Lotto Trouble: A Reverse Harem Romantic Comedy (Lotto Love Book 2)

by Ann Denton

  “You are dead woman!” J2 screams up at me.

  Holy shit. Guess this war is officially starting.

  We’d better win.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Katie

  I’m opening the door to my villa for Alec and Kenneth when I hear a loud sound in the distance. A bang or a pop or something. But it’s muffled. I’m not sure exactly what it is.

  Alec swallows hard and turns to me. “We need to hurry.”

  Kenneth’s no help as we gather supplies; he’s like a broken record, or a kid on a car trip.

  “How did I get here?” he asks.

  “We carried you after Peter hit you.” I say, stuffing my pockets full of a few last-ditch-effort items, just in case.

  “Oh. He hit me?” Kenneth looks shocked.

  “Yes,” Alec had responded the first time the question was asked, while he was using some of my hand sanitizer to try to disinfect the little trickle of blood down Kenneth’s temple. “We think he hit you with his walking stick.”

  “I must have a hard head. Maybe I’m a superhero,” Kenneth had said before flinching. “We should sue the head company. I need a harder head. Mine’s broken.”

  Every minute or two, the cycle would restart, with Kenneth sitting up a little straighter, staring around, and asking how he got here.

  After the fifth cycle, Alec pulls me aside. “We can’t bring him.”

  I nod. “I know.”

  “We need to keep him safe though.”

  I know what he’s asking me to do, without him needing to say it aloud. I go over to one of the boxes we raided earlier and pull out a roll of duct tape.

  We tape Kenneth loosely—he’s so out of it that he just kind of watches us do it. I feel guilty, but it’s safer for him and for us if he stays out of sight.

  Alec lifts Kenneth up and carries him into the closet while he babbles on about lawsuits.

  He doesn’t even protest when we set him on the closet floor and start to stack boxes around him.

  “Isn’t there someone we can sue? We should sue someone,” Kenneth insists, grabbing at my wrist.

  Alec hands me the last of the water bottles from my villa and I pry myself out of Kenneth’s grasp to open the lid, placing it within his reach. I lean forward and give him a kiss on the uninjured side of his forehead, ignoring his babbling.

  I stand and take a deep breath, steadying myself and adjusting the giant penis that’s still tied onto my back—it slid down a little as I settled Kenneth. When I have the paper dick where I like it, Alec and I walk back out to the living room. I can see the sunset through the shattered window. It’s gorgeous; orange and pink swathes of color dance through the sky.

  Alanis Morissette’s Isn’t it Ironic starts to play in my head. It figures that we’ll fight for our lives under a beautiful tropical sunset.

  It’s time to move.

  That’s when we hear the gunshots. Three in a row. Not muffled bangs. Not muted pops. Loud, angry gunshots.

  I freeze. My limbs lock. Alec turns to stare at me.

  My stupid ostrich reaction is back. I should duck and cover. I should run. I should do something, but I’m frozen, wide-eyed, my heart as fast as a jackrabbit on speed.

  Alec grabs my shoulders and shakes me a little. “Come on, Katie. Grab the vases.”

  Right. Right. On autopilot, I grab a box of glass vases. Instead of filling them with glass beads and flowers, like I’d intended when I bought them, they’re full of tiki oil and strips of washcloths. Improv molotov cocktails.

  Alec tucks the last few lighters into his pocket, cocks his gun in one hand, and carries our bullhorn in the other.

  “Still got your remote?” I ask.

  “Yup. Still got yours?”

  I nod.

  We head out the door to find out what the hell is going down and hopefully, maybe, possibly fuck some shit up.

  Except, what the hell do we find when we start walking?

  Angry Russian mobsters, which we were expecting. Only, they’re running the wrong way, yelling and snarling at one another as they do. They’re running away from the runway, away from the escape room building, and toward the rest of the villas. In the exact opposite direction of the one we wanted them to go.

  Alec and I exchange a look. Instead of starting fires like we’d planned, we follow them, slinking from tree to tree, but trying to match their hurried pace.

  Hopefully, we can find out what the heck is going on and why they are so freaked out.

  There are three Russians—the same three I saw climb out of the helicopter. But where are the other two? The twins follow the Russians, arguing in low voices with one another.

  “Wasn’t that helicopter a six-seater?” I ask Alec.

  He does a quick head count. “If they planned on taking the twins back with them, maybe this is it. Maybe there aren’t two more hiding.”

  I latch onto Alec’s theory. I glare at the twins’ backs. Those back-stabbing, disgusting, underwear model lookalikes. I wish eternal crotch rot on them for tricking me. I hope they get all the STDs ever discovered until their dicks shrivel up like gummy worms.

  The Russians barrel past the pool and head straight for the back door of the kitchen, the one that the staff uses. It’s propped open just a bit. The two big Russians stop, raising their guns toward the door. The largest one, the Hulk of the group—Gunmetal George, who searched our closet—jerks his head at the chubby one to open it.

  Chubby Bunny yanks open the door and then screams bloody murder. He turns back around. His face and clothes are somehow stained brown. I hear a clang and my eyes fall down to see a coffee pot rolling away.

  Someone must have propped up hot coffee on the door. Homemade alarm system.

  Chubby Bunny is moaning and stripping off his clothes as fast as he can—trying to get the hot liquid away from his skin. His man boobs jiggle as he shimmies out of his pants. Pink burn marks pop up all over the front of his face and torso.

  The Russians all take a step back from him.

  Chubby Bunny ignores them all and runs right for the pool. He jumps in.

  Apparently that’s a bad idea, because he just screams all over again and scrambles back out. Guess chlorine and burn wounds don’t mix well. He limps to the bar and starts chugging vodka.

  One gunmen down. And we didn’t even have to do anything. Now we’re two versus four. Four monster-sized men. But still.

  Chubby Bunny swipes a hand over his mouth and moans. “This was to be easy pick up. Simple kidnap.”

  “Shut up,” Suit tells his burnt companion as he circles the kitchen on the pool side. His gun is up and he’s on high alert.

  Gunmetal George goes behind the door and tries to peer through the crack by the doorjamb. He squints into the kitchen. I assume he’s searching for more improvised weapons.

  His search, combined with the coffee pot on top of the door, can only mean one thing. Hope leaps in my chest like a pink ballerina. Heather and her guys are still here. Still fighting. It’s not just Alec and I alone. My hand reaches out and grabs Alec’s wrist. I lean up and whisper my theory.

  He nods, eyes focused on the Russians as they near the kitchen doorway.

  BOOOOOOOM!

  There’s an explosion from the kitchen and the Russians are thrown to the ground. The force billows out, blasting open the door and busting the windows. I can feel the heat and hot wind push past me.

  My ears ring, so I set down my box of molotov vases and I crouch down. I use my hands to cup my ears and muffle the sound. Smoke billows out of the kitchen door, and the awful smell of fire and burning plastic permeates the air.

  When I uncup my hands, I hear someone mutter a curse beside me. But it doesn’t come from Alec.

  Fuck! Was our assumption wrong? Are there more Russians?

  My throat dries out. I turn … and see the three guys left in Heather’s harem competition standing and watching the kitchen casually, as if a burning building was no big deal.

 
; “Dammit! Didn’t take out a’ one of them. I knew I shoulda’ set that timer for another five minutes!” Jeremiah Bible shakes his head. He must have walked up while I was dazed from the explosion. He’s wearing an apron—only an apron—and he’s taped a magnetic kitchen knife strip to his chest with duct tape. It’s covered in cleavers. His brown hair is wild. He looks like he’s from a very scary, very cheap horror flick. He spits through the gap in his front teeth at the Russians. A little bit of spit lands on his chin. I revise my impression, he looks like he’s from Scary Movie 10.

  Next to him are Andrew and BJ. They are wearing loincloths made of white string and kitchen towels. The hot barbarian look is kind of ruined by the prints that Kenneth has on his kitchen towels. Andrew’s got a screen-printed whisk on the front towel. Above the whisk is written: “Beat It.” And BJ’s kitchen towel is sporting a cake piping bag illustration that says, “Just the tip.”

  It would be a photo-worthy moment if life weren’t so fucked up.

  The other two men don’t look nearly as crazy or dangerous as Jeremiah, though. Andrew carries a sawed-off oven cleaning canister and a bleach spray bottle. BJ carries some pie pans and a flashlight.

  I look past the guys and search the trees, but I don’t see anyone else. Just the three of them. I blink hard and blow out a breath. I try not to let the rising tide of fear and disappointment wash out my voice as I ask, “Where’s Heather?”

  Andrew flicks his eyes over to me. “She was distracting them. Where have you been?”

  “Setting up traps,” Alec responds for me. “Know why they fired earlier?”

  Andrew shakes his head and his voice cracks when he answers me. “They’ve been with Heather for hours.”

  A sinkhole opens in my stomach and my heart drops into it. Shit. Those gunshots.

  I dig my fingernails into my palms.

  Alec puts a hand on my shoulders. “Let’s smoke those motherfuckers.” He pulls out a lighter and places it in one of my hands. Then he grabs a vase and puts it in the other hand.

  I light it, letting my anger guide me, not listening as Alec fills the others in on the plan to drive the Russians toward the runway.

  They nod and BJ pulls out his flashlight as I launch the burning vase in the air.

  The vase hits the wall of the kitchen building, exploding into flames that drip down the side. Suit has an automatic reaction and fires at the sound. He narrowly misses Gunmetal George, who yells at him. The twins come running back around the corner to see what the commotion is. Once they see the broken glass and the fire, they start talking in rapid-fire Russian with the others.

  Watching them talk amps up my anxiety. “We should do something,” I whisper to Alec. “We need to keep them off balance. We can’t give them time to plan.”

  “On it,” BJ aims his flashlight at George’s ass and waves for all of us to scoot sideways. Why? I don’t really know, but Alec helps me pick up my box, straighten the piñata, and walk about twenty feet to the south, toward the runway. BJ flicks the flashlight on, only I don’t see a burst of white light like I expect. Instead, a small red beam cuts through the trees. Did they modify the flashlight? What the hell is it? A laser?

  Seconds later, Gunmetal George shrieks and grabs at his ass, where his pants smoke slightly. He smacks at the pant-legs, turns, and starts shooting into the trees.

  BJ immediately drops and rolls, like a pro ninja. I guess that laser pointer’s more than just a laser light.

  The trees behind BJ eat bullets—Gunmetal’s aim is far too good for my liking. He’s only a foot or two off-target, even with an obstructed view.

  Crap. He’s way too good a marksman.

  Gunmetal George takes cover behind the open kitchen door and yells around the side of the building to Suit and Chubby Bunny. Chubby’s swaying too much to stand, but Suit comes trotting over and the two of them eye the tree line cautiously.

  “Fuck yeah, motherfuckers! We’ve got a laser-gun. Bring it, bitches!” Jeremiah whispers as he fist pumps and high fives BJ, who’s joined us.

  Andrew just stares at the Russians as the sun slips down beyond the horizon, his eyes tight and jaw clenched. I can practically feel him radiating hatred. Alec pulls him by the shoulder and they start walking toward our goal, stomping loudly and making noise, hoping to draw the Russians in our direction. I start to follow but something makes me stop. Intuition? Stupidity? Who knows?

  I set down my box and start unwrapping the piñata on my back. Tingles travel up my spine. I have a feeling Gunmetal George is like Heather. I have this gut instinct that he’s not one to take humiliation lightly. I have a feeling he’s gonna come at us with everything he’s got, because he isn’t capable of backing down. He looks like the kind of guy who’d rather get shot than get humiliated. I don’t think burning his ass was the best idea. I think we’ve just poked the bear too much.

  I watch the Russians as I light the rope at the end of the piñata and climb into the trees so I can launch it down the little slope of hill toward them. When I’m up in the tree, I see a couple of gathering thunder clouds in the distance. Crap. I hope they don’t get big lightning storms down here. Or big winds. Or anything like that. We’d better hurry.

  I fumble around and eventually wedge the giant paper dick between two branches, using the balls to keep it stuck in place. I light it and I scurry down as the fuse burns down to nothing, scratching my arm on the bark as I try to hurry.

  My heart thumps in my chest as I grab a couple Molotov cocktails to run with me.

  I glance backward and see Gunmetal George handing guns to each of the twins. His face promises darkness and pain. Suit comes up next to him and hands out charred cutting boards from the kitchen, which they all hold up as shields.

  Those motherfuckers come charging into the forest, teeth bared, right at me.

  And I ostrich again as my mind whirls. My eyes shut and I just send out panic signals to the universe. S.O.S. Someone save us, please!

  But there’s no answering lightning strike to topple them.

  My eyes open and ostrich mode flicks off, letting out that little rage monster I’ve only ever felt once before. I kick the box of vases over, letting the cocktails roll down the hill, because carrying them is gonna slow me down too much. I turn and run.

  The dick bursts into flame behind me as I zig-zag through the trees. Fireworks shoot in every direction. Pops of blue and yellow and green fill the air.

  The Russians shriek behind me. I look back. One of the twins flaps his arm up and down, waving a flaming sleeve. The other one stops to help him yank his shirt off and then drop and roll. But when he stands, his arm is limp at his side.

  Good, the fireworks at least made it harder for one of their shooters.

  I risk a second glance behind me and realize my mistake. Because while the fireworks might startle them, make them duck and cover, even hurt them, the damned things light up the night. And when I look back that second time, Gunmetal George’s eyes are locked on me.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Heather

  It was boring as fuck being stuck on the roof. That’s why I climbed back down through the skylight just as soon I was certain those Russian limp dicks were gone. I let myself dangle from the ceiling and drop and roll. Still hurts like a motherfucker half an hour later.

  I think about following the Russians, but I can’t do much to help the guys when I don’t have a weapon. And the escape room doesn’t have jack shit in terms of weapons.

  Which is why I’m in the maintenance hangar for the airplanes. I’ve already tucked a flare gun into my pocket and I’m searching the place for other shit.

  And fuck me sideways, unless I want to hit the Russians over the head with a wrench, or knock them backward with a power washer, I’m screwed. I sit down on the ground to pout and end up staring at a coil of thin metal wire. I don’t know what the hell it’s used for. But immediately, I think of Home Alone. I think trip wire. Maybe if I can’t attack, I can at least give myself s
ome advance notice when the jerkwads come back. I stand up and grab the wire. Then I grab a couple boxes of screws and toss them in a bucket. Because you know what? If it worked for Kevin McCallister …

  I set out toward the tree line, aware that there are some deep grey clouds rolling closer. Maybe that will make those assholes hole up for the night. They are a bunch of pussies after all, and kitties hate the rain. But I don’t stop.

  I’m just finishing up when I hear an explosion. I perk up. Did it work? Did it fucking work?

  I stand and turn, even though I can’t see jack through the trees.

  But I hear gunshots in the distance. No!

  Fuck! Andrew!

  My inner beast howls and I stand up and bolt forward.

  I get caught on my own damn tripwire and go sprawling. My head smacks the ground. Shit! I feel dizzy. I feel like I’m seeing double. Or hallucinating.

  I feel like I’m seeing a helicopter in the distance …

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Katie

  Gunmetal George is bearing down on me. My legs are burning, my lungs are burning, my hands are shaking as I light another cocktail. I hold it against my chest as I run, ignoring the pain of the little flame against me. I can’t throw it until it’s burnt a little more. What if I miss? What if he shoots?

  I dodge right. I can hear him behind me. I have to dodge bushes—Gunmetal is so huge, he just smashes right through them.

  For some ungodly reason—Kenny Loggins’ “This is It” starts playing in my head. I hate that song. My mother always used to play it and sing along while she did the dishes. Now, as tree branches smack me in the face and I’m worried about a bullet hitting me in the base of my spine—I don’t get any badass, motivational beat. Nope, my brain provides seventies crap. Is this my death knell? Is the universe trying to get me to give up?