Lucky in Love

by Brockmeyer, Kristen

  I started the car again and backed slowly and carefully out of my parking spot. Being worth roughly 78 million and some change, which was what I had left after the cash option I had opted for and the removal of Uncle Sam's hefty bite, I couldn't afford to die in a car accident. Not until I wrote up a will, anyway.

  I'd talked the lottery people into holding off the official winner press release until the funds were transferred, which would take about 10 days, to give myself time to plan my next move before relatives and friends I didn't have started crawling out of the woodwork. But wouldn't the snippy girl at the credit union—the one who always gave me a hard time when I overdrafted—be surprised to see my balance when that money hit my checking account?

  I made it home without incident and spent all the money in my head on the way. I was bouncing up my rickety front stairs, planning how to buy back Julian's house, when I saw a black fedora hat pinned to my front door with one of my antique letter openers.

  My rollercoaster luck had lurched into a downswing again.

  Chapter 11

  For a second, I just stared at the hat as my brain struggled to switch gears. Julian had a pretty bizarre sense of humor sometimes, but this was definitely not his brand of weird. A cold ball of dread settled into my gut.

  I tried to pull the hat off the door, but it was stuck tight. I gripped the letter opener harder.

  I didn't realize my teeth were bared and my breath was coming in harsh pants as I wrestled the hat free. When I did, and a piece of paper that had been pinned under the hat fluttered down. I grabbed it before the gusty wind could catch it, and picked up the letter opener gingerly with two fingers, out of a belated concern of preserving fingerprints. Stuffing the fedora under my arm, I dug in my purse for my keys, but as I did, my shoulder bumped the door and it swung open.

  What. The. Hell.

  I darted a look over my shoulder for any suspicious white vans, and seeing nothing, my fear shifted abruptly into Grade A, duck-and-cover, white hot rage. Someone had taken my friend's hat, stabbed a letter opener in my front door, broken into my apartment, and then had the nerve to leave a note. Someone was gonna get it if they were still in there. I flipped the letter opener around so the business end pointed forward and gripped the handle with steely purpose. If it could be stabbed in the door, it could jab into a person just fine.

  I flicked the light switch in my miniscule entryway.

  No thugs, gangsters or crazed cleaning women were there to greet me, but a mess of massively epic proportions was. My apartment had been tossed. My TV was brutalized, my couch dismantled and unstuffed, and every knickknack and tchotchke I owned was scattered in shards all over the floor. My antique typewriter was in pieces. Same deal with my record player. From what I could tell, the Sinatra collection was just gone. Picture frames were torn off the walls and smashed, and in the kitchen, my lovely daisy-patterned dishes had each met the same fate. Not one of my personal possessions remained intact. The bastards had even torn down my temporary cardboard window cover and ripped that. Everything I owned was now trash.

  A sudden, awful thought occurred to me and I dropped everything and ran to my bedroom closet. Yanking the string to turn on the light, I stepped awkwardly over piles of shredded clothes to get to the now-empty shelves. With a little climbing and contortionism, I could just get my head and shoulders up into the open attic access in the ceiling.

  "Louie?" I whispered, trying to adjust my eyes to the gloom.

  A faint hiss sounded from the corner, where one reflective green eye glared balefully, and I started bawling in relief. They hadn't gotten Louie.

  I don't know how long I stood like that, alternately sobbing and calling "Here kitty, kitty," before it registered that there was someone else in my apartment. Still hiccupping from my tears, I twisted frantically, trying to maneuver back down into the closet, but I was wedged tightly.

  "Lose something?"

  I was abruptly grateful that I was wearing my vintage Levi's dungarees and not a skirt. That would have looked way more ridiculous.

  "Help me out of here, asshole," I yelled, trying unsuccessfully to squirm my way back down through the access hole.

  Strong arms banded around my legs and with one sharp pull I popped free from the attic like a cork out of a champagne bottle. Chance and I tumbled out of the closet and landed in a heap on the bedroom floor.

  Instantly, I started screaming and yelling and jabbing my finger into his chest. I don't even know what I said, but I was absolutely sure that Chance was to blame for the whole situation and I hoped my raving conveyed that. My luck had always been bad, but the weirdness all started happened as soon as I hit him with my car.

  He lay on his back, stunned, for about twelve seconds of my incoherent tirade before simply sitting up and pulling me into his arms. He pushed my head down on his shoulder and started rubbing my back.

  I sank into his comforting warmth a moment before I could stop myself, but then I struggled loose.

  "What are you doing?" I shouted in his face.

  "Trying to get you to calm down so I can understand what the hell is going on!" he shouted back.

  "I have no clue! I come home and my apartment's trashed, and my cat's traumatized and Julian's hat—."

  My face paled.

  "Ohmigod, Julian."

  I scrambled back to the entryway and grabbed the note.

  I've got Grandpa, but would be happy to trade.

  I handed the note to Chance, who had followed me. As he read it, his eyes narrowed and his jaw tightened.

  When I spoke, the calmness of my tone surprised even me. "You want to start explaining how you're going to fix this?"

  "Call your buddy's retirement home," Chance ordered as he dialed his own phone. "Make sure this isn't just a bluff and he's not there eating his Salisbury steak."

  My phone had met the same dismal fate as everything else in my living room and I was the last-known human being on the planet to not have a cell, so I had to wait for Chance to have another cryptic conversation with Nate before I could use his.

  "Yeah, it's me. Where the hell is Fisher? He was supposed to be watching the place and now Dominick has jumped to the wrong conclusions and we have a serious problem."

  As I waited, I tried not to panic. Who the hell was this Dominick and why did he want Julian?

  "Mrow." Louie had slunk into the kitchen to sit on my foot and voice his displeasure at this latest turn of events. I scooped him up, cuddling him under my chin, and for the second time in his ornery life, he didn't retaliate to affection with his teeth and claws. Maybe he was mellowing.

  I watched Chance as he listened grimly to whatever was being said and realized that in the course of a decade, my loser high school ex had turned into a big, hard, serious man that I didn't know.

  He'd barely finished his call when I set Louie down and grabbed the phone out of his hand. I dialed the number to Restful Pines by memory.

  "Don't say anything about him being missing," Chance warned me. "It will just complicate things."

  I took three deep breaths as the phone rang, trying to calm my racing heart and act normal. Becky, one of my favorite receptionists answered.

  "Hey, Becky," I said, painfully aware that my voice was an octave higher than normal, but trying determinedly to sound cheerful and not like I was a gnat's ass away from wigging out. "This is Lucky. Have you seen Julian around this afternoon?"

  "Nope," Becky replied. "He headed out this morning and hasn't been back yet. He's not at your place?"

  "No," I answered, the icy knot of fear in my belly getting bigger. "I'm sure he'll turn up, though. I just wanted to check since I might be out later, but I'll just leave him a note."

  "Tell him he needs to be back at a reasonable time tonight," she said. "His doc prescribed that new heart medication for him last week and I don't know if he's got it with him or not. He's supposed to be taking it with meals."

  Shit. "Will do, Becky. Thanks."

  I switched
the phone off with shaking hands and leveled a death-inducing glare on Chance as I handed it back. "Tell me what's going on. Julian needs his heart medication and if he doesn't get it tonight, I swear I will rip you, Nate, and this Dominick guy into pieces so tiny that I'll be able to bury you all in the same coffee can."

  A half-hour later, I was following Chance's green Jeep Cherokee to his hotel. He refused to say anything at my apartment, except that Nate was working on locating Julian. Autocratically, he also informed me that I was coming with him, so I should pack a bag. Since the last part of that order was out of the question, being that my overnight bag and anything I would have put into it were ruined beyond recognition, I grabbed my beat-up cat carrier from the basement storage unit and coaxed Louie into it. Louie, my car, my purse, the cat carrier and the three cans of Fancy Feast I found on the floor of the pantry were pretty much the sum total of my possessions now. The irony that I had just won the lottery and could replace it in a few days wasn't lost on me, but until I had Julian back, the millions didn't matter.

  Chance pulled into a motel a few miles outside of town. Judging by the look of it, Chance had checked out a room based on price, not aesthetics. The motel was a single-story place, set up in a U shape, and only two other cars graced the pothole-pitted parking lot. He parked in front of the end furthest from the office and I followed suit.

  I gathered up my irritated cat and my purse, beeped the car alarm to set it, and followed him into a small, surprisingly clean-looking room. He shut the door and locked it behind me. I set the carrier down and shed my raincoat, abruptly aware that we were alone, and the tiny space was mostly dominated by a king-sized bed covered in a loud red and purple bedspread. I looked for a place to sit down, but had to settle for the edge of the bed in the absence of any chairs or other flat surfaces.

  Chance stood by the door, looking as awkward as I felt. He had taken off the bandage that covered his forehead at some point, and was wearing a large, purplish bruise that was disappeared into his hairline. His green eyes were shadowed and he looked far older than I knew he was.

  I felt some of my anger draining away. He might look older and tougher, but this was still Chance. Whatever was going on was probably indirectly his stupid fault, but he was obviously just as upset about recent events as I was. And apparently, he was so uncomfortable being in the same room as me that he didn't know where to begin.

  I sighed. It didn't seem like that long ago that you couldn't get a word in edgewise when we were together. We talked about—and argued over—everything from movies to politics to food to whether or not She-Ra could take He-Man in single hand-to-hand combat. There never used to be this kind of stiltedness between us.

  "You might as well sit down and start explaining," I said, scooting toward the middle of the saggy mattress and sitting crosslegged.

  Looking a little relieved that I hadn't immediately picked up my screaming tirade again, he shrugged off his coat and sat down, leaning against the headboard. The bed dipped beneath his weight and I shifted to keep from sliding toward him.

  "I'm sorry you got pulled into this," he said, jabbing frustrated fingers into his hair. "Your apartment got trashed and your friend snatched because of a case I'm a part of. Nate is working on figuring out our next move. Until then, I'm keeping an eye on you."

  "So what are you?" I asked. "A police officer? DEA? Walker, Texas Ranger? You can't put me off with partial answers here, and don't give me any 'need to know' bullshit. My friend is involved, and now I need to know."

  He gave a short laugh. "None of the above. I guess you could call me a freelance screwup at the moment."

  I just raised an eyebrow at him and waited for him to continue.

  "This actually goes back to when I left town," Chance sighed.

  My heart jumped. This was it. He was going to tell me why he'd dropped me like a hot potato all those years ago. I held my breath.

  The phone rang.

  "Son of a bitch!" I blurted.

  Chapter 12

  But it wasn't Chance's cell phone— it was the plastic hotel phone on the desk next to the TV. Chance's eyes met mine briefly, and he jumped up to grab the phone off the table.

  "Yeah?" he barked. Abruptly, his eyes narrowed. "Dominick," he mouthed to me, putting his fingers over his lips.

  "Listen," he was saying, "You've got this all wrong. They don't have anything to do with any of— yeah, okay." He fell silent, a muscle in his jaw ticking.

  I scooted toward the edge of the bed, trying desperately to hear the conversation, but my foot got caught on the ugly bedspread and the next thing I knew, my nose was buried in musty-smelling puce carpet. Chance hauled on the back of my shirt, pulling me upright, while I tried to rub the smell of hotel mold out of my nose.

  Suddenly, I gasped. I had completely forgotten about the Massive Millions. I would give every single cent of it up if it meant getting Julian home safely. Whoever Dominick was, and whatever this was about, I figured having a whole crap load of money to throw at the situation wouldn't hurt. "Chance!" I whispered loudly. "Let me talk to him!"

  He shook his head furiously. "No, you don't understand," I whispered louder. "I have money!"

  "Okay," he said into the phone, gesturing for me to shut up. "We'll play it your way for now but I'm just as interested in wrapping this up as quickly as you are. If that's one of your conditions, that's fine, but you've gotta understand there is going to be a delay because of it. And the old man is going to need some meds in the meantime or you're going to lose your bargaining chip."

  Chance's eyes bored into mine, warning me to be quiet. I stuffed my knuckles in my mouth.

  After a few more silent moments, he grunted and hung up the phone. "Why didn't you listen to me? I could have ended this!" I yelled at him. "I could have paid a ransom!"

  "Dominick has another exchange in mind. He's not interested in negotiating a ransom. And we don't have time to wait around for you to cash out your 401K."

  "But what about Julian's medication? If he dies—" I choked on the word.

  Chance grabbed me by the shoulders and shook me lightly, his fingers warm through my shirt. "Listen to me. He's not going to die. Dominick already got the medication." He used his thumb to wipe a tear from under my eye and grinned at me crookedly. "In fact, Julian is probably having the time of his life. You think that old folks' home of his takes field trips to Sin City? And when's the last time he's been on a private jet?"

  I knew he was probably BS'ing me, but I desperately latched on to the idea that this was all an adventure Julian would be bragging about next week at Restful Pines. "Julian does love Frank Sinatra…"

  Chance crossed the room quickly to peer through a crack in the curtains, and I abruptly got paranoid. "Is someone out there?" I asked, dropping my voice to a whisper again.

  "I don't see any white vans but Dominick obviously has someone watching us. He also knows we want Julian back and he's got the upper hand." Chance dropped down on the bed and started lacing up his boots again.

  "Where are we going?"

  "Do you have to work tomorrow?" Chance asked.

  I looked at him like he was a moron. "Legal secretaries are a dime a dozen."

  "Well, then, we're going on a road trip. Ever been to Vegas?"

  Great, the most unfortunate person alive, headed toward Lady Luck's home turf.

  Ten minutes later, I had faxed in a hurriedly-scribbled resignation letter to the law firm from the hotel office, and Chance and I were arguing in the parking lot over who was going to drive. Chance gave in grudgingly, but surprisingly quickly.

  "The Jeep won't attract as much attention as this... thing," he muttered dourly.

  "It's not like we're traveling incognito," I shot back. "They know we're coming. We don't care if they see us!"

  "We won't even make it to Chicago," Chance argued. "This car's older than dirt."

  I puffed up furiously as I rounded the car to yank open the door. "This thing you keep referring to is a clas
sic. I rebuilt every piece under the hood with my bare hands, and restored the whole engine, one Ebay-bought component at a time. And if you think I'm going to leave it in the parking lot of this fleabag motel just because your testosterone is threatened by a girl driving, you've got another thing coming."

  I flounced into the drivers' seat, slammed the door and shoved the key in the ignition.

  Chance threw his duffel into the back, prompting a low growl from Louie when it jostled the carrier, and then slid into the passenger seat, glowering at me. "Does it get 10 miles to the gallon? Or not that much?"

  I ignored him, hoping he didn't push the issue. The Roadmaster only managed 10 miles to the gallon on a good day, but he didn't need to know that.

  My eyes narrowed. Chance was no dummy. He would know that.

  "What's the deal?" I demanded. "Why are we taking my car?"

  Chance's eyes slid away from mine.

  "No," I said, "No lies. It makes no sense to drive to Las Vegas, much less in a car that is going to slow us down. Just tell me."

  He sighed. "Dominick… is a vintage freak."

  I couldn't help it. I bristled.

  "Not like you," he said. "The guy is a legitimate whack job. He's a drug lord who thinks he's the reincarnation of a 1920's gangster. And since he's in his mid-forties—"

  "He's currently obsessed with all things 1940's." For the first time since I'd come home to my apartment that evening, I felt a smile coming on. Now this was an issue I could deal with.

  "Then we need to make a stop first," I said, my tone brooking no argument as I fired up the Roadmaster. "I'm going to make this trip worth his while."

  Chapter 13

  "This car needs more rest stops than a 96 year old with a bladder infection," Chance groaned, waking up again as I signaled to get off the highway at Joliet, Ill., allegedly the beginning of the original Route 66. Traveling the Mother Road was high on my bucket list, but this wasn't the way I wanted to do it. I promised myself once I got Julian back, we'd do Route 66 in reverse. He'd get a kick out of it. In a few days, Julian and I would be eating ice cream under the Blues Brothers statues at the Rich & Creamy ice cream stand.