Page 71 of Keep Vegas

tony

Isling my charger into my bag and hoist my maroon camp chair on my shoulder. Lill procured this chair, and it’s kind of genius the way it fits in a bag. It’s been about a month since Mak decided what our future should be. Her key problem is she decided something that was a joint decision. I know Lizzie talked to her, but she won’t let me in on that action.

I’ve taken matters into my own hands like the girls in Phoenix told me to. Gots to get the answers. She won’t return my DMs and blocked my phone. I have no other choice but to go ridiculous, but I’m pretty sure this plan will work. Eventually.

I glance down at my phone and there’s a bunch of questions I’ll need to contend with for work.

The Cookery is fucking tearing shit up. The three podcasts are solid, and all hit number one in different categories on Apple, Spotify, and Google in the last two weeks. I know shit will even out, but it works. The data is insane all of it is working and the money is rolling in.

The interactive cooking live streams on TikTok, Instagram, and Facebook are pulling in master chefs, money, and numbers. Paramount and Netflix, want to talk about large-scale. We own the platforms and the content. We’re not shoving other people’s stuff onto Ladd services, we’re a complete production house now. And I’m discovering the possibilities, if we can get a hold of it all, are limitless.

My COO, Robin, is in control while I do some important work on myself, but I’m never out of touch totally.

So, yeah, I earned some time off to go a little crazy. Other than getting married or engaged, I worked my ass off and loved every fucking second of it. After the Bugle nightmare and the several bil I blew on that bullshit deal, this one. Big swings buried me, but this big swing might set me free.

And that brings me to my current mission.

I grab the box of doughnuts and the tray of coffees. I push open the door, and the smell of tape and cardboard envelopes me. It’s starting to be a comfort. I might miss it when it’s gone—when I finally get the thing I came here for. Stubborn, prideful thing. She’s an idiot if she thought she could shake me that easily. Unless she’s killed someone and has been lying about that, I’m pretty sure we could maybe figure this shit out.

“Morning, fabulous and noble people of my favorite mailbox place. And to you, kind sir.”

“Tony! What did you bring me this morning, hun?”

I place my chair and my bag down near the entrance and approach the counter.

“You look busy, is it bubble mailer day again?”

“Yeah, you know us. Tuesdays are for bubbles.” Mary Margaret laughs at her own joke. On Tuesday, they do a big bulk mailing for a local candle company that ships their products out of here.

“A chai latte for the lady.” I hand it to Mary Margaret’s younger coworker.

“Tony, thank you. You don’t have to bring us drinks every day.”

“I like to. Just say thank you and take a doughnut.”

Fred pops his head out. “Is that Tony?”

“Is that Sorter Fred?” He’s not always here, but they like to have him here on Tuesdays and on eBay Saturdays. There’s a dude who does eBay like a religion, and always does a mass mailing.

“Good morning to you, Mr. Tony!”

I hand him a tall cup of coffee with four Splendas. He likes it fake sweet. He sips it and looks at me, tipping his imaginary hat. “Perfect.”

I grab my own coffee and a scone from the box and set up in front of the mailboxes.

Carissa brings me a tall box.

“Thank you.” She started doing that last week so I could use it as a desk. Even though I’m officially off work, I check emails for a couple of hours a day. And then, I take suggestions from the crew as to what to watch while I wait. I’ve binged The Marvelous Mrs. Maisel and the not-quite-satisfying reboot of Sex and the City this week. It’s nice to spend time with the girls again, but I miss Samantha and can’t help but be sad that Stanford died in real life.

I open my camp chair and arrange my world in front of PO box 148. It’s my third week here. On Saturday, they close at four, and I head to Boston for a couple nights, but I’m always here by ten on Mondays.

She has to check her mail at some point. It’s the only connection I have to her. Since she’s been lying, I don’t even know where to start looking. I could sit on campuses around here, but this seemed like a more targeted approach. Maggie has stonewalled Colt because her husband didn’t like them talking, so she’s not a resource anymore. Lizzie claims she has zero idea where she is. I’ll allow it since Hayden tortured her with his tongue when he asked her.

So, here I sit. The mailbox crew can’t legally give me any information on her, and I respect that. I haven’t even told which box I’m staking out. I don’t even mention her name because I’m afraid of two things. One: I don’t want them to get into legal postal trouble. And two: I need an ambush. I don’t want her to know ahead of time I’m here. I don’t want her to run. So, they let me sit here every day.

The door opens, and Mr. Santee, the eBay guy, enters.

“Must be a busy Tuesday. Any more in the car?” He hooks his thumb towards his car. I head outside, gather the rest of his packages, and deliver them to Mary Margaret to weigh and label.