Page 20 of Finders Reapers

“We have a suite at the Bellagio.” He commented lightly, reaching forward and flicking my ear. “Not the Paris.”

I breathed out slowly and affected a benign smile. “I know.”

“We can go the rest of the way on foot.” Fletcher left the end of the sentence open-ended. “Unless there’s a reason you brought me here.”

I straightened my shoulders and gave him my best impression of a woman that knew what the hell she was doing. “I need to go swimming.”

“Hmm.” His brows arched, but he did not question me.

We walked through the lobby, with each of the signs labeled in French and English, past the front desk and the promenade of shops and tables—arranged to look like the streets of Paris in France. Bakeries and Bistro seating.

It was tacky to the extreme in a way that only the Strip could be. My party location had been chosen to be Meta, allowing me to enjoy the gaudiness without looking like I took myself too seriously.

Post-modern irony—My agent had called it. Barbie doll, spoiled, Cody had said.

At the time, I hadn’t thought much of it. I had wanted to wear a Beret and drink cocktails under a giant Eiffel tower.

With every step further into the hotel, my shoes clacked against the marble—shoes I didn’t pick and an outfit I hadn’t chosen but had come with the body—memories began to filter through and sink in. Snippets of the person I was. An overlaid image of wheeling my carry-on suitcase behind me and squealing with my friends when the concierge handed us our keys to the suite.

Faces were blurred, and dialogue skewed, like watching a film underwater or trying to remember every minute detail of the night before with a hangover.

It made my head hurt.

Fletcher seemed down to be along for the ride. His hands stuffed in the pockets of his skinny pink jeans as he sauntered by my side.

Not a soul stopped us or asked where we were going or if we were guests.

Every time someone passed us in the hall, their eyes slid off us like we were made of oil.

“Is that a Reaper thing?” I wondered. “No one is looking directly at us.”

Fletcher shrugged but didn’t explain.

I exhaled in irritation as the doors to the elevator brushed open, and we slid inside.

A huge gilded mirror took up the back wall, and while Fletcher looked the same in the mirror as he did in RL, the person that stood next to him was someone else entirely.

I was Italian, and before I died, I looked it.

Not Jersey Shore, but naturally tanned, tall, with white teeth, long dark hair, and breasts courtesy of Dr. Gutterman.

I stepped closer to the mirror until my nose almost brushed the glass.

I felt sick.

“Who is that?” I whispered, knowing without a doubt that the body I was wearing was not my own. I didn’t know why that bothered me so much in the grand scheme of things, but I was one hairline fracture away from shattering like a vase.

Fletcher glanced over his shoulder at me. “That’s you.” He told me, disinterested. “Do you think they’ll have Cherry Soda at the bar?”

I ignored his question and reached up to touch my face.

I was five foot nothing. I had red hair andfreckles. I looked like a damn squiggle with the curves of my chest, waist, and ass.

People used to compare me to a supermodel. Like if Kendall Jenner and Gigi Hadid had a baby.

“I look like Wendy,” I pulled my lip to the side to study my teeth before poking my cheek.

“From the fast-food chain?” Fletcher snorted, leaning back. His eyes flicked over my frame before coming back to mine. “Yeah. You look like Wendy if she got thicc.”

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