by Ann Denton
Kenneth pulls out a floor-length gown that’s not wrapped in plastic—one of Heather’s rejects from her debut night here—and then slips it back onto the rack. He grumbles as he sorts through the ridiculous outfits that my BFF insisted we had to bring. Half of them trail the floor and would be totally inappropriate for whatever the hell it is Alec thinks we're gonna do—some MacGyver/James Bond shit or something.
Finally, Kenneth finds a dress that has shoulders and isn't dragging a three-foot train behind me. But it's slutty as fuck. I roll my eyes as I slide it on. It's a dress that I’d never wear in a million years. It’s half black satin, half delicate black sheer. A thick black strip of satin crosses horizontally at my neck. But then there's a sheer strip of fabric on the sleeves and bodice of the dress before a three-inch black strip covers my triceps and the essentials on my breasts. My torso is mostly on display with sheer black material. There’s another thick strip of black material just below my navel, as though it’s the skirt, but nope. A peekaboo, thin strip of sheer material occurs just above the zone of no return. Then a black miniskirt finishes off the dress. Never ever in my entire life—even when Heather was giving me all kinds of drunken dares in high school—did I ever wear dresses this risqué. I try to yank the material to cover my boobs a little better but that just reveals a lot of under boob. I’m damned if I do, damned if I don’t. My breasts are still coated in cum, so that's super fun and uncomfortable, too.
Kenneth yanks on the back of my skirt a little (it hardly covers my ass) and then rubs his hand down my side. “You look delicious,” he whispers just before we hear a distant thump. It sounds like Gunmetal George and his friend, Suit or whoever, have left the building, shutting the door behind them. Thank fuck. I take a second to appreciate Kenneth’s fingers dragging up my side because, well, it feels fucking good to be alive right now. I give into Kenneth’s caress for one life-reaffirming moment before I turn back to the others.
“What’s the plan?” I ask, now that I’m fairly confident the coast is clear. “How are we gonna warn Heather? How do we tell the staff?”
Kenneth holds up a necklace from underneath his t-shirt. “I’ve buzzed them.”
“What is that?”
He fingers the little black pendant. “It’s like a distress beacon. With the kind of people who rent this place … the staff have to have a couple security measures in place … for our own safety,” he trails off and shakes his head. “We’ve only ever used it for real once before. Anyway, if this worked, they’re already gone. There’s a hidden speedboat for the staff.”
“Fuck,” Danny says. “You couldn’t hold off for us to get there?”
“I was pretty sure we were goners,” Kenneth responds bluntly.
I close my eyes and take a deep breath, seeking calm. Maybe the staff saved Heather and the guys. Maybe she’s okay. The tight feeling in my chest eases a bit.
Kenneth and Danny start to bicker and I turn back to Alec, trying to ignore them. I ask again, “What’s the plan?”
Alec doesn’t give me a straight answer. He mutters things as he makes the world's largest homemade hanger weapon. Obvious things like, “We need to find out why they're here.” And, “No matter why, we need to take them out.”
Danny tosses up his hands at Kenneth and walks over to Alec. Danny starts unbending hangers and handing his straightened creations to Alec.
“The helicopter. That's our biggest problem," Alec repeats that line a number of times.
“Why?” Kenneth asks.
“They can either take us away, or shoot us like fish in a barrel,” Alec responds.
“You don’t fly helicopters?” I ask even though my stomach’s already sinking, anticipating his response.
“Nope,” Alec grits out.
Fuck. I move, trying to keep busy so the churning in my stomach doesn’t turn into upchuck. I bend down and sort through extra men's shoes to see if there's anything that'll fit Alec. If we’re gonna have to run for it, we can’t go barefoot. It's pure dumb party-planning over-thinking luck that I brought an extra set of men's shoes in every size. I find a size eleven for Alec. He slips on the shiny dress shoes, grumbling about how the shoes aren’t good for tracking, or tromping through the forest, or running.
I ignore the man-wailing and focus on my own shoes, since apparently, we’re not leaving the closet until we’re completely ready to run at the first sign of Gunmetal George. I find a decent set of hiking boots in the back of my closet, but Alec won't let me leave to get socks. So instead, I settle on some Teva sandals I tossed in on a whim. They look rocking with my dress. Sex hair and Teva hippie shoes meet whore-torso. Yup. I’m like one of those awful Walmart weirdo photos.
When Alec’s weapon is ready, he slides it up the arm of his suit coat, leaving a dangerous array of tiny spears protruding just beyond his fingertips. He goes to the door of the closet and we line up behind him. Kenneth and I carry stilettos in our hands with spike heels. Danny pulls down a short hanging rod. It’s only plastic, but he takes a practice swing behind me and I want to duck because the air swishes over my neck as fast as a fat man trying to beat a food truck line.
Alec leads the way through my villa like a dark scary mother goose—the kind that will peck you to death with her beak. His beak is a bunch of rusty hangers. Honestly, I think if he just punched people, we might be better off. Shivers crawl up and down my spine like spiders, and my head whips every which way. I don’t know what the fucking fuck we’re gonna do if one of those guys is hiding behind my boxes. For the first time, I curse my over-planning, hoarder self. I gave those gunny assholes so many places to hide.
But we make it to the living room without incident. On the side table—how did they not grab it?—my cell sits where Alec tossed it.
I rush over to it and unlock it with my fingerprint, determined to warn Heather, eager to call the Caribbean police, a private army, whatever the fuck it takes.
But there’s no signal.
Alec reaches his hand for the phone when he sees me stare at it several times. He yanks it away just before I can start madly mashing buttons. Danny comes up behind me and wraps me in a hug. He kisses the back of my head as Alec checks the phone.
“No service,” Alec grunts. “They must have jammed the signal.”
“Who could do that?” Danny asks, clutching me closer.
Kenneth shakes his head. “We’ve had cartel meetings do it before. When members of two families meet. Had a couple of government officials jam the signal one time. Obviously, those meetings announced it beforehand and our old manager gave us a heads up, but … it’s possible.”
“Is there a jammer on site?” Alec asks.
“Nope.”
“Fuck. Then the first target definitely needs to be the helicopter.”
“We’ll follow your lead,” Kenneth nods at Alec.
I’m kind of surprised by how calm he’s being right now. Like, literally, I’m so disappointed in myself. I never thought I was totally brave. But I never thought I was such a coward either. If Heather weren’t possibly about to go head to head with gunmen, I’d totally say screw the helicopter and let’s just hide in my villa forever. We have everything we could ever need. There’s lube. And flower tape. Tablecloths I brought in case the ones here were shit … completely useful stuff.
I remind myself that Heather would never leave me behind. She might not make it five feet to my rescue because she’d mouth off so much, but she’d try for the five feet. I pussy up and make my stupid coward feet shuffle forward as Alec heads toward my front door.
Danny clutches his closet pole like a baseball bat. Kenneth grabs one of my hands and squeezes. He raises a metal-tipped stiletto in the other. I mirror him.
All together, my guys and I step out into the dark, dangerous night.
Chapter Four
Heather
“You’re with these fuckers?” I slide off BJ’s dick and stand, stepping over him and turning toward the twins. I channel rage at Reval and Ru
bin, not bothering to look at the man with the gun aimed at my tits, even as he takes a few steps closer, his fancy-looking gun and suit all lit up in playful, rainbow fucking colors from the party lights inside the pool. If I look at him, this will become too real. And I’ll get scared. I don’t want to get scared. I want to be pissed.
R&R don’t answer me. Because they’re beta cowards when it comes down to it. Fuck them. Automatic disqualification from the harem if you ruin my orgasms with gunmen. I don’t even have to know why.
They stare back at me, apologies leaking from their eyes. I don’t give a good goddamn about apologies. Shane Paul ruined the word “sorry” for me long ago. It’s an empty fucking lie.
The gunman in the suit clears his throat and speaks over his shoulder to one of his cronies. “Is this her?” He sidesteps a bit to give that other asshole a better view of me.
I narrow my eyes and peer around Suity McGunPants. There, at the edge of the shallow end of the pool, is a guy who looks vaguely familiar. He’s tall and slightly balding, with a forehead that would still be abnormally large even without the hair loss. I study him. He’s has a bit of a paunch that’s been hidden a bit by his jacket. He’s also looks a little bit nervous about being here. He’s got dishwater-brown hair and a bit of a blob for a nose. He’s pretty forgettable, to be honest. Maybe it’s just the gun at my chest that makes me hyper aware and makes me think I know him. Or maybe it’s just one of those weird moments of déjà vu. But I feel like I’ve seen Blob before, I just can’t quite place him.
Blob takes a few hesitant steps closer and stares at me. He clears his throat and says, “Yes, it is her.” His accent makes the words hard to understand. It takes my ears a second to process them and catch up.
“Who?” I ask. “Who the fuck are you? You don’t know me!”
Suity taps my chest with the gun. And motherfuckin’ adrenaline hits me. I reach up and twist his hand in so hard that he drops the weapon with a howl. Bet he didn’t expect that from a bitch he pointed a gun at. Stupid ass hothead, I curse him in my mind. Get your red-headed temper under control. And don’t use guns to jab at people like you’re a little bitch. Guns are for shooting. You even know that? I smirk at him. Not that it does a lotta good, because just then, another of Suity’s friend walks through the arch. This guy is massive; he has huge football shoulders. As soon as he takes in the scene, he’s got his gun trained on me. I glare at him. He looks like Katie’s usual type. An asshole with an attitude. I decide to call him Jeremy 2.0.
“Don’t move.”
He could be a Schwarzenegger impersonator—J2. He’s got the voice and build for it. He’s got some frosted tips in his hair that are a little unfortunate, though. Too bad he’s on the bad guy team. I could totally have fixed those for him. And that little soul patch on his chin. He just needs to shave that shit off. It looks like those little patches of pubic hair women sometimes leave right above their slits. Not cute.
I listen to this guy’s command and freeze. Because, unlike Suity, J2 isn’t getting close and poking me with his gun like it’s a stick. He’s got a wide-legged, double-handed, proper shooting stance going on. I let Suity grab his little metal dick back off the ground, glaring at him the whole time.
“I could shoot you dead,” Suity threatens.
“You woulda’ already done that if it’s what you came here to do,” I toss back at him.
J2 snickers behind Suity.
I cannot imagine being surrounded by bigger dopes than these ... I make eye contact with Andrew and he shakes his head, discouraging me from continuing to engage. But I can't freaking help myself. If I'm about to die, I'm gonna go down swinging. I’m just so motherfucking glad Katie isn’t here right now. First, because she'd freak out, and second, because then I'd be worried about getting her shot. It's tough enough right now. But these are guys. I expect them to man up or duck and cover. I don’t feel responsible for them the way I would for her. I'm in such a rage that I don't even care right now. I mean, this is my motherfucking island! They’re trespassing. And they ruined my forgetting sex. "How the hell did you get on this island?"
Suity doesn't answer. But I have even more questions for him. I don’t pause long, I just let the questions roll. Maybe one of them will get a response. At least a facial expression or something that’ll give me a clue about what’s going on. "Why do you think you know me? What's your beef with me? What's with the guns? If you have a goddamn problem with me, why don’t you man up and say it instead of waving a gun in my face? Are you compensating for something?"
Andrew literally slaps a hand over his eyes at that last question. But I just purse my lips and stare at Suity and then at J2. Someone better give me some answers or shoot me. Neither of them moves to do either. Which tells me that these two are low on the totem pole. They’re here to threaten, but their dumb brute gazes don’t hold answers. And I’m pretty sure I’ve insulted them enough to shoot me if they were gonna. My momma always pushed back with those guys she cheated on daddy with. Sometimes she shouldn’t have and she got smacked around. But there it is. When she pushed back and the guy did nothing, she let him stick around for awhile, knowing she held the reins. But she always pushed back—she had to, in order to see what she was working with. Apparently, I’m working with apes who carry guns.
My gaze shifts over to R&R again. I stare those beta bitches down. "What the hell is going on?"
Reval chews on his lip. That's about the only time I can tell the fuckers apart. That's his nervous tell. He usually does it right before he gets reamed in the ass. I hold eye contact until he submits.
He opens his mouth and words come spilling out. "You weren't supposed to be there. It was supposed to be a clean buy. He was supposed to get all the tickets."
I scrunch my eyebrows. What he’s saying doesn't really make sense. And yet, somehow, a little part of my brain is saying it does. I take a second trying to string together crazy boy’s words. The thing I latch onto is ticket. The only ticket I've bought recently was that lotto ticket. Best pissed-off mood I ever had. The guy in front of me was holding up the motherfucking line. Wearing a baseball cap and trying to buy a zillion tickets so I couldn’t get my goddamn Powerade. He was taking forever! I literally walked up, hip checked him, smacked down the cash for the Powerade, scooped up a freshly printed ticket, tossing an extra two bucks on the counter. I’d flipped off the dickhead in the hat and walked out.
I zero back in on Blob. I didn’t notice a paunch that day, but I think he was wearing a jacket then, too. I study his face. His hunched posture. His duck-footed stance. Recognition dawns. He was the idiot at the gas station buying all those lotto tickets.
“You took our father’s ticket,” Rubin says slowly. His eyes don’t quite meet mine.
“It wasn’t your father’s ticket, I paid for it,” I respond.
“It was printed for me, yet you took,” Blob accuses.
Suity shakes his gun and his head, tsking at me.
“Fuck you,” I jerk my chin at Blob and again at Suity. What the hell? “Not every ticket is yours. You can’t buy every goddamned ticket.”
“Actually,” Reval shrugs. “That’s exactly what Boris was supposed to do.”
My jaw drops. “But that’s cheating!” Motherfucking brilliant. But who has the cash to buy every goddamned ticket?
I eye R&R and their little posse. It looks like the answer is the Russian mafia.
Chapter Five
Katie
We carefully edge around the corner of my villa. The adrenaline is pumping through my veins, urging me to go as fast as possible. I'm ready to race down the path and save Heather from these motherfucking crazies. How? I dunno. Startling them to death is about the best I can come up with. I wish an awkward wave was as deadly in real life as it is for my social life. Dammit. I stare down the path, bleakly anticipating my own suckiness.
But Alec doesn't go down the path toward the pool, he turns and heads through the grass, straight toward the helicopter.
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I almost mess everything up. I almost yell after him. I almost ask, "What the hell are you doing?"
But I spot the silhouette leaning against the helicopter. At first, the man’s nearly impossible to see given the dark shadows. It’s only the fact that the moon peeks out from behind the cloud and basically points right fucking at him, that I see him at all. One gangster stayed behind.
We crouch in the flowery bushes next to my villa and the smell is awful. It’s like my grandmother’s potpourri obsession come to life. I have to hold my breath as I spy on the bad guy. He has on jeans and a tan sports jacket and he’s picking at his fingernails with a pocket knife that glints in the moonlight.
Watching him sparks some part of me that I've never in my life experienced before. This little rage monster snarls in my head and wants to shove that knife right between his ribs for coming here and scaring me, for searching my villa, and making me fear for my life. My mother would be horrified I’m having such thoughts. But I bet some ancestor in the sky is saying, “Yee haw! Git ‘em!” or maybe some even more primitive ancestor is beating his chest with an, “Oogh.” Kill or be killed. My belated fight instinct kicks in and I welcome it to the party. But just as soon as it appears, it vanishes like sand between my fingers. Which figures. Because while I might daydream about aggression, I am just not that girl.
Alec stares at the gangster for a minute, sizing him up before turning to us and giving some kind of fucking hand signal. What the hell? Are we in a cop show? Is this baseball? Are we speaking sign language now? I don’t know what the hell his hand signal means. It looks like he’s doing a messed up interpretive dance or a really bad robot, maybe. But for some reason, Kenneth and Danny both nod. What the fuck? My eyes flicker over to them, but they both sneak back the way we came without another word. Did they actually understand? Am I missing something? Is there a class in high school that teaches this shit? Or … wait … no, there’s gotta be some dumb guy comedy movie that has this in it. And like every guy who memorizes movie quotes and wastes his brain space on useless shit, this hand signal is one of those things that all guys just “know.” That’s gotta be it.