I rub my eyes. "I bet she did."
*
My good mood has evaporated by the time I take the exit for Mom's facility, a “spa” up in the hills. If she didn't spend most of her time in places like these, maybe I'd already have some money, and my crazy plan could wait.
I'm bitter. I know I am. Her doctors sometimes say so. Caretaker, therapist, counselor, psychiatrist—they're all the same. So much sympathy for Mom and her many illnesses.
Dr. Bryers, one of the better ones, might be proud of me for admitting that I'm pissed. Usually I pretend I'm not that affected. Over the years I learned to cope, but the truth is, she's screwed up my life, and I haven't forgiven her. To be fair (to me), she's never really asked.
The spa building is a rectangular, white one-story on several acres of green grass, large trees, and well-kept flower beds. I park my aging Camry in the egg-shaped parking lot and walk slowly through the tall, glass doors leading to the lobby. This place looks a lot like a European hotel, all mod and minimalist, fraught with glass and straight, clean lines.
I fold my arms on the counter and ask for Mahin.
I don't think while I'm waiting for her. I play Angry Birds on my phone and I send good vibes to Cross. Hunter creeps into my mind, but I push him away. Just because he's an enigma doesn’t mean he's my enigma. Maybe going to Vegas will be good in that way. I'll forget him.
Somewhere in the back of my mind, I remember that he has two homes in Vegas, but whatever. When he’s not playing he’s at the vineyard—or so I've heard. Regardless, I'm sure he’d never recognize me. Richard says they're blurring out my face on the billboards, and one thing I’m almost sure about Hunter is he’s not the type to bid on a woman’s virginity.
Vegas will be good for me. It's my choice, and I'm doing it for Cross. I will make it good for me.
Mahin walks out without my mom, wearing her familiar black slacks and v-neck, her white hair dyed black at the tips, her lipstick pearl-colored, making her look kind of dead.
"Hi," I wave, and step into her office for my performance.
*
I leave feeling heavier, if that's possible. Mom will be told I'm taking a trip to Denver. One of my best friends from undergrad lives there, and it’s one of my favorite U.S. cities.
I'm one third of the way to the freedom that I need to pull this off. My next stop is the University of San Francisco's main campus.
I'm nervous, knowing just how crazy my proposal is, but I think my second-year project manager, Dr. Kaitlyn Beauford, who also happens to be my student adviser, might be open-minded enough to sign off on it. If not, I'll withdraw from this semester. I don't want to do it, but I will if I have to.
I'm still wearing my courthouse pant suit and as I walk the familiar, green-tiled halls, I wonder if Dr. B has seen the news yet.
As soon as I walk into her office, she puts her blueberry smoothie on her desk and shakes her head.
"Elizabeth DeVille, stirring up trouble."
Despite myself, I smile, because Dr. Beauford always puts me at ease. "Doing my best," I say, wiping my sweaty palms on my knees as I sink into a faded orange chair.
She picks her smoothie up again and takes a long gulp, regarding me over the rims of her square glasses. "I read about you," she motions to her computer. "Thinking of being a savior?"
"Something like that."
"What brings you here?" she says. She's giving me that stare she's famous for, and for the very first time ever I feel kind of nervous.
"I have an idea," I say slowly. The heat in my face is humiliating, and for the millionth time, I curse my fair skin.
“What kind?”
“The kind that’s going to help me out with what you read online, and the kind that could be made into an independent study or even a thesis maybe."
"And what's that?"
I tell her my plan. To her credit, she listens with a neutral expression, her chin propped on her folded hands, and when I'm finished, she smiles.
"From an Ethics perspective, that's very interesting, Elizabeth. But I'm afraid from a personal perspective I can't endorse it. Even from a professional perspective, it has some damaging potential—for me, that is—if I do."
My chest squeezes, but I take a deep breath and forge ahead. "So I couldn't use it for classwork, even if I came to you after the fact?"
"I didn't say that," she says pointedly.
"So I could write about it? Maybe use it as the basis for my thesis?" I wait for her answer with my breath held—as if it really matters. It won't change what I'm doing, but it might make me feel just a little better about it.
"You could do whatever you decide to do, Elizabeth. Just remember, you don't have to. You don’t owe your friend any debts.”
I nod, although I think that's a little cut and dry, especially for someone as smart as Dr. Beauford.
She reaches into a desk drawer and hands me a slip of paper. "If you decide to go through with your plan, you may want to fill this out." I look down at the approval form for PhD thesis topics. "For the record, let it be stated that I'm not recommending your course.”
Chapter Twelve
~ELIZABETH~
On my way home, I call Richard Waites, the man I spoke with this morning. He answers on the second ring. I can hear laughter and talking in the background, and through the phone line I swear I can smell stale smoke and alcohol.
Our connection is fuzzed by static, as if it's trying to discourage our contact. I think of Cross and press on. "Richard? This is Elizabeth DeVille again."
"Elizabeth, yes."
"I've thought about your offer, and I've decided that I want to do it. Can you tell me what the next step is?"
He pauses for a second, and I think he is surprised. "The next step? Well, you come out here. Come to Nevada and let me get this rolling."
"What does that entail?" I'm not going to a brothel without a detailed road map in my hand.
"It entails a lot," he says bluntly.
"Where does it start? I'd like to have some idea."
He pauses again, just long enough to take a drag on a cigar. "We do this from time to time, but never with a girl like you. Don't get me wrong. Our girls are beautiful, valuable, talented girls, but they don't have their own bottled water," he says with a chuckle. "They're not Elizabeth DeVille." Another pause, and I decide to put it to him straight.
"DeVille doesn't mean much anymore."
"Yes, and I appreciate your candidness, Miss DeVille, but let me share my own. Our bidders aren't buying your money. They're wealthy men, and what they'll pay for is your high-class hymen. You follow me? All I need from you—well not all I need from you—there's a lot to this— But what I really need is you to come here, do a little training—"