The Bangover

by Valente, Lili

  Pinning my umbrella under one arm, I scramble up onto Rexxy’s shoulder.

  The climb from his shoulder to the top of his rounded skull is harder. I slide off several times, impeded by my umbrella until I realize I can toss the umbrella up first and then claw my way up after. Still, the last few inches—straining every muscle in my body while wedging my bare toes into the corner of Rexxy’s open mouth—take it out of me.

  I collapse onto the top of the dino’s head, breathing hard, silently promising the universe that I will start lifting weights and rock climbing and doing other womanly muscle-building activities aside from jogging if it will just loan me enough strength to get to civilization. A breeze picks up a moment later, cooling my flushed skin and carrying a hint of something that smells like…diesel exhaust.

  And where there is diesel exhaust, there are trucks and people driving trucks who will take pity on a girl abandoned in the desert and loan me their phone so I can call Colin to come to pick me up!

  Then we’ll grab Murder from the hotel and head straight to the airport, where we will jump on the first flight home. “Because it’s been real, Vegas, and it’s been fun,” I say, rising onto my knees on Rexxy’s head. “But it hasn’t been real fun.”

  Swiping my forearm across my sweaty lip, I grab the umbrella and toss it over the fence first, ignoring the way my stomach flips as it takes a good second and a half to hit the sand on the other side. It’s a long way down, but I can make it. Half of this climb is equal to one over-the-pool-fence climb, and I can jump the last few feet if I have to. I really only have to spider monkey down ten or twelve feet until I’m in the clear.

  “Easy peasy,” I say, my scratchy voice barely audible over the pounding of my pulse in my ears. But still, I add in a firmer tone, “You’ve got this, Larry. The bad guys don’t get to win. You’re going to win, and then you’re going to kill off Regina’s character in the most horrible, bloodthirsty, torturous way you can imagine.”

  Soothed, and pleasantly distracted by thoughts of all the ways I can make the fictional Regina suffer—after I inform the police of the real Regina’s actions and get the psycho charged with a few crimes—I grip the fence and swing a trembling leg up and over the top.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Colin

  Murder looks like he wants to murder me, and for once I can’t blame him. I’ve lost Kirby. I’ve fucking lost Kirby, and for all we know she could be hurt, or sick from the drug Regina slipped into her drink.

  Or worse.

  “Please ring. Fucking ring already,” I beg my phone, driving my fingers into my hair and digging the heels of my hands into my eyes. The police sent me home four hours ago—promising to call as soon as they contacted the moving company who’d taken the exhibit job—but I’ve watched the temperature heat up to a brutal ninety-eight degrees without any word from the authorities.

  “They probably still think I had something to do with it,” I say, earning myself a “no shit, Sherlock” meow from the cat in front of me on the coffee table. I lift my head, expecting an incoming claw aimed at my face, but Murder’s still curled up in a ball, apparently willing to let me live—for now.

  But his glare makes it clear what he thinks of me. He thinks I’m an idiot who’s sitting around with my thumb up my ass, waiting for a phone call that’s not coming because the cops think I was working with my ex-girlfriend to get rid of my current girlfriend. Even though I told them that Kirby isn’t my girlfriend, just a friend who I would like to be my girlfriend, but I didn’t have a chance to tell her that or how much I cared about her before she was pushed into a coffin and moved to God knows where.

  The casino rented the exhibit from an entertainment company, who in turn hired the moving company. Both the entertainment company and the moving company were closed until eight this morning, but my millionth check of the time says it’s nearly ten. Surely the police must have something by now.

  I grab my cell, intending to ring the station and demand an update, when it vibrates in my hand and Bridget’s name pops up on the screen.

  Fuck. When she hears there’s no news, she’s probably going to want to kill me, too. She and Murder can join forces to claw me to pieces and cook me into a stew to serve to the guests at the B&B.

  But hopefully they’ll let me live long enough to know that Kirby’s safe first.

  Please let her be safe, I beg the powers that be as I answer the call. Please.

  “Hey, Bridge.” I sound as strained and worried as I feel. “Nothing yet. I’m sorry. But I promise I’ll call you as soon as—”

  “It’s okay, we’ve got something,” she cuts in. “Shep and I have been working our Google-Fu to try to get to the bottom of this, and it looks like there’s been a mix-up with the delivery.”

  I sit up straighter. “What kind of mix-up?”

  “The exhibit was supposed to be delivered to a movie set in the desert, but the movers took it somewhere else instead. It never showed up on set last night.”

  “How did you figure this out?” I ask, feeling like shit for sitting around on my ass waiting for the police while Bridget and Shep were solving the mystery.

  “Shep’s friend with the dark web connections did some—” She cuts off as a deep voice murmurs urgently in the background. “Shep says I’m not supposed to talk about that part. Forget I said that.” She clears her throat uncomfortably. “Do you think people are listening to our conversations, Colin? Or is Shep being paranoid?”

  “I have no idea,” I say. “But better safe than sorry. There’s already one Lawrence sister missing—no need for the other to end up in jail for cybercrimes.”

  “Right,” Bridget says with a rush of breath. “So, knowledge was acquired by means we won’t talk about. But that’s where the trail ends. The shipment never made it to the set, but we have no idea where it did end up. The men who did the delivery were subcontracted through a local company. They haven’t turned in their paperwork to the main company yet, and none of the workers have been reachable by phone. Considering they work the night shift, however, that’s not super alarming. Yet. They could have their phones off so they can get some rest. Now, if it gets to be four or five o’clock and they still aren’t answering or returning messages from concerned family members and the police, then we have to start considering whether foul play might be involved.”

  I surge to my feet, pacing toward the windows. “What kind of foul play? You think these guys were in on it with Regina?”

  “Maybe,” Bridget says, adding in a tighter voice, “Or maybe they just discovered a beautiful unconscious girl in a coffin and decided to do something awful.”

  Rage claws at my throat and something snaps in my head. “If they hurt her, I’m going to kill them. Hunt them down and rip them to pieces with my bare hands.”

  “I’ll help you,” Bridget says. “But we shouldn’t go there yet. This could all be a big mix-up and we’ll get a call from Kirby any minute, saying she’s stranded at a storage locker or something.”

  I perk up again. “Storage facilities. We could check those, right? I could start calling them now, see if they had any deliveries come in after three in the morning last night.”

  “You could. But Shep had a better idea. I’ll let him fill you in.” Bridget whispers something I can’t make out.

  A beat later Shep’s deep voice rumbles through the phone. “Sorry you’re going through all this, man. But Kirby’s tougher than she looks. You know that.”

  “No one’s very tough when they’re unconscious and pumped full of drugs,” I say with a sigh. “But thanks. And thanks for helping us get some answers. I’m going out of my mind over here.”

  “I can imagine. Which is why I think it’s time to send out the Colin signal. Get your fans on the case. But this time, instead of tracking you down at your hotel or the club—”

  “I ask them to help find Kirby.” I complete his thought, hope lighting in my chest only for reality to shut the party down a second later. �
�But the police warned me not to talk about what happened. They said that if I did, I might make it harder for them to find Kirby, and I could be charged with interfering with their investigation.”

  “But you’re talking to me,” he points out, “and Bridget.”

  “I am.” I chew the inside of my lip as an idea sparks in my mind. “And I wouldn’t have to talk much. Might be better if I don’t talk. At least not at first. The fans pay closer attention when I sing.”

  “Brilliant,” Shep says. “Get some footage to me in the next hour, and I’ll make sure it’s leaked to every gossip site and news outlet and front and center on our website.”

  “I won’t need an hour.” I spin on my heel, heading for the bedroom where I left the guitar Kirby had sent over last night. “I’ve already got a bunch of melodies bubbling on the backburner. Some lyrics, too. It won’t take long to throw something together with a request to help look for Kirby at the end. And if the police decide to come after me, then let them come.”

  “Just share when she went missing and where, and the police won’t have a leg to stand on. It’s not like you’re sharing secret details of the investigation. You’re just asking for help finding your friend.”

  “She’s more than my friend,” I confess, lifting the guitar case onto the bed and flipping open the latches.

  “I know that, man,” he rumbles. “Known for a while. Just not sure what took you so long.”

  “I was an idiot.”

  Shep starts to say something comforting, but I cut him off. “And I’m still an idiot. I didn’t tell her how I feel. I was waiting for the perfect moment, and now…”

  “There will still be a perfect moment,” he assures me. “And I bet Kirby has a pretty good idea how you feel. I mean, yeah, you’re an idiot. Her, not so much.”

  “I hope you’re right,” I agree, jaw tight. “I’ll have the song to you in twenty minutes tops. Tell Bridget again I’m sorry, will you?”

  “I will, but she isn’t blaming you. You didn’t make your ex fall off her rocker. I’m just glad she’s not pregnant. That would have been a hot mess to deal with for the rest of your kid’s life.”

  “Agreed.” I swing the guitar into my lap as I sit down on the edge of the bed. “If Kirby doesn’t want to be with me or make babies, I’m getting a vasectomy and heading any future hot messes off at the pass.”

  “You’re twenty-nine, dude. Might be a little early to make that kind of decision.”

  “I’m almost thirty, and it’s not too early. If I can’t have kids with Kirby, I don’t want kids. She’s the only person I want that kind of life with.” The only person I want any kind of forever with.

  I end the call and tune my guitar. Kirby is my true north, my home base, the only person who knows me inside and out and likes me just the way I am. And I feel the same way about her.

  Letting all of that move my hands, I start to strum, finding the melody, the chorus, and then the bridge before taking a breath and singing straight from the heart.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Kirby

  A girl trekking down a deserted road, wearing a party dress and coffin lining wrapped around her feet, holding a faded vintage umbrella like a parasol—that’s not something you see every day. I’d probably laugh if I saw me.

  I focus on the ridiculousness of my predicament, brainstorming more and more absurd ways the character of the Stranded Girl could have ended up in a coffin in the middle of nowhere. Anything to distract myself from my dangerously parched throat and the way my head is starting to spin a little more with each mile that passes by beneath my makeshift shoes.

  If I don’t get water soon, I’m going to pass out.

  And if I pass out, and no one happens to drive by, see me, and decide to have mercy on my unconscious self, then I might not be leaving this desert as a girl.

  I might be leaving it as a corpse, one Colin will most likely have to identify at the morgue, which will break his heart into thousands of irreparable pieces. If I die because he talked me into staying in Vegas, where his ex-girlfriend drugged me and threw me into a coffin, thereby making him an indirect contributor to my death by exposure, he will never forgive himself.

  And I will never forgive myself for failing him by being a weakling who couldn’t keep walking for ten miles. The sign at the first crossroads I came to at the end of the junkyard’s access road said ten miles to Coyote Springs, with a little gas station symbol underneath it. In less than ten miles now, I will reach a gas station where they will have a bathroom and a faucet that I will be able to stick my mouth under and drink until I don’t feel like my throat is being turned inside out by murderous dust bunnies.

  In less than ten miles, I will reach a phone and sturdy desert folk who will take matters in hand and fetch me a pair of flip-flops to wear while I call the police and Colin and my sister and finally my real estate agent, to tell her that I’m not going to be listing my house after all. If Colin doesn’t want to be in love, then I’m going back to my cats, who will help mend my broken heart with rough tongue kisses and lots of snuggles and cat hair stuck to every item of clothing I own, and I am never leaving home again. I just have to get there.

  Have to keep…

  Going…

  One foot in front of the other…

  Keep…

  Going…

  Keep…

  I stumble, the world goes fuzzy, and the next time I blink, I’m on my hands and knees with my forehead in the gravel beside the poorly-paved stretch of road.

  Not stumbled, genius. You passed out, my inner voice helpfully tells me. And you’re probably going to pass out again, and the next time you might not wake up, and then we’ll both be dead!

  “Not helping, jerk,” I croak.

  Not trying to, psycho.

  “Relax.” I collect my umbrella from the ground beside me, grateful it didn’t blow away while I was out.

  I can’t relax, I’m freaking out! Are those buzzards up there? Buzzards! Already circling! Waiting for us to die so they can pick our bones clean!

  “Getting hysterical is only going to make things worse,” I say, standing and shuffling forward on wobbly knees. “We have to remain calm.”

  Quit walking like that! You’re getting gravel in between our toes!

  “Dirt don’t hurt.”

  But it feels weird, and I don’t like it, and I want to go home, and oh my God, I’m going to scream. Ahhhhhhhh! Ahhhhh! Ahhhhh!

  I wince at the wail of my inner voice losing her shit in my head, wondering if this is what it’s like to experience a mental breakdown. First you start talking to the voice in your head, then the voice has a meltdown, and then all you hear is wailing between your ears until it finally drives you completely around the bend.

  “Around the bend,” I mutter, heart lurching as I realize the wailing isn’t inside my head, after all.

  It’s coming from the road! It’s the wail of an ambulance, complete with flashing red lights and a serious dust cloud kicking up behind the wheels, meaning whoever’s driving is in one hell of a hurry to get where they’re going.

  “To get to us,” I tell the inner voice. “We’re saved!”

  Saved! Oh my God, we’re saved. I hope they have water.

  “Water and an IV, I bet,” I say, lifting an arm over my head and waving it back and forth. There’s no way they’ll be able to miss me—I’m the only thing on the road to the storage yard, where they’ve surely been sent to hunt for me—but I’m so excited to see them I can’t help myself.

  I’m already composing my thank you for rescue, and wondering if there’s a chance Colin was allowed to ride along to come get me—God, I want to see him so badly, to let him know that I love him and that I never want to come back to Vegas ever again—when the ambulance cuts left, and the lights skitter across the desert toward the mountains.

  “No,” I mutter in disbelief before adding in a croak-screech. “No! I’m here! I’m right here!” I wave my umbrella and my ar
m, making giant swoops through the air, but the vehicle doesn’t slow.

  It continues to race away, leaving me to eat its dust.

  The gravel cloud reaches me about thirty seconds later, whipping into my face and arms on a sudden breeze. I shift the umbrella in front of me to blunt the worst of it and squeeze my eyes shut while my soul folds itself into misery-shaped origami. This is so much worse—to be so close to salvation only to have the life preserver jerked away at the last moment.

  “I’m so thirsty. If I were adrift in the ocean, I would drink it,” I say, voice thick with the tears I’m too dried out to shed. “Even though I would know I shouldn’t.”

  And then you would die, the inner voice says, quieter now, her hysteria vanishing along with the last of her hope.

  “No.” I clench my jaw and stand up straight, moving the umbrella back into sun-blocking position above my head. “We’re not giving up hope. We’re too close. We have to be almost to the gas station by now. One foot in front of the other. We’ve got this. No quitting because quitting is for quitters who quit.”

  The inner voice doesn’t dignify my lame-ass pep talk with a response, but she doesn’t start bellyaching again, either. And as I trudge on, aiming my pitiful self forward, gaze skimming back and forth over the horizon for some sign of civilization, my heartbeat remains steady.

  I’m going to get there. I have too much left to do to check out now.

  I have stories to tell and adventures to take and a beautiful best friend who needs to know that I love him, even if he doesn’t love me back.

  I’m thinking of Colin, of his smile and his laugh and how good his hands feel on me, how perfectly right, when a pale-blue spike separates itself from the horizon.

  Pulse leaping, I squint and shift my umbrella to block out more of the sun, bringing a roundish shape shimmering into focus beneath the spike.

  A sign! It’s a sign!

  I’m almost there! The next mile passes faster than any of the distance before, proving that hope has a power all of its own. Finally, I reach the cracked parking lot of Coyote Feed and Fuel, where a single battered white pickup truck is parked outside. When I see the Open sign flashing in the window, my soul soars.