Wild Card (Wild At Heart Series Book 3)

by Christine Hartmann

  “It’ll work out.” Her words melted quietly into the empty space. Behind her back, she crossed her fingers.

  Overflowing reusable shopping bags leaned against wood veneer paneling, rattling in tune with the elevator’s rumblings. Her eyes absentmindedly scanned the dusty floor. When she caught sight of a dull penny in a corner, a smile spread over her face like a slow sunrise. She plucked it from the linoleum and polished it against her skirt, its surface leaving gray streaks across the tight black silk fabric. Holding the penny between thumb and forefinger of her left hand, she let the sapphire on her ring finger dance ephemeral reflections across the walls. It’s going to be okay.

  When the elevator doors rasped open, the stale air beyond vibrated with the pulse of a distant song that grew in intensity as Bree negotiated the narrow hallway with its burned-out overhead lights. Her heavy bags bumped against her thighs, making her feel like a cow trudging down a cattle chute. Straps dug into her hands. Her leather pumps pinched her toes. All signs pointed to a long night. But her fingers still clutched the penny and the smile lingered on her lips.

  No one heard the knock of bag-laden knuckles against peeling varnish. Her knee edged open the door, releasing scents of alcohol, greasy snack foods, and perfume. Beyond the short entrance crowded women aged twenty to sixty. Clothing ranged from svelte navy business suits to jeans and T-shirts so distressed that only threads kept their wearers out of jail for indecent exposure. Bree stumbled across the threshold, throwing the bags onto the wood floor. She raised her voice above the music’s beat. “Stephanie, you owe me.”

  Stephanie appeared from the throng and kicked the door shut with a stiletto boot-encased leg. She embraced Bree with one arm, holding a martini glass aloft with the other. “Nice you made an appearance at your own engagement party.”

  Bree laughed, backing slightly away and fanning her hand in front of her nose. “Your fumes could trigger warning levels on a breathalyzer test.” She surveyed the room. “What did you do, invite the whole class?”

  Stephanie shrugged. “Word got out. Gracias for the blender and ice.” She picked up the bags and drew Bree toward a makeshift bar set up on a cluttered kitchen island. Over a dozen bottles jostled with an assortment of bulbous, slender, and shapely glasses, creating a disorderly and colorful skyline. A blender whirred in the background. “Drink.” The word was not a question but a command.

  Bree twisted labels toward her and whistled. “It’s not me they come to see. It’s your liquor.”

  Stephanie sloshed coconut milk and ice into the blender, tossed in pineapple slices, and followed them with a liberal splash of rum. She winked at Bree. “Remember when we…” A roar from the machine obscured the story.

  Piña colada in hand, Bree followed Stephanie to the only vacant chair in the room, a worn brown leather recliner bedecked with white satin ribbons. “For me?”

  Stephanie tucked her hair behind her ears and nodded conspiratorially. “Been hell keeping the cats away.” She waved a ribbon in the air. “All yours, amiga.”

  Bree sat carefully, perching on the edge of the cushion as though worried her weight would tip it backward. She straightened her blouse over her tummy. “Please don’t make me give a speech.”

  Stephanie shrugged. “Should have thought of that before you got engaged.”

  Bree’s eyes avoided her friend’s. She attempted in vain to tug her down to her level. “Let’s keep it low key. We had a fight and I haven’t heard from…”

  Stephanie ignored her and nudged guests from a nearby sofa. She clambered up, hands outstretched. “Ladies.” In the chatter, her voice didn’t carry beyond a few feet. Stephanie cleared her throat. “Yo, borrachos.” Her second attempt ricocheted off the walls like a fog horn.

  From the back, someone shouted. “Speech.” Another person clapped. Color rose in Bree’s cheeks.

  Stephanie bowed, almost toppling from the sofa. “Case you hadn’t noticed, our guest of honor finally arrived.” She pointed at Bree, whose attention was absorbed in wrapping streamers around her wrists like handcuffs. Stephanie grinned. “No one’s surprised Bree’s getting married. What we’re wondering is…what took her so long?” Laughter interrupted, and she swatted it away like an annoying insect. “Starting in high school, I kept thinking she’d found the man for her. But Malcolm Patel beat them all.” She closed one eye and focused with effort on Bree. Bree kicked the retro shag rug at her feet. Outside, a siren trailed its lonely cry through the city. “A man who’s allergic to dogs but has a dog wash business. A man of mystery.” She dodged a balled up streamer Bree threw at her. “Mi hermana, he’s lucky as hell. Better treat you right.” She pumped a threatening fist, almost knocking herself from her roost. “Marines are in our blood. We sisters know how to fight.”

  Stephanie reached in the pocket of her jeans, removed a spool, and tossed crepe streamers at Bree. Tape fluttered in a pink cascade. Suddenly, streamers, confetti, and balloons bounced off heads, showered from the ceiling, and dipped into drinks. Stephanie bounded from the sofa, yanked Bree from her chair, and propelled her onto the couch, where the pillows sagged.

  Bree teetered, hands outstretched like tightrope walker. She regarded Stephanie with a quizzical expression. “Who’s that woman?” She ducked the balloon Stephanie batted at her. “Seriously. Most of you know my life would have been…a mess without Stephanie’s family adopting me.” Her fingers twisted the sapphire band on her ring finger, as though trying to unwind it. “She said Mal was the lucky one. I think she got that backwards. I’ve got all of you.” She bent and knocked on the sofa’s wooden armrest. “And if luck stays with me, I’ll have Mal and his family too.” She blew a kiss to Stephanie. “Thanks for the party.”

  Hands helped her from the sofa. Stephanie punched her arm playfully. “Thought you’d give us hot details about Mal.”

  Color rose to Bree’s cheeks. “Hardly likely.” Her elbow pointed to a woman with zebra striped glasses downing a martini. “That’s my boss over there.” Bree lowered the level of her drink by an inch. “Anyway, not much to talk about these days.”

  Stephanie rolled her eyes. “Crazy in-laws getting you down?”

  “In-laws to be.” Bree marched to the kitchen, empty glass held in front of her like a band majorette’s baton. “They don’t know I’m here.” She hooked her fingers into quotation marks. “They don’t value ‘ostentatious displays of frivolity.’”

  “Or alcohol.” Stephanie tipped contents from a gin bottle into a fresh glass with enthusiastic disregard. “Big surprise they’re not invited.” She handed Bree the drink. “Relax, my chiquita. It’s your party.”

  Two hours later, Bree lay grinning in the recliner, feet pointed at the ceiling, streamers draped over her stomach, the detritus of unwrapped presents strewn around her. Lacy intimate apparel decorated the chair’s arm rests. In its crevices lay suggestive books and a collection of gift cards. The guests had thinned. Only a small group clustered around the open yearbook on Bree’s lap.

  “What about him?” Stephanie touched the stem of her martini glass to a photo of a lank teenager with curly hair, raised eyebrows, and a moustache reminiscent of a 1920s silent movie swashbuckler. Bree’s fingers quickly covered the name in the caption.

  Women shouted in unison. “Sergio Fernandez.”

  Bree flipped through the pages. “Too easy.” She chose another photo and hid the name. “What about him?”

  “Douglas Park?”

  “Nope.”

  “Scott Scully?”

  Bree shook her head. “Give up?” Heads nodded. “Rickie Wolfteich.”

  Stephanie slapped her forehead. “Of course. How could I forget Wolfie the Wolf? Cornered me in physics class and asked if I wanted to see how his…you know…could defy gravity. Ugh.” She reached for the book. “My turn.”

  She skimmed the pictures and laid the album back on Bree’s lap, open to a full-page close-up of a football player wearing a helmet. “Your turn, Bree. That guy.”

 
; Bree averted her gaze and lifted her glass from the floor. She mumbled into her drink. “Ryder Fitzgerald.”

  Sighs echoed at her words. Stephanie turned pages and pointed to another photograph. “Looks better without the helmet. He’s in here more than anybody else.”

  A petite, fair skinned woman with bemused hazel eyes and striking red hair spoke. “I was yearbook director. And I couldn’t get enough of him.”

  Somebody fanned herself. “You and half the school.”

  The redhead gazed at the ceiling. “I wonder what he’s doing now?”

  Stephanie nudged Bree. “Think Bree knows.”

  Bree shifted in her chair. She shoved her hands under her thighs. “Involved in startups. Something with a venture capitalist firm.”

  The redhead peered at her. “You’re in touch? So envious. Is he still gorgeous?”

  Another woman spoke before Bree could answer. “I’m friends with him on Facebook. And no, he isn’t.”

  The redhead’s face fell.

  “He’s better.” The woman laughed. “He has, like, five thousand friends. Mostly women.”

  Stephanie tapped Bree’s shoulder. “Ryder took Bree to his senior prom.”

  Bree rubbed her temples and shot Stephanie an annoyed look. “A pity date. It was the year after…”

  The redhead reached out to touch Bree’s knee. “I remember. That was so sad.” She took the book. “Here. My turn.”

  Afterward, at the door to the apartment, Bree clutched a new shopping bag stuffed with gifts. The room behind her looked as though a party store had exploded.

  Bree suppressed a yawn. “Sure you don’t want me to stay and help clean up?”

  Stephanie shook her head. “Uber’s waiting downstairs. You’re driving to Vegas tomorrow.”

  Bree nodded sleepily. She leaned in to hug her friend goodbye.

  “Crap.” Stephanie backed away. “Supposed to give you something. Wait right there.”

  Bree rested against the doorframe and closed her eyes, letting pictures from the previous hours cascade over one another in a collage. It reminded her of the yearbook and of Ryder. Her eyes snapped open. She felt her cheeks flush. Serves you right, Bree, she thought, for not telling even Stephanie the whole story.

  “Why’s your face red?” Stephanie waved an envelope and box in front of her.

  Bree deposited the brimming shopping bag on the floor. “What’s this?”

  “Slipped my mind earlier. Box is from me.”

  Bree tucked the card under her arm and tore open the box’s wrapping. Inside lay a set of six thin silver bangles, each engraved with the name of one of Stephanie’s family members.

  She glided the bracelets onto her arm. “They’re perfect.”

  Stephanie smiled. “You’re always going on about family. Since we won’t be in Vegas, I wanted us to be there in spirit.”

  Bree stuffed the box into the shopping bag and held up the card. “I’ll read this in the car.”

  “It’s from Mal. He stopped by earlier.” Stephanie helped settle the bag in Bree’s arms. “Probably a love letter so, yeah, read it later.”

  The silver ringlets jingled as Bree clutched the letter to her chest, negotiated the trek to the lobby, and hopped into the waiting car. On the dark San Francisco streets, lit row houses slid past her window at oblique angles to the steep roads. She nestled into the upholstery with a happy sigh and kissed the envelope.

  She spoke to herself as her fingernail prized open a corner and ran carefully along the sealed edge, breaking it in a neat line. “Thanks for remembering, Mal. You’re not perfect.” She pulled out a stiff white card. “But that’s why we’re a good pair. Neither am I.” Her head leaned toward the window to read the note in the intermittent light from the streetlamps.

  Mom says you never reimbursed her for the hotel’s advance payment. Send her a check before you leave tomorrow. It’s embarrassing to have her remind me.

  Drops of sudden rain splashed against the car’s window. Bree shivered and stuffed the card into the bag. She wrapped her arms around herself like pieces of a torn blanket and stared out into the night, the reflections cast by her bracelets absorbed by the gray city, the sapphire on her finger dark and morose.

  ***

  It took Bree three trips the next morning to load her luggage into the waiting Uber. The female driver helped lift the final load into the backseat and dropped sunglasses onto her broad nose. “Wedding?”

  Bree grinned ruefully. “Engagement party.”

  The driver nodded, slipped behind the wheel, and tuned the radio station to classical music. “Helps people relax. If your in-laws are anything like mine, you’ll need it, girl.”

  When the car rolled to a silent halt in front of a one-story yellow building twenty minutes later, the driver twisted to face Bree, her dreadlock ponytail bumping against the headrest. “You sure you want to rent from this place? The airport’s just a few exits up.”

  Bree looked out the window at the building’s peeling wooden sign and metal-barred windows. She raised her eyebrows. “How bad can it be?”

  “Well…”

  Bree smiled, slung her purse over her shoulder, and yanked her carry-on from the backseat. After a minute, the pile of luggage obscured everything below her navel. She crossed her fingers. “Wish me luck.”

  The driver rolled down the passenger window as Bree struggled past coaxing a hulking roller suitcase, a garment bag draped over one arm. “I can stick around, girl, and drive you to Vegas myself.”

  Bree’s eyes twinkled. “I’m good. Me time starts now.” The garment bag flapped as Bree waved goodbye and bounced her load confidently across the spider web of cracks in the sidewalk like a BMX rider on a dirt trail near the finish line.

  An off-key bell tinkled when she opened the rental agency’s door. Inside, aggressively scented air freshener masked the odor of stale tobacco and sweat. Behind a gray Formica counter, a grimy CD player pulsed Mexican pop music. Two attendants in stained yellow Miser Rent-A-Car t-shirts operated enormous gray computer terminals. Poles with retractable belts marked a customer line that snaked back upon itself. Bree stifled a sigh as she edged into the last place and counted the number of people ahead of her. Sixteen. She clamped her suitcase against one leg, hung the garment bag across it, and took out her phone in its pink case.

  Twenty-eight new emails glared up at her. Data analysis for a company-sponsored drug study was behind schedule. Marketing had problems choosing a name for a new antifungal medication. Her most recent hire announced she’d broken her arm skiing over the weekend and needed voice recognition software to function. Bree’s fingers began to dance across the screen, the oscillating fan in the corner blowing away all thoughts of “me time.” Forty-five minutes and two corners of the line later, Bree raised her head and took a deep breath of over-chilled air.

  Directly in front of her, an older woman with a stylish bob pounced. “I hesitated to interrupt you. I am familiar with burdensome workloads. But have you rented here before?” She swept her arm in the direction of the door. “I’ve been here nearly an hour.” Her eyes rolled as though they were following the track of an erratic fly.

  Bree lowered her phone and massaged her shoulders with a grin. “Interruptions stop me from working twenty-four seven.”

  “My husband booked this rental for me.” The woman put a hand on her hip. “Revenge will be swift and uncompromising.”

  “Maybe the line will start moving faster.” Bree searched for a scrap of wood on which to knock and, finding none, tapped her knuckles on her head.

  Her companion glanced at the agency staff and raised her voice. “Does anyone have the Yelp app? Should we consider giving a group review?”

  The line suddenly lurched forward, curtailing further conversation as everyone monitored the actions that moved them closer to a rental car. Bree lifted her phone and, over a pause in the music’s throb, heard the main door tinkle its welcome and someone roll a suitcase through the slalom of poles
behind her. She opened her email and was instantly swallowed again by the myriad concerns she’d left behind in San Francisco.

  “Bree?” A man’s voice spoke from behind her, tinged with hesitation. “Brianna Acosta?”

  Bree pulled her shirt’s puckers flat over her tummy bulges with an instinctive motion born of years of practice. Behind her stood a blond man of impressive build wearing aviator sunglasses, an open Hawaiian shirt, and fashionably day-old stubble. His wide smile created deep dimples on either cheek. His hands held a stack of Miser Rent-A-Car note pads that he stuffed into the back pocket of his jeans when he noticed her staring at them.

  Her mind tried to fit the face into her professional list of contacts. Nothing. She glanced at his elegantly thin garment bag and sleek black metal roller without a company tag. Her memory raced through images from pharmacy school and college but also came up blank.

  She gave up and held out her hand, flashing teeth and sucking in her stomach. “Nice to see you again.”

  “It is Bree.” The man gyrated her hand in an excited volley, as though pumping in a desert for water. Before she knew what was happening, he tugged her into his arms. A wave of musky cologne enveloped her as he hugged and released her before she could push him away.

  Her eyes narrowed. She crossed her arms tightly across her chest, which this stranger had squeezed with more intimacy than it had known in weeks. Yet something about him made her restrain the volley of righteous indignation poised on her tongue. Something about him was…familiar. Her memory expanded, like a dry sponge soaking up drops of water. Her eyes explored the smooth features of his face.

  The impatient woman leaned in across her shoulder. “Are you acquainted with this gentleman?”

  He gave the older woman a bow. The matriarch beamed and let out a squeal when an attendant motioned her toward the counter.

  Bree dropped her arms. “Could you take off those sunglasses?”

  The man grinned and slid them down his nose.