Lucky in Love

by Brockmeyer, Kristen

  "I could wake up next to this for the rest of my life," he said, squeezing gently. "How soon can we get married?"

  I laughed, assuming he was joking. "Right, because you're so the marrying type."

  "Actually," he replied thoughtfully, "I think I am. I don't typically run around having hot monkey sex unprotected and I think I'd feel better doing that with my wife."

  I reared up on my elbows to glare into his face. The swelling around his shiner had gone down, and his eyes twinkled. "You're not serious."

  He flicked my nose and grinned crookedly. "Yeah, I am. Now go brush your teeth, sugar."

  He rolled out of bed, leaving me to gape after him.

  "Did you just freaking propose to me and then tell me to go brush my teeth? Who does that?"

  I was momentarily distracted by the rippling muscles in his back under his tee-shirt as he crouched down to rummage in a backpack on the floor. He didn't answer, and I threw the pillow at the back of his head, jumping out of bed to stalk to the bathroom. I slammed the door on his chuckle.

  I had showered, shaved my legs, dressed and brushed my teeth before I realized that my clothes were still in the other room. Oh, well, let him get an eyeful, I thought, trying futilely to stretch the miniscule towel over my top and bottom at the same time. Finally, I got my ladybits mostly covered, except for my butt, and just figured I wouldn't turn my back to him. If he tried to get frisky, I'd make a grab for the sheet. He wasn't getting anything more than that. I didn't appreciate his sense of humor this morning.

  He was stretched out on the bed with the morning news, drinking a cup of coffee when I came out. Eying me with a low, appreciative whistle, he saluted me with his Styrofoam cup. I ignored him and dug a sundress and underthings out of a Target bag on the floor, maneuvering so the least amount of skin showed. Returning to the bathroom, I quickly changed into the knee-length, springy green gingham and eyelet dress and pulled my damp hair into a curling ponytail.

  When I reemerged, he handed me a steaming cup and disappeared into the bathroom. I heard the shower come on and sat down in his vacated spot. The news was still on, and I watched absently, listening to the shower running. A story was wrapping up about a school in Alabama growing a garden big enough to provide meals for their students all year. The volume was low, and I listened with half an ear, staring at the screen vacantly and trying not to imagine Chance soaping himself down.

  Then my picture was on the TV—I recognized it as an old one from a few years ago, taken by my mom. It was snapped when I was in mid-flight, trying to catch a Frisbee, but they had cropped the Frisbee out, so it was just my face, sporting a weird grimacey scowl. I spilled half of the coffee on the sheets trying to find the remote.

  I fumbled with the buttons until the reporter's chipper voice blared out deafeningly.

  "Yesterday, we brought you the strange story of Paige "Lucky" MacFarlane, the recently announced Massive Millions lottery winner, and her mysterious disappearance."

  They cut to my mom, looking all fluttery and bewildered, her blonde hair escaping in wisps from her bun, saying "I'm sure she's just fine—she dropped off her cat." Mom shuddered visibly and continued. "She also left me a nice note saying she would be out of town for a few days."

  A reporter practically shoved a microphone up her nose. "Mrs. MacFarlane, do you think that your daughter was the victim of foul play?"

  She looked uncertain for a moment, but shook her head. "No, dear. My daughter is very independent and comes and goes as she pleases. I'm sure she'll call soon." Crap, I'd have to talk to Angela and see how soon we could arrange that. My mom wasn't known for her ability to gauge the gravity of a situation, or keep a secret for that matter, so it might be a tricky phone call.

  The news story cut back to the picture of me. For Pete's sake, at least my Witness Protection cover wouldn't be blown from that photo. I looked like a freak.

  But the reporter's next words stopped my self-critical musings short. "The clip you just saw was from a Fox news affiliate's interview with Miss MacFarlane's mother yesterday. But in a bizarre twist, the MacFarlane family has experienced two more disappearing family members since that footage was filmed."

  My mouth fell open as another picture popped up on the screen. Jack's signature smirk was softened a little around the edges, his arm around a beaming Addy, and both were dressed in their wedding clothes. Addy looked angelic and Jack—Jack, the masculine version of me with his wind-touseled auburn hair and snapping blue eyes, actually looked happy.

  "Oh, no." I whispered, and then screamed, "Chance!"

  Chapter 36

  I had my fist pressed to my mouth when he burst out of the bathroom.

  "Ssh," I hushed him frantically before he could speak, pointing at the TV.

  "Jack and Addyson MacFarlane, recently married and on their honeymoon in Seattle, Washington, were abducted two days ago. A waiter at a restaurant came to collect their check and instead found a cocktail napkin skewered to their table with a steak knife." The reporter grinned, relishing the details. I wanted to punch him through the TV screen, right in his toothy, capped grill. "Thinking that they had skipped out on their bill, he ran to the front doors, just in time to see Mr. and Mrs. MacFarlane being forced into a vehicle by two armed men."

  "Police are refusing to comment until further details are known, but an anonymous informant emailed our station this photo."

  It was a grainy picture, but I immediately recognized the logo of Dominick's hotel, the Lucky Seven. I sucked in a breath.

  "Current speculation is that the logo on the napkin probably refers to Lucky MacFarlane, and the kidnappers, knowing of her recent windfall, will be sending a ransom note."

  The camera cut back to the reporter's avidly excited face. "But where will they send it? Lucky is nowhere to be found!"

  Chance punched the power button on the TV as the reporter's titillated smile dimmed while she segued into a less exciting story about tensions in the Middle East.

  Stricken, I stared at Chance, wondering stupidly if he'd noticed the reference to my recent lottery win.

  He crossed to the bed in two strides and lifted me into his arms. Kissing me hard, he said in a firm voice, "We'll fix this. We're going to take him down."

  Turns out, we had to take some drastic measures.

  Angela greeted us with a wicked wink when we showed up at the door to her room together, and I saw she was watching Kathy Lee and Hoda do a segment on affordable fashion and had missed the story. I couldn't believe the FBI hadn't realized what was going on yet, but if they didn't know now, they'd know soon.

  "Vacation's over," I said. "We've got trouble."

  She immediately shifted into professional mode.

  "Tell me."

  Fifteen minutes later, we were on the road in Angela's rented Camry, speeding down a Florida highway back toward Las Vegas. Angela was back at the hotel, tied to the rattan chair in her room at the wrists and ankles with two pairs of tightly-knotted tube socks.

  It hadn't been the best thought-out plan, and under any kind of scrutiny, it would be pretty obvious that Chance and I couldn't have pulled off our "escape" without a little help from Angela herself, but I was counting on her to convince the FBI that we'd overpowered her and stolen her gun after seeing the news story.

  No we just had to make it almost 2,500 miles across the country without being caught.

  The trip passed in a blur of highways, rest stop bathrooms, and hastily-eaten fast food. If I never saw another French fry again, it would be too soon. Chance did the majority of the driving, except when I made him pull over, the few times I'd been able to convince him to get some sleep. When the lights of Vegas finally came into view, it was 2:00 in the morning. I was blurry and sleep-deprived and numb from an overload of shock and fear.

  Chance pulled into a nondescript motel on the outside of town. I wanted to keep on going until we got to the Lucky Seven, and blast in, borrowed gun blazing, to rescue Addy and Jack, but I knew we needed slee
p first. The thought of facing Dominick again, though, having seen some of his handiwork firsthand, had me terrified. I didn't think I'd be able to close my eyes, but I went out like a light as soon as we were into the room and I was snuggled into Chance's side.

  When I woke, it was still early, barely light, but Chance was seated at the small table in the room, scribbling rapidly on a pad of paper. In front of him were two Starbucks cups, one wafting steam, and the other iced and piled high with whipped cream. I dragged myself out of bed, rolling my head and trying to work the kinks out. I felt more like I'd been dragged cross-country backward by a horse, than just driving halfway across the country.

  He ripped the piece of paper off, folding it in thirds and stuffing it in an envelope that he sealed before looking up at me. "Morning."

  I padded over to the table, the cheap carpet rough under my bare feet. "This for me?" I indicated the mocha and he nodded.

  I picked it up and gulped half of it down eagerly, since there was a possibility it'd be my last Starbuck's iced mocha ever. It went down icy cold and chocolaty and when I put the cup down, I sank down in Chance's lap and leaned my head on his shoulder.

  "What's the plan," I asked as his arm came around me tightly.

  "I want you to stay here."

  "No, not gonna happen."

  He tilted my chin up to look at him. "I'm not letting you go."

  "Bullshit."

  "I mean it." His eyes were the flat green of a stagnant pond and I hated that the light that had come back into them so briefly was gone again. I put my hands up to his smooth cheeks—he'd shaved the travel scruff at some point—and sealed my lips to his in a deep, chocolate-laced kiss. His fingers came up to tangle in the back of my sleep-messed hair. Breathing hard, he finally pulled away, and stood up with me in his arms. I thought he was heading for the bed and almost protested that this wasn't the time, but at the last second, he veered toward the bathroom.

  "What are you doing?" I struggled to stand up, but he held me down firmly with one hand and fished a pair of handcuffs out from where they'd been tucked into the back of his jeans. Fuzzy leopard print handcuffs.

  "You've been a busy guy this morning, huh."

  "It's Vegas," he shrugged. "Twenty-four hour sex shops."

  I thrashed around, trying to loosen his grip, but he held me still with what appeared to be absolutely no effort and snapped one bracelet around each wrist. Then he whipped out another pair, plain this time, and fastened the cuffs to the exposed pipe under the bathroom sink.

  "I'm sorry, Lucky." Chance stood and looked down at me. I wrenched at the cuffs furiously, but they were tight. It just figured that Chance would happen on probably the only sex shop in the world that prided themselves on the remarkable workmanship of their fuzzy leopard print love manacles.

  "You're doing it again," I told him, but he was walking out of the bathroom. "Dammit, Chance!" I yelled. "Unlock these!"

  "Hush, Lucky." He came back in and set the mocha on the beige linoleum in front of me. "I don't want to gag you, in case I can't get back—"

  "Well you didn't think this one through very well, then," I hissed, "because I am going to scream this place right the hell down." I grabbed the mocha and flung it at him awkwardly, but it just splashed harmlessly on his black boots.

  He pulled a bandana and one of my socks out of his pocket, all balled up. "I'm sorry," he said implacably. I drew in a breath to scream bloody murder, but he was quicker, and stuffed the sock in, wrapping the bandana around quickly to hold it in place. Tears of fury leaked down my cheeks and I sniffled them back, panicked that my nose would stuff up from crying and I wouldn't be able to breath. He tied the knot quickly and stepped back. If it weren't for the tortured expression on his face, I could easily kill him.

  "I'll leave the keys on the table."

  Unable to respond, I just glared, utterly irate. I tried to spit the gag out, but it wasn't moving. For Pete's sake, though, at least it was a new sock.

  "I know you're not going to forgive me for this," he said fiercely, "But I couldn't forgive myself for letting you near him again. I promise I'll get Addy and Jack away from him."

  I noticed he didn't say he'd come back to me, and it was obvious he didn't think he had a hope of doing that in one piece. He touched my cheek below the bandana. "Work at that after I leave. I knotted it so you should be able to loosen it, but it'll take you a while. The key's on the table. Someone will hear you and call management. I'll leave the sign on the door handle for the housekeeper to clean the room, too, just in case."

  And then Chance Atkins disappeared again, the bastard.

  The door had barely closed behind him before I was pulling as hard as I could at the cuffs attaching me to the pipe and working my jaw, trying to loosen the bandanna. The chain rattled loudly against the pipe, but held firm.

  Chapter 37

  By the time one of the hotel's housekeeping staff made her appearance, I had worked myself up to practically a transcendent state of rage. My jaw hurt from trying to wiggle the knot that Chance had obviously tied tighter than he meant to, and my wrists were bruised, despite the now worse-for-the-wear leopard print padding around my wrists. To top it off, my bladder was about to explode.

  The door swung open after a perfunctory knock, and a squeaky-wheeled cart was pushed through, followed by Mrs. Claus. Her tightly-curled, snowy silver hair was partially hidden under a navy blue bandanna, and she had little crescent-moon glasses that rested on the top of her apple-red cheeks. I started making muffled noises behind the drooly-wet sock in my mouth, but she kept walking. Crap, Mrs. Claus had earbuds in, plugged into the iPhone sticking out of the pocket on her shirt.

  I rattled the handcuff chains wildly, half-afraid to scare the poor old lady into a heart attack, but frantic to get up. My butt was asleep and sticky mocha had seeped into my skirt, gluing it to my legs. Plus, being so close to a toilet and not being able to pee was torture. I was going to kill Chance when I got my hands on him.

  Mrs. Claus disappeared further into the room, cheerfully whistling along with her iTunes. I groaned in frustration, when her whistling stopped, and she abruptly popped her head back into the doorway, mouth open in surprise.

  "What the fuck is this mess?" she rasped out in a voice that did not match her sweet whistle. "This is a decent hotel. We don't allow that kinky shit here."

  Holy crap. Talk about first impressions being way off.

  I shook my head wildly, eyes pleading, holding up the cuffs as far as they'd stretch.

  Huffing out a disgusted breath, she gingerly stepped over the spilled mocha on the floor and yanked the bandana off. I felt a few dozen strands of my hair leave abruptly with it, and the sharp pain made me yelp as I spit out the gag. New sock or not, it tasted nasty and had tried to fuse itself to my tongue. I hated that freaking sock.

  As soon as I could gather enough spit in my mouth to speak, I croaked, "The key is on the table!"

  "What?" she yelled, her softly wrinkled cheeks screwing up into an irritable scowl, before she remembered the ear buds and yanked them out. Tinny music was blasting out of the headphones and I could make out System of a Down belting out Toxicity. Mrs. Claus's embroidered shirt pocket read Betty Tuttle, and her nails were filed into perfect pale pink ovals on her age-spotted hands. She had to be the single most confusing woman I had ever seen in my entire life. She looked like a Betty Tuttle, but she sure as heck didn't act like a Betty Tuttle.

  "Please—the key to these is on the table. I have to get out of here."

  She grunted and mumbled something about me being a trampy little hooker and how she should just leave me for the cops to deal with, but reluctantly got to her feet to go find the key. A few moments later, she was back, unfastening the hated leopard cuffs.

  "I should call management," she complained.

  "I'm not a hooker," I puffed, trying to unstick my thighs from the floor and shake feeling back into my hands at the same time. "But I do have to pee like you wouldn't believe
so if you could give me a minute…"

  Her eyes squinted at me suspiciously from behind her glasses. "You'd better not be hiding your drugs in here. I know all the usual spots." She probably did because she'd used them herself.

  "No drugs. Thank you for your help," I said impatiently, "But I've gotta pee now, so unless you want to watch, get out."

  She turned on her heel and stomped out of the bathroom, slamming the door behind her. I quickly used the bathroom and washed the sticky mocha off my hands and legs as best I could while standing in the bathtub. I had no clue how long I'd been stuck to the floor and for all I knew, Chance could be dead. I had to find him.

  When I came out of the bathroom, Betty had opened the envelope on the table and looked up at me guiltily. She was also clutching a little box.

  "What are you doing, you nosy old bat?"

  It wasn't like me to talk to any one like that, especially an elderly woman, but dammit, she was going through Chance's stuff.

  I was kind of surprised when she didn't snap back at me, just handed the box and creased papers over with what looked like sympathy in her eyes. Feeling an icy chill slide through me, I awkwardly opened the box first. Inside glittered a beautiful ring with a smooth oval cat's eye aquamarine surrounded by intricate silver filigree curlicues. It was the most gorgeous piece of jewelry I'd ever seen and my breath caught in my throat.

  I set it gently on the table and turned my attention to the two pieces of notepaper scrawled with Chance's signature precise print. The first page appeared to be a last will and testament. It left everything to me, Lucky MacFarlane, in the event of his death, including the contents of all bank accounts, minus fifty thousand each to his two siblings, a hundred thousand to his mom, and twenty thousand to someone named Lily Ferrell. In addition, it looked like he was willing me a condo in Chicago, a horse farm in Tennessee, sixteen Thoroughbreds and one dog named Tripod.