Hot, drenched in sweat, and somewhat annoyed by the fact that I didn't have a cell phone—the painful gravel of this back-strip alleyway was the tip of my discomfort iceberg.

"Let's use gravel, Bill," I mimicked underneath my exhaling breath. "It's cheaper than pavement and you don't have to worry about those potholes, come winter."

The paved streets and cemented sidewalks where my friend up until this point; with my feet bare, I was able to make the ten-minute walk without any major hesitation. But now, with the sharpness of each tiny stone indenting and puncturing my possibly burnt soles—I may never be able to wear anything other than orthopedic, ultra-cushioned, sneakers for the next decade.

"Fuck you, Bill." I cringed once more as I took another few steps. "Tiny, fucking, razors, that's what they are." Honestly, I didn't know of a Bill nor whoever decided to place this damn gravel back here—I just needed someone to blame, something to curse out.

I looked up from my demise and saw Camilla's giant SUV still parked in the same spot from earlier. "Oh, thank God", I thought while sighing with utter relief. At least there was some good in knowing that I will shortly be in the vehicle—laying back, enjoying the nice cool, air-conditioned, fresh, manufactured air.

Slowly walking in front of the SUV, I made my way to the back-alleyway entrance of the Starbucks. The dark green colored door stood out from the ones near it, as green-aproned employees walked in and out; performing chores such as tossing the trash, moving inventory, or just sneaking out to gather some fresh summer air amid their shifts.

I entered cautiously, walking through the threshold of the outside world and into a caffeinated-filled hotbox. Just like cannabis, Adderall, or any other hyper-inducing drug-teens, tweens, and college students alike filled every seat of this small coffee shop.

Some alone, thumbs prompt upward as they stared down, listlessly, at their phone screens; while others, sitting in groups, discussed irrelevant topics such as internet-challenges, fanfiction collaborations, and the possible name of Kim Kardashian's newest husband.

The repetitive sounds of steaming milk swooshes, blender clunks, coffee grinding burrs provided no relief to the already filled nonsense my ears picked up. I continued to be bewildered as I walked past the line of seven other people, still waiting in front of the payment register to place their order.

My eyes veered, looking for Camilla or anyone of near resemblance. It should have been an easy task. Find the only adult in a room full of younglings...

But I couldn't.

Panicking and fearing the worst, I immediately exited out of the coffee shop, using the main doorway, and checked to see if she was standing anywhere around the front lot-thinking she was sitting under one of those sun umbrellas sipping some coffee.

But she wasn't.

I went back indoors, barged through the entire coffee shop once more, and ended up in the back alleyway staring at the black SUV that was still there. I did, however, take more than the thirty-minute time limit we agreed upon, but that wouldn't cause her to scourge away. Besides, where would she have gone, especially without her car?

"Wait," I stopped my previous train of thought as something much darker took hold. "What if the people who attacked Marco this morning kidnapped her for ransom?" If that's the case, I'm automatically fucked. "Damn."

Maneuvering quickly, I leaned in and glanced inside her vehicle through the tinted driver's side windows, looking for clues of her disappearance. No keys. No phone. Not even a damn gum wrapper out of place.

"Get it together Rebecca," I calmed myself. "Just think."

I hurried back inside and instinctively flagged down the baristas from behind the counter. "Hey," I spoke aimlessly to a few of them, "did any of you see a woman with long blond hair, brown eyes, about my height come around here?"

A couple of them laughed at my declaration. "That's every one of our customers," one announced.

"Are you looking for a woman named Camilla?" One of the two men who were hulling bags of ice stopped to answer my question. His face looked as if he was thirty-something, but his combover hairstyle told another age. The standard white nameplate pinned on his apron spelled out the word 'Caleb.' He certainly didn't look like a Caleb.

"Yeah," clearly. Who else would be asking for a very specific person?

"Hold on," he stepped away and quickly grabbed one of his female co-workers, pulling her into a side conversation.

"What did you tell them, Cam?" I rhetorically questioned myself as I watched the woman whisper something into the man's ear. His face fluttered into a red tomato as he turned back and walked toward my direction.

"So," he leaned forward from the counter, "umm...well...Maggie, my manager, said your friend told her..."

I wanted so badly to lean over the ledge and slap the immediate answer out of him. "What?" I reiterated, "What did she say?"

"S-She said that she was going to go next door to get," he immediately changed his tone into a whisper for our ears only, "a Brazilian."

" A Brazilian?" My anger turned and became hysterical, stress-relieving, laughter.

The guy nodded in agreement.

Fucking, Camilla. All this over a damn bikini wax.

I thanked the man for his message and time before walking out of the front door from one shop and making my way into another, next door. A small silver bell connected to the ceiling chimed as soon as I opened the door.

"Hello," spoke a petite woman standing behind a wide semi-circular base desk. "Welcome to Tropicana Wax Studio. Do you have an appointment?"

The immediate lobby and waiting area were smaller than expected. With only two brown leather stools and a tiny, square, coffee table topped with an old magazine, beside them—if it wasn't for the signage or the woman upfront, I would have thought this was a medical office of some sort.

I looked at her, "I'm waiting for my friend, she came here earlier for a Brazilian."

"Okay good," she replied as she looked down at the desk. "Or else I would've had to politely ask you to leave."

"Excuse me?" I asked, making sure my ears haven't recently deceived me.

She pulled out and flipped a plastic plaque from her desk. It read: No Shirts. No Shoes. No Service.

Oh yes, that ambiguous sign makes perfect sense now. "Of course," I replied as I sat down on one of the stools. She smiled at me before focusing her attention down on whatever device she had hidden behind the desk.

I looked at my poor bare feet as I leaned back on the stool-the tops looked normal, even my toes, although nasty and dirty in appearance, appeared unscathed. But the bottoms...I didn't want to even think about the damage done there. The relief alone, just by not standing, helped me significantly.

"What a day," I thought as I closed my eyes for a moment and took in the cool air-conditioned breeze.

I opened my left eye and peeked at the white-rimmed analog clock hanging on the southeast corner of the wall. It was only 1:37 PM. Only half the day had flown by. There was still plenty more to go.

I exhaled while closing my eye once again as ambient, elevator-type, music played in the background. "Maybe, just maybe," I thought. "I could relax a bit. Take a small cat-nap as I wait for Camilla..."

"Shit girl, tell me everything." A familiar voice projected. I

I opened my eyes and saw Camilla standing in front of me. "Well, there goes my nap."

"We thought you left us," she said.

"We?" I was confused, or maybe it was because I woke up so suddenly. "What are you talking about."

"Shit..." Camilla pulled out her phone from her clutch purse and swiped a few times before handing it down to me. "You're plastered." Her phone displayed a bold TMZ headline: IS CARUSO BACK?

The subtitle below it read, "Rebecca Caruso is welcomed back with open arms as she, and current boyfriend Christopher Chico, pay condolences to her late brother."

It was followed by a picture of Chris and I standing in front of my former home, with his arm around my waist, all while I was wearing his jacket.

"Fucking vultures, I swear. " I corrected myself while standing up from the stool. "Does Marco—did he see this?" I asked as I handed her the phone back.

"Like I said. " She repeated once more, "plastered."