A man stands outside our door. Naz nods as we stride by but says nothing. I glance at him curiously, even more surprised to have another waiting by the elevators for us. The man presses the button and the door automatically opens. Without having to utter a word, the man steps onto the elevator with us and presses the button for the ground floor. As soon as we reach it, Naz nods again.

We start to walk away, heading into the bustling casino, when I turn to Naz. "It's kind of weird how they cater to you."

He looks amused by my assessment. "Their service is top-notch. Anything you ask for, they'll make it happen."

"Anything?"

"Yes, anything," he says. "Even bacon cheeseburgers."

He takes me straight to a restaurant… an upscale world-renowned sort of place with a name I can't pronounce run by a man with an accent I assume to be French. All it takes is Naz saying his last name, Vitale, and we're taken right inside, led straight to a small empty table in the back, just as a waiter descends upon it, carrying plates of food. My brow furrows as I slide into the seat Naz pulls out, stunned when a burger is set in front of me.

I gape at Naz when he settles into his seat, a plate identical to my own in front of him. "You called ahead?"

"I mentioned to the concierge that you wanted a bacon cheeseburger," he replies, "so he made it happen."

It's unfathomable to me, being waited on hand-and-foot, but I say nothing as the waiter brings us drinks—the non-alcoholic kind.

I pick up the burger to take a bite. It's got a peculiar flavor to it, bitter like balsamic vinegar, and is topped with some kind of green that reminds me of spinach. I chew the bite slowly as I pull off the top bun and scrape off all the leafy shit. My gaze shifts around the table as I frown.

"What's wrong?" Naz asks. I meet his gaze, seeing he's watching me as he takes a bite. He seems to like it, considering he takes a second bite right away.

"There's no ketchup on the table."

"There usually isn't in a place like this."

"This is why I like places not like this," I mutter, "because they have ketchup on the table."

He motions for the waiter, who makes his way over to us. Naz tells him to bring us some ketchup and the man nods, scurrying off to return a moment later with a little dipping bowl filled with what I guess they assume to be ketchup, but it looks a hell of a lot like stewed tomatoes with how chunky it is. I dip my finger in to taste it, cringing. There's that balsamic vinegar flavor again.

"What's wrong?" Naz asks again. His voice has a slight impatient tone to it. I shake my head, pushing the ketchup aside, and put the bun back on to take another bite. I can feel Naz's eyes, his question lingering over the table, my brushing it off not good enough for him. "Karissa, what's wrong?"

"Nothing," I say, offering a tentative smile. "It's fine."

"You're not using your ketchup."

"Yeah, uh… if you can call it that."

He reaches over and picks up the bowl, doing just what I did—dipping his finger in to taste it. He makes no face, no sound, but as the waiter walks by our table he reaches out and thrusts it at him.

The waiter stalls, wide-eyed, and takes the bowl. "Problem, sir?"

"Ketchup," Naz says, his voice even. "I asked for ketchup."

"Yeah, this is—"

"Not ketchup," Naz says, finishing his sentence. "Heinz 57 is ketchup. That's not ketchup. I don't know what the hell it is, but I asked for ketchup, so I expect to receive ketchup."

The waiter scurries off once more as I gape at Naz. He continues to eat, unaffected, as the waiter returns within moments with a new bowl of what is undoubtedly ketchup this time. I thank him, staring at the bowl, hesitating, as Naz lets out an exasperated sigh. "Now what's wrong?"

"It's just that, if ever someone were to poison your food, this might be the moment," I say, staring at the ketchup.

"You think it's poisoned?"

"Or at the very least spit in."

I'm worried I'm aggravating him, not trying to be difficult. I pick up my burger to take another bite, resigned to just forcing it down because I'm too hungry for this shit, when Naz lets out a laugh—loud and genuine. He pushes his chair back to stand up, holding his hand out to me. "Come on."

I glance at his hand before meeting his eyes. "Where are we going?"

"To get you what you really want."

I put my burger down and take his hand, following him out of the restaurant, past our confused-looking waiter by the door. We stroll around, passing dozens of restaurants, some bearing the name of celebrity chefs, before Naz pulls me into a busy sports bar.

This place is a world of difference from the other, like night and day. The bar is barely confined chaos, loud and bright, with people wearing jeans and ball caps, drinking beer and yelling at the TV. The smell of greasy food wafts through the air, making my stomach growl.

Naz grabs a table dead center of the room, where a waitress appears with menus. I order a Coke, practically bouncing in my seat, as Naz hands the menus right back. "A beer. I don't care what, just make it in a bottle and keep the top on. And two bacon cheeseburgers."

The woman scribbles it down and departs with a smile.

When our drinks arrive, I sip on my Coke as he pulls out his keys, using a bottle opener to pop the top on his beer. He takes a swallow. His face contorts with disgust, his expression making me laugh. "Not good?"