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possibly, only chance to find
Boon, or at least get a message to him.

 
    “Wait,
please. You might remember me,” I said, hearing the desperation in my voice.
The bartender heard it too, apparently, because he sighed and leaned against
the bar, looking at me.

 
    “I
see a lot of pretty girls every night,” he said, a sympathetic smile on his
face.

 
    “Well,
I ordered a Seven and Seven for a man. He had tattoos, blue eyes, blonde hair.
He ordered one for himself right after. And my friends and I were all drinking
those fishbowl drinks,” I said, racking my brain for anything that might jog
his memory. “My little red-haired friend was really drunk?”

 
    “Oh,”
said the bartender, his face lighting up as he remembered. I felt my heart
leap. “That’s right. You’re the big tipper with the bad fake ID.”

 
    He
was smiling now, and I smiled back, sheepishly.

 
    “Well,
I appreciate you serving us, anyway. But, have you ever seen that guy before?
Or since?” The bartender’s brow furrowed slightly, though the amused look
remained on his face.

 
    “Now,
I can’t say, I don’t notice guys as much as I do gals. But I’ll tell you what,
if I see him tonight, I’ll let him know there’s a pretty blonde looking for
him. How’s that?”

 
    “That
would be great. Except, would it be too much, do you think, can I give you a
note to give him if you see him? It’s just, he doesn’t know my number or
anything, and…”

 
    “Sure,
sure, whatever. It’ll end up in his hands, or in the trash if I don’t see him.
Hurry up, though, I’ll be skinned if I waste any more time with a customer who
isn’t paying.”

 
    I
hurriedly pulled the pad and pen from my back pocket and scribbled my name and
number on it. Hesitating for a moment, I decided that I was already being
pretty ballsy, and that there couldn’t be any harm in being a little ballsier. I want more, I wrote in neat script
above my number. With my heart jumping all over the place, I tore off the sheet
of paper, folded it, and handed it to the bartender, blushing like crazy. The
bartender started to unfold the paper.

 
    “No!”
I said, reaching out and grabbing his hand. “Please don’t read it.” He gave me
another amused look and nodded, slipping the paper into his pocket.

 
    “Well,
I sure hope I see him. I’d hate to think of a poor fellow missing out on
whatever it is your offering,” he said, starting to walk away. “Just stay away
from the chapels, honey. You’re not too young to remember Britney Spears, are
you?”

 
    I
didn’t have a chance to answer him as he turned to the next closest customer,
but my blush didn’t go away. I stood at the bar, stupidly, for another minute,
wondering what came next. I could try to find the bar he had taken us to, but I
knew that it would be a miracle if I could remember even one side-street we’d
turned down. I could just walk up and down the strip, checking every bar in
sight. That seemed the only option; I still had 45 minutes before the girls
were expecting me back.

 
    So
that’s what I did. I’ll tell you something, too. If you ever really want to see
what Vegas is like, walk from bar to bar, totally sober. You’ll never see or
hear such mayhem in such a short amount of time. It was like walking through a
kaleidoscope. From gambling floors to dance floors to exclusive-looking clubs,
everything just comes at you in flashes of light and sound. It’s pretty crazy.

 
    But
bar after bar, no sight of Boon. And it wasn’t much use asking the bartenders;
they were all either busy as hell or had no patience for my admittedly vague
description: tattoos, blue eyes, blonde hair. I might as well have been asking
for a girl with brown hair and pierced ears.

 
    Finally,
the hour was up and I was disheartened and tired and hopeless. It wasn’t
happening. Maybe it wasn’t supposed to
happen, I thought, reminding myself that the whole plan was pretty