The smell of asphalt hit me in the face as I raced down to the curb, looking up the distance to Planet Hollywood on my phone as I walked. This was shite. It was several blocks away, and at this point in the night the streets were packed with slow-walking tourists looking and pointing at every possible sight between here and where I would find Sara.

Although the car traffic on Las Vegas Boulevard had cleared up significantly, the valet area was still a mess: some of the same cars were parked curbside and there wasn’t a taxi in sight. Fuck, how was I going to get there? I looked down into the car next to me: door still open, Eiffel Tower key chain hanging from the ignition.

The keys were swinging, as if they were actually trying to grab my attention.

It took me all of five seconds to decide that I’d lived my entire life without stealing a car, and how could I possibly have let that happen?

Borrowing, I thought. I was borrowing.

With a quick look ’round, I slipped in through the open door and turned the key. A dark hat sat on the leather seat next to me and I picked it up, turning it over once before placing it on my head. Oh well, when in Rome and all that.

I had no idea what in the actual hell I was doing as I raced away from the curb, but I rationed that at this point, nothing else could possibly go wrong.

It turned out that driving a stolen—borrowed—limousine was every bit as difficult as one might imagine. It was awkward and handled like shit, and wasn’t exactly the most inconspicuous thing on the road. But traffic was almost nonexistent and soon I was arriving at the blazing neon casino.

With my fingers crossed I pulled into the underground parking garage, tossing my hat and the keys to the first valet attendant I saw. Borrowing a stranger’s car during a stag party in Vegas . . . another tick off the bucket list.

I was met with a bank of escalators as I stepped inside, declining the opportunity to stand still and take a breather, opting instead to race up them two at a time. Rows of purple neon were embedded into the ceiling overhead, as well as a giant sparkling chandelier. I followed the signs to the opposite end of the casino, stopping just in front of the Peepshow theater.

I was stopped by an older lady at the ticket counter, who stood up to stop me from entering, insisting access pre-show was limited to performers and crew, only.

Taking a few seconds to study her—blonde hair with solid gray roots, heavy makeup and a bright red sequined top—I decided “Marilyn,” as her name tag suggested I call her, had probably seen her share of loser men chasing after the showgirls here.