I turn to my right. He isn’t here. The pillow doesn’t even have an indent. I sit up, spotting him on the floor on the left side of the bed. He’s lying without a blanket or pillow, head directly on the carpet.

I gasp. Am I that bad? I threw myself at him, and he denied me. And, once I fell asleep, he ran away.

The room service that I never ate sits untouched on a folding table at the foot of the bed. Slade must have stayed up. The smell of cooked burgers and fries makes my eyes burn.

I look down at my wrist, stamped with the club’s insignia. Hopping out of the plush white bed, I make a run for the toilet where I drop to the cold marble floor and throw up bile. When I’m finished, I lean my sweaty head against the tiled wall, knowing that I’ve got to figure out what I’m supposed to do. What if the police are looking for me? Would they do that—have questions or something? What if Slade wakes up, and things are crazy awkward? Actually, considering the fact that he’d rather sleep on a carpeted floor—in a Vegas hotel room, no less—instead of sleeping next to me, I’d say that’s a sign he’s completely uninterested or borderline disgusted.

Our night together at the club was so much fun though. He was interested then, wasn’t he? And, at Vincent and Eve’s wedding, too, it was clear he liked me.

Self-preservation tells me not to waste time thinking. I’ve got to get out of here before he wakes. I’ve looked pathetic enough. I couldn’t even take my own clothes off or wash myself. And it all felt so intimate. He must have only done it out of pity. I need to leave Las Vegas as soon as possible. Whatever his reasons for leaving the bed and sleeping on the floor, they can’t be good.

I silently lift my dress off the ground—if I can call a scrap of red-and-white material a dress. Well, flight attendant it is. I won’t waste time in going back to my hotel—clothes, shoes, whatever I left be damned. I need to get out of this city. After putting my costume back on, I slide the shirt I slept in over it. It smells like a mixture of Slade and myself. I tear up. The night was insane, but I thought we had something between the two of us. I guess I thought wrong. It’s not the first time. The outfit looks ridiculous, but at least I’m covered.

After rinsing my mouth out with mouthwash and scrubbing my face with soap, I use hand cream and a tissue to remove the mascara and eyeliner that’s fallen beneath my eyes. I look like shit and feel even worse. My hair is a rat’s nest on top of my head, and I don’t even have a comb. It feels as though there is a timer on me. I need to leave.