I was quickly reminded this wasn't an elevator—where only a few selected people stepped out at once.
This was a plane.
Everyone poured out together.
I stood, shuffled forward, and emerged into a chaotic, rowdy airport. Flashing lights everywhere. Noise. Movement. Energy. Now I understood why vegas was popularly known as flashy and fabulous.
Not that I cared or anything…
But I couldn't help wondering where Jake was.
We'd arrived at the same destination. Logic said he should still be here somewhere—lost in the same crowd, dragging a suitcase, pretending not to look back. Unless he wasn't real, unless he'd been nothing more than a story my tired brain had invented.
I quickly shook the thought away.
I shouldn't care. I'd already had enough of him, besides I am here to have fun.
LOUD CRAZY FUN!!!! thinking was not an option.
Because thinking led to ideas.
Ideas led to stories.
Stories led to work.
And work led to a very angry, very red Raymond—which I absolutely did not want.
So I let it go.
It was already night when I left the airport, yet the city buzzed like it was midday. The streets were packed, glowing and lively in a way I'd never seen before. The brightness alone felt unreal—like stepping into another world.
A massive sign flashed nearby, welcoming me to fabulous Las Vegas.
As I walked on along with a couple of people in search for the pick up garage, I passed a late-night band performing under the lights. They were playing a popular song—one about neon nights, longing, and being lost in the glow. People sang along, swaying, smiling, caught up in it.
It felt fitting.
The lights were blinding.
The night was endless.
And everyone seemed to be waiting for someone—to pull them closer.
I smiled to myself as I remembered Sometimes, when Raymond forced me to take breaks from writing, I'd spend the extra time watching movies set in Vegas—neon lights, chaos, freedom.
And now here I was, standing in the middle of it, feeling like I'd stepped straight out of one of those films.
Just like the movies promised, Vegas was a beautiful wreck.
People loitered everywhere. Cars sped past, windows down, music blasting as they swallowed the night breeze. One car slowed just enough for a woman to pop halfway out of the sunroof, arms raised, yelling into the sky like it was listening. They all looked completely wasted—and completely happy.
One thing I immediately loved about Sin City—as Raymond once called it—was that no one cared.
No judgment. No second glances. Everyone was too busy living their own version of chaos.
Coming from Ohio, where peace and quiet were practically a lifestyle, I should've been overwhelmed. But surprisingly, I wasn't. I could handle a little noise. A little madness.
And Vegas had plenty of both.
I stood near the pickup area, scanning the crowd, suddenly realizing I couldn't find my driver. I'd booked the ride earlier—back when I was still checking in and feeling far more organized than I did now.
So I pulled out my phone and decided to call the cab driver—just to figure out where exactly he was.
After a few rings, someone finally picked up.
"Hello? Who is this?" the driver asked.
"This is Aubrey Everhart," I said, probably louder than necessary. "I booked a ride earlier!"
I wasn't yelling because I was angry—I just genuinely couldn't hear him properly. Between the slot machines spilling noise out of nearby casinos, the laughter of clearly tipsy women, and the band playing down the street, Vegas was loud. And this was my very first minute here.
"Ohhh," the driver said. "Ma'am, I think I can see you. Can you turn around?"
I froze.
Because suddenly, I wasn't just hearing his voice through the phone.
He was standing right behind me.
I turned, spotted him beside the cab, and quickly hung up before walking over. A moment later, I slid into the back seat, heart still racing—not from fear, just from the sheer overload of everything.
Vegas clearly wasn't wasting any time, and I couldn't help laughing at my earlier confidence that I could handle Sin City.