie. Makes her feel alive in a way, since it was her idea in the first place.

  I loved working on it with her, and I want her to know I’m taking care of her baby. Even though I’ve made it my own. I cast my gaze to the blue sky, sending her a wish. I’m doing this, like you said I would.

  I walk to the porch even though I want to run.

  “Hi, Dot. Hi, Bette,” I say. “Thank you so much for inviting us here. I’m Emerson.” I offer my hand.

  “I’m Nolan,” my best friend says.

  Dot stands first, waves off my palm, then opens her arms wide. “I’m a hugger, sweetie pie. I come from a long line of huggers, and it cannot be stopped. So, forgive me,” she says, wrapping strong arms around me.

  Yup. Insta-love, I am in you. “Nothing to forgive,” I say, a little choked up. “I’m a hug monster too.”

  She lets go. “Then we’ll get along fine.”

  Bette snares me in a tight embrace next. “You look like Audrey Hepburn,” she declares when she lets go.

  I take that compliment and tuck it in my pocket for when I feel blue. “Thank you.”

  “And you? Well, hello there, Clark Kent,” Bette says to Nolan.

  Ever the gentleman, he takes her hand and kisses the knuckles. “Pleased to meet you. If you need anyone to leap a tall building in a single bound, I’m your man.”

  Bette chuckles, warm and exuberant. “And I do believe I’ve died and gone to I’ve-been-charmed heaven.”

  I’m giddy and alive with possibilities. I run a hand over the ladybug charm. Maybe I do believe in luck. Maybe it’s coming our way tonight.

  “Come on inside and you can meet Evelyn,” Dot says, then drops her voice to a whisper. “Warning though—she’s kind of a hard-ass.”

  “That’s what a business manager should be,” I say, picturing a stern woman in a pantsuit, protecting her clients like a shark.

  Good on Dot and Bette for having a tough-as-nails manager.

  Dot swings open the door, then leads us into the living room of a sun-drenched home. The couch is strewn with pillows declaring Bless this mess or bring me wine to accept it, and the walls boast sassy inspirational sayings like Give me the strength to deal with people.

  Yup, I have found my soul mates.

  I realize there’s a teenager perched in a chair, aimlessly swinging one foot in a black high-top. She’s clutching a purple phone that matches the fishnet stockings visible under her ripped jeans. Standard high-schooler attire. “Hey, there,” she says, too cool for school.

  “Hey. How’s it going?” Is she their makeup artist? Her smoky lids are banging. “Nice eyelashes.”

  “Thanks. Same.”

  I smile my thanks as the girl flicks her thumb over the screen, then silence hangs between us for a few seconds.

  Is she Dot’s granddaughter? Her coloring is similar to the Texan’s.

  “Well, nice to meet you,” I say politely, expecting to follow Dot into another room, but when I turn, I bump into her where she stands.

  “Oh, sweetie pie,” she says, “you need to talk to Evelyn first.”

  “Anytime,” Nolan says with his easy charm. “Let us know when she arrives.”

  Dot laughs. “You’re too cute.” Then she points. “That’s Evelyn.”

  Ohhhhh.

  “My granddaughter,” Dot adds. “She handles the YouTube and all the Twitters.”

  “Don’t forget the tic-tac-toe,” Bette chimes.

  A groan rolls off the teen. “Bette, please,” Evelyn says, her dignity mortally wounded.

  “I just like to rile you up. You do your thing, Evelyn,” Bette adds with a bye-bye wave.

  Evelyn nods at Dot, assuring her, “I’ll take care of everything.”

  Take care of what?

  Did we enter a deal with the devil? Are we about to get roofied? Should I run for cover? But Nolan seems chill about the whole thing.

  Goth Girl points to the chairs across from her. “Sit, please. I have some items to review.” Her tone brooks no argument, and we sit like proper marionettes. “Let’s start from the top,” she says. “Have you ever had a DUI?”

  I shake my head. Nolan does the same. “No,” we chime in unison.

  “Have you ever been arrested?”

  “No,” I say emphatically.

  Nolan says no as well. Obviously.

  “Have you ever posted a shot of yourself guzzling a beer, wine, tequila, or other beverage and looking like a dumbass online?”

  My brain quickly cycles back over the last ten years. God, I hope not. “No.”

  Nolan lifts a hand sheepishly. “I once posted a picture of myself drinking a beer at a baseball game with my buddies,” he confesses.

  Evelyn nods without giving anything away and seems to make a checkmark on her phone.

  “Have you ever said anything inflammatory, derogatory, rude, stupid, idiotic, or insensitive about a marginalized group of people?”

  “God, no,” I say.

  “Of course not,” he seconds.

  She rattles off a few more feet-to-the-fire questions, then nods a few more times as she takes notes on her phone. I glance at Nolan with a silent What the hell? He shrugs an I’m as surprised as you are.

  Evelyn sets down her phone, steeples her fingers, and stares. Damn, she’d give Jack Donaghy on 30 Rock a run for his money. The kid is intense.

  “Here’s the deal. I already ran a background check on the two of you. It looks like everything is solid. You don’t have any priors. And a thorough review of your social media indicates that you haven’t posted any nudes, any racist or inflammatory remarks, or any douchey comments about anyone.”

  “You checked out all of that?” Nolan asks. “In twenty-four hours?”

  “That’s, like, literally my job,” she says as if she can’t believe anyone wouldn’t do the same. “But I did want to confirm a few things.” She holds my gaze. “Let me know if these facts are correct. If not, please elaborate, as we like to know who we’re working with. First, I see that for the last five years you’ve lived in an apartment you shared with your twin sister until her death. And now, you live by yourself. Is that true?”

  I swallow past the knot of memories in my throat, but words are harder.

  “Yes, that’s correct,” Nolan says, jumping in like a superhero, sensing what I need at this moment.

  Evelyn turns to Nolan. “You were in France for two years with an Inés Delacroix. You moved back to San Francisco, worked in a restaurant there, and rented. Now you’ve been going back and forth and staying with friends in New York and San Francisco, including your brother. Go Hawks,” she says, with a fist pump. “Love them—they used to be in Vegas. Anyway, all of that is correct?”