by Snow, Nicole
Five minutes.
It might as well be an hour. It already feels that long.
The water fountain is now between me and the building.
Lord, I’d give up half the cash in my purse for a drink. And for a couple Ibuprofens. A whole freaking bottle, actually.
I also wonder how much money is stuffed in my purse. Definitely a flip-wad of cash, easily a few thousand.
A small branch snaps off the ground, freed when I shift my foot, slapping me across my cheek.
I push it aside and keep staring through the small opening between the thick branches. Telling myself that I can’t chance digging the money out. This isn't the time to count my loot.
Gotta keep my eyes on the door. Watching for Hercules. Ready to run.
When a car appears, I curse it for blocking my view. Then I realize it’s red, just like the one the app said would pick me up.
I shove my way through the brush and stumble onto the pavement, realizing my mistake as the driver slams on the brakes moments before plowing into me. I’m too nervous to be startled or embarrassed.
Running to the back door, I jump in. “Let’s go. You've got the address, right?”
The driver, a woman with a long ponytail, glances at me. “Are you all right?”
“Never better,” I say. “Just ready to get home. Big party last night. Kinda wild.”
The woman smiles, relief flooding her face. “Been there, done that,” she says, steering the car around the circle drive.
As soon as we roll past the big glass door, I lean my head back and close my eyes. The relief that washes over me is like a cold shower on a hot day.
Maybe coming to Reno wasn't my smartest move. My third day here, waking up in a stranger’s bed.
God.
Mother would absolutely die if she ever found out. Thankfully, I’m alone, so she’ll never know.
No one will. This secret's going to the grave.
Last night flashes at me again during the ride, machine gun memories echoing through my sore brain.
Laughing and dancing. Not on a dance floor, more like a foyer with tile.
Hercules, my gorgeous partner, whirling me around and only slowing so I could gaze into those fire-blue eyes that take me to another world.
We're dancing long and hard. He’s spinning me. Around and around and around.
My eyes snap open, but my lips are tingling. They remember too well what happened next.
He’d kissed me. Or I’d kissed him. More than once.
And he'd tasted as good as he looked. The kind of fierce, take-you-over kiss that just starts at the tip of your tongue and slides down your whole body.
The kind that lingers.
The kind that leaves an impression on every last nerve.
I remember a better kind of hurt last night when I think of Herc's lips. The sizzle caressing the tips of my nipples and the wetness between my legs. A huge, sweet universe away from the aftermath I'm living now, blitzed out with my face tucked into my palm in the back of an Uber.
My head throbs again as I press both hands against my temples. Then slouch forward to hang my head over my knees. The car's jerky movement on the highway makes my stomach churn.
The only way this gets worse is if I throw up.
No freaking way. I bite my tongue and pray for the ride to end soon.
This has to be the worst fucking hangover ever.
It seems like a year passes before the car stops.
“We’re here!” my driver announces cheerfully.
I snap my head up and cringe at the pain. “Thanks,” I manage, almost rolling out the door.
The building is familiar, comforting. I dig in my purse, past the money and finally feel my keychain.
Thank God I’d clipped the key fob for the main door and the key to the apartment to my car keys.
The elevator to the fourth floor feels much longer than the one down from the penthouse. It’s rougher and smellier, too. This building isn’t nearly as well-kept as the mystery penthouse, but this is the place where I should've spent last night.
It isn't home. More like home base, but it'll do.
This trip is supposed to be my freedom revolution. My chance to break free. To celebrate my getting out before the going got messy.
The chance to see all the things I’ve given up over the years living in Charlie’s shadow.
Just waiting for him to obtain the things he wanted, the things he needed, while I sat in the background dreaming about my wants. My needs, always trampled and forgotten.
That’s what last night was supposed to be. A wild adventure. A chance to let loose. To not be tied down by anyone or anything.
Mindy Austin 2.0. Better, sexier, and a hundred times smarter.
For all I know, maybe it was all those things, and then some.
I can't remember everything. I can only hope.
Exiting the elevator, I unlock the door to apartment four-twelve, with its flowered wallpaper and old lady furniture, complete with doilies hanging over the backs of every chair and the potpourri scent of things old and forgotten.
After locking the deadbolt, I throw my purse on the flowered sofa and head for the bathroom to chug half a gallon of water in one go.
Thirst quenched, I turn on the shower and then strip.
As I step out of my underwear, a sense of regret washes over me.
Maybe last night wasn't as crazy as I thought.
If I’d really let loose, I’d have had sex with Hercules. Willingly. Joyfully.
But that hadn’t happened. My body shows no signs of a beast-man ravaging every inch of me.
A man like him would have left memories. He'd have left me sore inside and out, and no matter how much I drank, there's no freaking way I'd forget ever riding him to the moon and back.
I also wouldn’t have gotten up and put my underwear and bra back on after having sex. That isn't me. Not even me under the influence.
I should be relieved, knowing I walked away from a complete stranger in one piece, but somehow, it seems like a lost opportunity.
Hercules could've rocked my world. Nothing like Charlie, who could only get it up for Friday nights, if he wasn't 'too tired and stressed from work.'
Who the hell does that?
“You did,” I say aloud, stepping into the shower. “For the past four years.”
I stick my head under the steaming water, ready to wash away those memories and clear my mind.
It’s flipping crazy. I can remember everything about Charlie. His big-shot corporate attitude and his pompous rules. The specific order he had in the bedroom, how everything had to happen just-so. More like a chore than anything resembling passion.
It's insane. Nothing but bad memories for a man who nearly dragged me to the altar. And nothing but good, scary memories of the beast I woke up next to this morning.
I wish I remembered more. Wish I had one more glimpse of those Atlantic blue eyes that sparkled so bright I could almost see my own reflection.
The irrational part comes last. I'd been too caught up in Hercules' savage good looks to ask myself why I was with him in the first place.
Why had I spent all night sleeping half-dressed next to a man who hadn't done anything to me? Had we just passed out before anything could happen?
Wiping the water off my face, something lightly scratches my cheek.
I freeze. My eyes feel like they're ready to leave their sockets.
My engagement ring. I forgot to take it off before getting in the shower. I smile, knowing Charlie would be so pissed. He never shut up about the warranty and insurance.
Then it hits me and my smile fades.
My spine goes rigid for a second time, locking me in place, and for a few more seconds I'm trembling, too scared to open my eyes.
Here's the problem: I no longer have an engagement ring.
However screwed up my memories of last night are, I distinctly remember leaving Scottsdale last week. The evening I ripped th
e gaudy ring that always felt more like a prison-rock off my finger for the last time and laid it on the table.
It was the same evening I broke up with Charlie, after I'd come home from the airport.
Still not opening my eyes, I grasp the finger on my left hand with my right index finger, thumbing the strange new ring that shouldn't be there.
But I'm not imagining it. That’s for damn sure.
It's simple beauty. Gold band. A few delicate gems lined up in the center.
Am I dreaming?
Am I still engaged to Charlie Pratt and fantasizing about what'll happen when I finally get the courage to break it off?
No. No daydream would leave me feeling this crappy, this confused.
I’m not in my bathroom back in Scottsdale. I’m in Reno. Showering in Martha Walsh’s apartment while she’s in Washington helping her granddaughter, who just had a baby.
You're hallucinating, I tell myself.
It's probably the dehydration or the waning headache or the adrenaline hangover I've had since getting home. I lick my lips, count to three, and open my eyes.
What the what?! It’s not just one ring. It’s two!
An engagement ring with a very large emerald surrounded by several small diamonds. Nothing at all like the glittery designer name I’ve worn for the past year. The etched wedding band has emeralds and diamonds on it, too.
They're both gorgeous. Flipping gorgeous.
Another image flashes in my head, so ridiculous it sends me jumping out of the shower.
I think...oh, God...it's Elvis, isn't it?
Yup. Elvis. Alive and well.
The King himself. Dressed as a preacher.
Or maybe a preacher dressed as Elvis?
Naked and wet, I run to the living room, grabbing my purse. Zipping it open, I dump the contents on the sofa and start pawing through the pile.
My cell phone, hair brush, and trinkets fall onto the cushion, along with a shower of cash, and then, a single folded sheet of paper flutters out. It'd been jammed into the very bottom.
Somehow, just looking at it, I know. And I'm already hyperventilating a little before it's readable.
My hands shake as I pick it up. Open it. Look.
State of Nevada Certificate of Marriage, it reads.
Mindy Marie Austin to Noah Allen Bernard.
“It can't be!” I whisper, on the verge of passing out. “I’m...I'm married?”
2
Honey, I'm Home (Noah)
The inside of my head feels too big for the outside.
It fucking hurts.
I'm no stranger to head trauma. I’ve taken blows that rattled my brain, short-circuiting all my senses, but never felt pain like this.
Still can't figure out how I was able to stagger to my feet and limp across the room.
I lean closer to the window, press my forehead against the cool, soothing glass and force my eyes to follow the woman in the skimpy, blue dress as she runs across the driveway of the condo complex and into the brush.
Who the fuck is she and why did she crawl out of my bed?
How’d she get into my bedroom in the first place?
First clue: she’s pretty.
No, more like drop-dead gorgeous. Her long dark brown hair flows behind her like a scarf in the wind as she runs. Sweet ass, too. Perfectly round and ripe and begging for my palm.
If I hadn't felt like I'd just taken a piano to my skull, I'd have said something instead of just staring as she’d crawled across the carpet, her tight pink panties hugging those perfect ass-cheeks the entire way.
Hottest little thief a man could ever know.
Except I’ve checked and nothing’s missing.
In fact, just the opposite. She left behind a pair of white sandals. One’s by the bedroom door. The other one is in the bathroom.
I’d heard her sneak out. Why hadn’t I heard her sneak in?
That’s not me. This isn’t me. In my line of work, focus headlines every resume, and usually the lives of the person they're attached to.
Something's seriously wrong.
It's got to be this fucking hangover. The one that makes zero sense.
I hadn’t drunk that much. I never do. Can’t.
There’s too much at stake for me to not be clearheaded at all times.
So, what if I'd brought her back here after one too many? Invited her, maybe? Let my dick get me into trouble?
She’s still there. In the trees. Thinks no one can see how she’s watching the front door, her big eyes transfixed. Down there, it's true she wouldn’t be seen, but from up here I can see her plain as day.
There’s something familiar about her, but it’s eluding –
No, fuck. It’s not eluding me anymore.
She was at the blackjack table last night. And she'd won like mad.
I’d told her Lady Luck was on her side. Said maybe she was the Lady herself, incarnate.
Loved how that made her eyes light up. They were green. Emerald green. The color of money, I’d said, nicknaming her Lucky while watching her spend a good amount of time winning.
And drinking her precious little ass off.
She'd bought drinks for everyone at the table. Including me. And I drank it. Them. At least three or four rounds. Another couple reciprocated a few times.
Fuck, of course!
Someone slipped me a mickey. Maybe Lucky herself.
“Fuck!” I snarl again, banging my fist gently on the glass. My head hammers, blood roaring in my temples so fiercely I almost fall over, a wicked confirmation from my own body that I've been drugged.
I slap the glass, gentler this time. “Fool,” I growl to myself. “What the hell were you thinking?”
She moves, jumps out in front of a car. For a split second, my heart stops. There's no earthly reason I should give a damn about a woman who just drugged me getting hit, but I'm not thinking straight.
Thankfully, the car stops, too. Then, just as quick and clumsily, she climbs into the back seat.
Dashing any hopes I had of racing downstairs to catch her and get answers.
I whirl around, frenzied, but have to grab the back of the couch as the pain rips my head in two again.
Whatever she put in the drinks, or had put in them, was paint-stripping strong.
I can barely remember anything past the first whiskey sour at the bar.
The pain subsides somewhat, and I stand still, holding on to the back of the couch, while forcing the fog in my brain to dispel.
Think, asshole. There's got to be more, I tell myself quietly, mouthing the words.
Michael Harkness. That’s who I was waiting for at the casino last night.
My intel's never wrong. Harkness was in town. His gambling addiction is too strong to keep away from the tables for long. And it'd been too long since he'd visited his favorite temple to the Almighty Dollar.
He’d been there last night. Had to have been. He was my target, and if I hadn't gotten derailed by Lady Luck in blue, I'd have had him handcuffed in my truck right now.
Was she in cohorts with Harkness, then? Or maybe with Mr. Fuckface himself.
My fist tightens when his smug, evil face flashes in my mind for a split second. Even through the pain, I have the urge to drive my knuckles into the nearest hard surface. Over and over. Until my whole arm goes numb.
Fuckface is too nice a name for Cesare Lucient.
The demon I have to take down.
He thinks he has me where he wants me, but it’s the other way around.
At least, it was.
Harkness was supposed to be my ticket to settling a score with Lucient and his boys.
Was the asshole one step ahead? Hiring this dark-haired beauty with the ass of an angel to distract me while he got to Harkness himself?
It's the same hideous, unpredictable logic I'm sick to say I'm used to. Fits with Lucient’s message that I'd better hurry up and find Harkness this weekend for him, or we’ll have to renegotiate terms. And if som
eone else does the dirty work tracking his man down, it'll be his terms.
“Fuck!”
My vision goes red, but at least I'm not seeing stars like when I first pried my eyes open.
I head for the bathroom, searching every drawer and shelf. Not even a fucking aspirin. Typical.
Then again, I never need them. I don’t get headaches. I don’t do hangovers. Haven't had so much as a single casual fuck in the past few months because I've spent morning, noon, and night on splitting Lucient open and dragging out the truth I need.
A warm shower is usually the only pain reliever I need. Today, I'm hoping that's still the case.
Kicking off my boxers, I step into the shower and close the glass door, cranking the water all the way to piping hot. Steam fills the tile-lined enclosure. I breath deep as sweat pops out of my pores. Soon, I feel the poison oozing out of me as I start sweating in earnest.
I stand there, letting the toxins and sweat pour down the drain with the steaming water, wishing everything could be this easy.
Don't think of Jess. Not now.
Not that sweet innocent girl with two long braids and freckles who used to follow me around. Or the kind, strong woman she’d grown up to be. The sister in all but name only, who I swore I'd protect, until I couldn't.
The one Fuckface Lucient ruined and then tossed out like yesterday’s trash.
My eyes are on fire. I blame it on the sweat dripping off my brows and the anger scorching my insides.
I’ve vowed it before but do so again: that mother-fucker will pay.
He'll give me the straight truth. He'll tell me where she went, or I'll split holes in his designer suit with his own bones.
Jess deserves better than a cold, detached missing person's case file with the Feds. Aunt Judy deserves closure. Deep down, I need both, and a whole lot more. I need to beat this shit behind me the only way I know how.
A death warrant; signed, sealed, and delivered by me personally, for anyone who ever lifts a finger against my family.
* * *
I’m reborn by the time I step out of the shower.
Righteous anger does that to a man. Makes him forget all else. Even the nonstop dagger-ache behind my eyes is nothing compared to the mission.
