The Little Black Dress (Love in Las Vegas)

Friday the 13th Can Suck It

Sophie

If I had my way, I would stay in bed today. All day. I would’ve left a fresh supply of adult diapers on my nightstand so I wouldn’t even have to get out of bed to pee. Seriously.

But even though it’s Friday the thirteenth, the unluckiest of all unlucky days in the history of mankind, I can’t hide out under the covers until the stroke of midnight. I have a job to do.

Okay. So maybe I did stay in bed until noon. But I didn’t get to the drugstore for those diapers, and my bladder is currently threatening to explode and poison my bloodstream with toxic urine if I don’t get my ass to the bathroom, stat.

I throw the covers back with a groan, then slowly ease my legs over the edge of the mattress as I sit up. Pressing the balls of my feet against the tile floor, careful to center them in the middle of each square, I tiptoe across the room before leaping over the threshold and exhaling as I land on the smooth vinyl flooring.

This day is going to be hard enough to face without adding in the prospect of breaking my mother’s back to the mix.

Yes, I realize I’m being ridiculous. I know stepping on a crack won’t actually break my mother’s back, but if the superstition holds any weight and might actually bring me some form of bad luck, I’m not taking that chance. I can’t. Not today.

The date alone is a foul omen. The job my employer gave me to do tonight is of the utmost importance—to him—and if I don’t deliver… I hate to even think he might fire me after months of exemplary work, but the implied threat when he told me what I have to do wasn’t actually all that implied.

Win the Jackson Pollock painting for him at tonight’s auction, or he’ll be extremely unhappy with me.

I have no fucking clue who Jackson Pollock is or why Stephen Hatfield wants it so badly, but I’m his personal assistant, and it’s my job to do, well, everything for him. He’s become quite the recluse in his old age, so he hired me to run errands, stand in for him during charity events he’s donated to, and negotiate sales and purchases on his behalf as he expands his extensive art collection.

It’s not difficult work. He tells me exactly what to do or say, and I do or say it. Things usually work out in his favor—the man has more money than God, I swear—and I get paid handsomely for my service.

Most days, though, consist of placing orders, accepting deliveries, and making sure his kitchen staff delivers his meals to his office-slash-library on time.

But every once in a while, he sends me out on special missions…like tonight. I have to go to Peltier’s, a premiere auction house up near Fremont Street, the old Vegas strip. Mr. Hatfield gave me strict instructions to win that painting and a budget of thirty million to make it happen.

Thirty. Million. Dollars.

My bladder is finally empty, and I move to the sink to wash my hands as I contemplate the amount. I honestly can’t even imagine having thirty mil to blow on some random piece of art. Hell, I can’t imagine wasting thirty thousand dollars on something like that. But it’s not my job to judge the old man’s spending habits.

It’s my job to get that painting.

And I know exactly how I’m going to do it.

Moving to my closet, I pull out a thick, zippered garment bag and suspend it from the hook on the door. Very carefully and gently, I tug the zipper down, revealing the treasure protected inside.

There it is. My little black dress. The little black dress to end all little black dresses.

Sure, it doesn’t look like much. Just a basic chiffon, off-the-shoulder A-line with a sweetheart neck and a hemline that hits that perfect spot just beneath the knees. Do I look great in it? Yes. But that’s not what makes it so special.

This is my lucky dress.

The first time I wore it was to a dinner party in Spanish Hills. My friend Ava’s boss’s sister was throwing a fancy housewarming at her new McMansion, and Ava took me as her plus-one. I met Hilary Johannson that night, Mr. Hatfield’s ex-assistant, and when she heard I was looking for a job, she recommended me to the old man as her replacement. I had exactly zero experience as a personal assistant, but Hilary said she could tell with one look I’d be perfect for the job.

After my first paycheck, I was able to move out of the room I was renting from a slightly seedy couple downtown to this apartment in a much nicer, much safer neighborhood. After my second paycheck, I was able to put a down payment on a car. And by my third, I swore I’d never even look at a package of ramen noodles ever again.

All thanks to my LBD.

The second time I wore the dress, I found a hundred-dollar bill on the floor in The Black HartCasino. It was pure dumb luck, so I doubled down and stuck it into the machine I found it in front of. One spin, and I won three grand. Three thousand dollars.

Yep. It was the dress.

Since then, I’ve worn the dress on various occasions with nothing but good vibes. A night of drinking with the girls that ended with no puking and no hangover the next morning. A spin of a prize wheel down on the strip that resulted in free passes to Cirque du Soleil. I even got pulled over for speeding once, and the dress worked its magic. No ticket and a lunch date with a cute cop. Nothing came of the date, but it was a nice lunch made even nicer by the fact that I didn’t have a two hundred dollar speeding ticket waiting for me at home.

I know that in this dress, I can’t lose. That Pollock will be hanging on Mr. Hatfield’s wall by next week.

Friday the thirteenth can suck it.