I’d thought Vegas was the place to disappear. Get lost. Never be found.
With its endless cacophony of taxi horns, slot machines, barkers announcing buffets, half-price show tickets, cheap alcohol, and cheesy bachelorette parties, I was shrouded—in a good way. I’d wanted to disappear—just melt into the sea of humanity. Become anonymous.
I’d never stand out in the shitshow that was Vegas.
Nor did I want to. For good reason.
But now, on Savage Mountain, I realized I’d one-upped Vegas. Not in the excitement category, although that depended on how you felt about nature and the great outdoors. No, this was the place to run away to, I was quickly learning. There wasn’t another soul for miles. It would take a goddamn drone or NASA satellite and a research team to find me here.
I looked up in the sky. You never know.
Satisfied technology wasn’t going to find me that particular day, I floated lazily in the shallow campsite stream just next to the tent I’d successfully, and impressively pitched.
I probably wouldn’t have gone in the water—beyond just soaking my feet—had it been deeper than, say, my thighs. But it was as if nature had given me my own perfect little personal wading pool. The rocks on the bottom were bumpy and a little painful to feet that hadn’t gone barefoot in years, but as soon as I was in deep enough, I launched myself, suspended, weightless, and watching shots of sun bust through the overhead trees like a moth-eaten canopy.
Almost made me believe there was a god.
My hair floated around my head in that way hair does in water, where you can pretend to be a mermaid or if you’re feeling more cynical, Medusa. I wasn’t quite sure which I felt like that day. Maybe both.
A couple floaty bugs alighted on the surface of the water, and took off again just as quickly.
Were they eating? Drinking? Mating? When bugs got down to it, did they do it like mammals, or more like fish, or just some sort of drive-by spawning?
Should have brought some kind of nature book.
My tits bobbed in the water as I drifted, nipples tight like little beads as I shimmied to see how much the girls would sway. Beyond my non-mountains of flesh—who was I fooling, my little tits had never bounced and probably never would—was the belly button piercing I’d gotten back when all my girlfriends were doing it. I’d been a big enough idiot to follow them. And beyond that was the small patch of hair I let grow above the area I’d had permanently lasered. Yes, I’d subjected my entire crotch to laser hair removal. Another of my dumbass ideas.
At the time it seemed sexy, and I guessed it still was. I mean, guys liked it, sure. Christ if you had hair on your pussy these days, guys would go running like you had leprosy or something. In fact, I think a guy would rather be with a girl with leprosy than one with freaking pubic hair.
How messed up was that?
But as time passed after my stupid laser treatments, it dawned on me that someday I would be an old lady with no pussy hair. And that would not be hot. Not at all.
At least the non-sagging tits would be nice, kind of. Better than the sagging softballs of silicone some of my friends had, sure that implants would be just the thing to get them where they wanted to go.
I’d made some fucked up choices for sure, many of them far worse than a pierced belly button and a permanently bald pussy. But I was grateful I’d not gone too overboard with the tattoo thing. My friend Pippa had, and now she had to cover up all the time. I’d kept mine somewhat discreet. Maybe not the hippest decision, but I’d saved some money and a little bit of hassle.
I’d made some good life decisions, too, if I thought about it, although they seemed few and far between most days. But on that particular day, I was happy as hell to be camping—yes, me, camping—in the middle of nowhere, alone. Floating in a stream. Butt naked, soaking up the rays.
Yes, I was camping alone. Tell that to anybody who knew me and they’d tell you to shut the fuck up. Jo, camping? Um, don’t think so. The closest I’d ever come to camping would have been a weekend at Las Vegas’s fancy Mirage hotel, or maybe the Bellagio if I’d done well that week at my waitressing job.
Sad truth was, I never did that well. So in reality, I’d never stayed at the Mirage or Bellagio.
Yet here I was.
Pippa was supposed to be with me. Pippa, my best friend and coworker at the shithole titty bar where we waitressed, Maid to Order. Cute name, brought tourists and locals alike from all over Vegas. The restaurant even had ads on the backseats of cabs, and doormen handed out cards with ten percent off your first drink—that’s how classy a joint we were.
I fluttered my arms around the water just enough to move closer to the embankment where I’d gotten into the stream. When I found a rock big enough to support my bum, I sat, pulling my legs up under me and pressed a finger into my opposite forearm to see if I was getting too much sun. It left a white spot surrounded by red.
Yup, time to get my bare ass out of the water and into the shade. I hated to leave the baking sensation that warmed my skin and relaxed me, but a pasty girl like me would be in misery all fried to a sunburned crisp.
I moved my towel under a shady tree—seriously, did I mention it was like someone had created a perfect, custom-made campsite, just for me?—and lay down with my book. But instead of reading, I flipped onto my back and watched the water bead up before completely evaporating from my skin.
Skinny dipping was glorious. Why didn’t I do it more often?
Pippa and I had arranged a few days off together from Maid to Order, something our boss protested like we were pulling out her fingernails. She was seriously a bitch just to be a bitch. But we’d pressured her and she’d caved even though we knew she’d make us pay later by assigning us lousy shifts, or giving us tables with the creepiest dudes. But I could handle that shit. I had before and lived to tell about it.
Plus, we had an important reason for taking time off and leaving town. A very good reason.
