Leila Bryce Sin
Copyright 2013 by Leila Bryce Sin
The last place I wanted to be while hungover was the airport. There were windows just everywhere. Not even my oversized sunglasses did a damn thing to keep the fucking sunlight at bay.
“Roxy?” The barista called out my name and set my venti, triple shot Americano on the bar. Swinging my carry-on over my shoulder, I went to get it, glad I’d foregone my usual stilettos for ballet flats, even if they did make me feel as short as a pixy around so many towering humans. Once the cream and sugar station was free, I set my cup down and doctored it until it was the perfect shade of tan and sweet enough to cause cavities.
McCarran Airport was a pretty basic airport, especially considering it was an international airport, but that didn’t really matter. Most people there were all the same: either coming or going from a few days of debauchery in Las Vegas. I was on my way out, thankfully, and to be dead honest, I’m not altogether sure how I managed to survive my weekend on my own.