by Snow, Nicole
I enter the bedroom and grab my jeans off the floor, digging my wallet out of the back pocket. It’s lighter than it should be. In order to look the part – a big time gambler – I’d stuffed it flush with cash and platinum cards last night.
Opening it, I pull out the bills, and get my next sucker punch to the gut.
There's at least a thousand dollars less than there should be.
A pink slip where the missing money should be makes me frown.
Some elusive memory barely tickling the back of my mind makes the hair on my neck stand up.
I stick the money back in and set aside the wallet before unfolding the thin, pink paper. A receipt. Two stuck together, actually.
One's a receipt for a jewelry store. Apparently, I charged a lot more on my card than what I'm missing in cash.
“What the fuck? Four grand for an emerald and diamond engagement ring? And wedding band?”
It has my name on it. Noah Bernard.
Says it's paid in full.
Confusion whistling through my clenched teeth, I open the second receipt. The first glance has me dropping the paper like it's on fire.
I must be imagining things.
Hallucinating.
I have to take a long, deep breath before I can force myself to pick the receipt off the floor. Another look intensifies the thunder in my guts.
It's still there. The words haven't changed.
“No damn way,” I mumble, shaking my head. “No damn how.”
I’m not imagining shit, and I wish to all seven heavens I was.
A hint of memory arcs through my head. Of an Elvis preacher. A chapel lit with neon lights, lots of purple, so outrageous anyone in their right mind would burst out laughing. A brunette with emerald green eyes, smiling, then offering me her sweet lips.
“Another grand for a wedding ceremony? In cash?”
I shake my head, not believing it as much as I do believe it.
I’m fucking married.
To a chick named Mindy. Mindy Marie Austin.
Lucky. The woman who just crawled out of my bedroom.
Resisting the urge to go category five on my room, turning over tables and chairs until I reach sweet oblivion, I stick the receipts back in my billfold and stuff it in my back pocket.
Married.
After pulling on my socks and boots, I yank on a t-shirt and a loose hanging button-up shirt that'll hide the gun I slide into my waistband, and then snatch both white sandals off the floor.
Fuck. Married!
The words ricochet around my mind like a lost bullet. Nearly as dangerous.
This needs to be dealt with now.
* * *
Finding her wasn’t quite as easy as I’d thought it'd be.
She’s not from Reno. She’s from Arizona, Phoenix area. Scottsdale, to be precise.
Staying at an apartment of a friend of her mother’s. Who was very hesitant to talk at first. But once she realized I was simply trying to return Mindy’s lost phone, she became overly cooperative.
Of course, the woman also thought I was with the Reno Police Department. I took a chance, hoping Lucky hadn’t already called her mother, since I truly don’t have her cell phone.
A quick online search turned up her parents’ name and number, and a few open-ended questions to her ma gave me all the info I needed to find her.
Now, it’s time for me to get answers. The truth about who she’s working for.
It’s only been three hours since she crawled out of my bed, but time is judge, jury, and executioner in these situations.
Harkness is still in town, too, and the weekend isn’t over. If I can un-fuck this Mindy situation, then I might have a chance to get the jump on Lucient before he gets ten moves ahead instead of just five.
I park my truck in front of her place and climb out.
These old buildings are all the same. The front doors are secure, but the back doors are usually never locked. There’s probably a fence, with a locked gate giving people the appearance of safety. Meanwhile, in reality, scaling a fence is no heroic feat for anybody in decent shape.
That’s exactly what I find here. I'm over the gate and inside the building without a second look from anyone. Probably in record time.
The interior's just as predictable. Worn blue carpet, scuffed beige walls, and the elevator could use a thorough inspection and tune-up. Apartment four-twelve has a wreath hanging on it, complete with faded silk flowers and a flimsy cardboard welcome banner, which ironically, covers the peep hole.
I shake my head at some people’s choice of décor, and knock.
The deadbolt clicks and I slide one hand inside my shirt, to the center of my back to palm the handle of my gun. I hope it's overkill.
But there's no telling what I'll find on the other side of that door. I have a split second to tick over everything I know.
I’ve ruled out Harkness being in the middle of this – his mind is too fixed on money, and he's on his old employer's shitlist. He's a paper pusher, not used to being cunning or protecting himself. It's got to be Cesare Lucient himself, but where the hell did he recruit a woman like Lucky?
I brace my feet in a combat stance as the door swings open, half expecting to see Mr. Fuckface himself with an entourage of men holding guns.
It’s not. It’s her. Alone.
Looking as strikingly gorgeous as she did last night. Even without the blue dress, she's a sight for sore eyes. Her caramel locks flow down in saucy waves past her shoulders, settling around curves far too memorable to forget.
Which I haven’t. Not completely. I may not remember specifics, what was said or done or why, but I remember feelings.
I remember her body pressed up against mine at that joke of an altar while Reverend Fake Elvis pronounced us man and wife.
I remember my dick being harder than the stones I slid on her finger. I remember how good she tasted, how my tongue chased hers, how I couldn't fucking stop to save my life.
That’s what solidifies memories. Feelings. Lightning crashing through flesh and blood. Not what we heard or saw, not what we did, but what we felt.
Last night, my eyes betrayed me, and so did another rebellious piece of my anatomy. Exactly like it's trying to do now.
Exactly what I don’t need, which escalates my inner rage up another notch.
“You!” she sputters, after doing a double take.
My turn. “Honey, I'm home.”
Three lunatic words I thought I'd never say. It leaves her jaw hanging, at least, which is the distraction I need.
I hand her the sandals, and don’t wait for an invitation to step inside and slam the door behind me.
Mindy staggers back in shock, but only a couple steps, like she can't really fathom standing her own ground with me.
She can’t, and I’ll prove it. Good cop time is over.
“Where’s Lucient?”
“Who?” She shakes her head and tosses the shoes aside. “Lucient?”
“You heard me: Lucient. Cesare Lucient. Silver-toed boots? Komodo dragon grin? Ring a bell yet?” Snarling, I grab her left hand and hold it up so she can see the emerald ring. “You know who he is – the bastard behind this!”
She jerks out of my hold and thrusts the back of her hand in front of my nose, so the ring is right before my eyes. “What, what, what? You’re the bastard behind this! And I want to know what you’re going to do about it right flipping now! I just got rid of one ginormous prick in my life and sure as hell don’t want another one!”
My turn to do a double take. So, she's still on her game, and a spitfire, too.
I don’t startle easy, but the fury in those feral green eyes screams caution.
The anger inside her could damn-near match mine. It's also disturbingly honest.
What the fuck is going on here? Truly?
Was she being blackmailed? Set up by him? Had she agreed to seduce me because she thought that would get him off her back? It’s never that easy, though. Not wit
h him.
So much for seduction, too – we'd both obviously passed out before we'd done anything. I'd have remembered giving her a ride for the ages.
I shake my head, trying to form coherent sentences. “Who? What prick did you just get rid of?”
Her eyes narrow into a hateful glare. “Charles Pratt – that’s who! The prick who's spent the last week in Aruba, fucking his secretary like I'm a complete idiot!” She’s getting madder as she speaks. Her hands go from flaying the air to planting themselves on her hips, and then back to slicing the air again.
“Who does that four months before their wedding? Like I wouldn't know?” She shakes her head, hissing through her teeth. Then her expression eases into a quiet sadness. “I knew he was boning her for months before I finally worked up the nerve to hire a detective. Guess waiting around to dump his two-timing ass until I had proof is kinda my fault.”
I’m rarely at a loss for words. Never, actually, but I am right now.
Her rage is real. Her grief is honest. She's either an innocent woman scorned, or a devious actress Lucient must've kidnapped straight from Hollywood.
Mindy folds her arms, her defiant anger returning, sizing me up. “Well, honey? Does that answer your questions?”
She gives me a sarcastic wink and holds her ring finger up again. “I think it's your turn. Start talking before I call the police.”
Shit. I'm still untying my tongue when a new noise rips through the room. The phone, an older model on the side table next to the wall. A distraction I'm thankful for.
Lucky looks at it, too.
“Are you going to answer that?” I ask after the fourth ring.
“Nah. Not while we're still busy.”
The machine clicks on. An old woman’s voice says no one's home right now, and gives another number for them to call before a sharp beep sounds.
“Mindy, darling? It’s mother. Pick up if you're there.”
Lucky lets out a low groan but doesn’t move an inch toward the phone.
“You wouldn't believe, it took me forever to find Martha’s home number...but I want you to know somebody found your phone! A nice policeman will be bringing it by Martha’s place shortly, if he hasn’t already. It was a while ago that he called.” There's a brief pause before she continues. “And darling...look...I don’t want to get into how I was against you going off to Reno alone all over again, but this just proves you –” Another beep sounds, cutting her off mid-sentence.
Lucky plants a hand over her forehead, squeezing both temples at the same time while muttering, “Fuck'n aye.”
Then she drops the hand, glances toward the coffee table where a phone sits, and then levels a knowing gaze on me. “Lost phone, huh. Nice plan, Hercules. Slow clap. You called my mother?”
I shrug. “I found you, didn't I?”
She rolls her eyes. “And how’d you find my mother?”
“Internet. Social media site. Give a guy a name these days, and he'll find every little crumb a person ever left on Google and Facebook.”
The phone starts ringing again. She ignores it. “Are you really a cop?”
“No.”
The machine clicks on after two rings this time. “Darling, it’s me again. I got cut off but I was trying to say, you shouldn’t be in Reno alone. Losing your phone? God. How am I supposed to know you’re okay? That some crazy hasn’t abducted you? Thank goodness whoever found it turned it into the police.” She pauses, sighing. “Mindy, darling, you really need to come home. I'm not joking around now. Think about Charlie. He’s going to be so disappointed. Learning you went to Reno, alone, while he’s off on his business trip, nobody at home. Think of the wedding, dear. We have so much left to do. Carol and I were just discussing –” The beep cuts her off again.
I level a knowing look at Lucky. “Wedding? Thought you said you got rid of old Charlie boy.”
“I did!” She plops onto a flower-covered sofa, raking one hand through her hair. “I just...I haven’t told anybody yet.”
“Not even Charlie?” I hold back the smile digging at my lips.
Her green-eyed glare is full of daggers. “Um, of course I told Charlie. I told him at the airport. Right while him and Debbie were waiting to board. Then I went home, threw together my things for this trip, and left my ring behind.”
“And what'd he say?” I ask, testing her again.
She shifts on the sofa, eyes flashing to her new ring, ignoring my question. The one I'd given her. I'm still inventing new ways to call myself a jackass when she looks up, her lips twisting sourly. “You've got better taste than he did, at least. I'll give you that.”
Fuck. Not what I need to hear.
Can’t say I feel sorry for Charlie boy either, other than the fact that he must be a certifiable loon. Cheating on a woman like her? You've gotta feel sorry for the crazies once in a while. “What did he say?”
She doesn't answer. Just leans forward and grabs a pack of cigarettes and a lighter off the table. Pulling one out, she sticks it between her lips and lights it up.
First puff and she's coughing like mad, waving the smoke away from her face.
“Been smoking long?” I ask. Not because it makes a difference, but because I want to know if I’m reading everything about her correctly.
“No,” she snaps. “I found half a carton in the freezer and figured now’s as good a time as any to start.”
I’m reading her right. I lift an eyebrow, watching as she looks at me sheepishly.
Then she reaches over, grinding the cigarette out in an old ashtray half full of other used, but barely smoked, butts. “I didn’t know what to do after this morning. How to find some Noah Bernard – you – who I’d evidently married last night but can’t remember a freaking thing about.”
My instincts, which are rarely off, and certainly weren’t about the cigarettes, say I was wrong.
She’s not working for Lucient, or Harkness. There'd be too much fear in her if she were, enough to overpower singing her blues over asshole Charlie.
Mindy's an innocent pawn. The fact that she can’t remember anything is a good indicator she was drugged with the same headache-inducing muscle relaxer I'd swallowed.
“It's crazy, isn't it? Blowing town to come here and clear my head, only to wind up married to some guy I'd...somebody I'd gotten drunk with.”
The way her face heats tells me she remembers this morning. Waking up barely dressed.
She's too shy to say it, to confront the insane fact that we'd almost fucked.
And even though every sane part of me says, good, an evil heat in my blood regrets what didn't happen.
“I've heard enough, Lucky. Beating yourself up won't get the two of us anywhere, and –”
The damn phone rings again.
“Oh, for Christ’s sake!” she spits, leaping off the sofa.
She doesn’t answer, just paces angrily near the table as Martha’s message repeats again, before her mother starts yammering away.
This time, the message is brief. Just asks for a call back. ASAP.
Lucky stops pacing the floor and finger-combs her hair out of her face.
Her loose-fitting white shirt rises up, giving me a quick glance of sun-kissed belly skin above the waistband of her shorts as she lifts her arms higher to twist her hair on top of her head. Her eyes fall, then her hair, and her arms, and the hem of her shirt.
Since she hadn’t answered before, I ask again, “What did Charlie say when you gave him his ring back?”
She gives me a half-loathing glare. “He told me to stop acting so childish. So paranoid. Same crap he always said whenever I went against him. That we’d talk about it when he gets home.”
“In...what? A few weeks?”
“Yes. Three.”
“From Aruba,” I clarify.
She nods curtly, then sits down on the sofa and picks up her phone. Swiping the lock screen, she hits a couple icons. “Charlie isn’t the issue right now. This is.”
I take the ph
one she holds out to me. There’s a picture of us. Lip-locked. Looking like we just had our own personal rapture, courtesy of Officiant Elvis, who's grinning ear-to-ear.
“There’s more,” she says. “Just keep scrolling.”
More turns out to be a colossal understatement.
I swipe through well over a dozen pictures. It’s odd seeing myself smiling, posing, doing things I barely remember.
Kissing her like no tomorrow.
Looking at a pallet of rings.
Holding hands. Hugging. Grabbing her ass through the silky fabric clinging to her hips.
Preacher Elvis striking a pose for us. Kissing again. Climbing in a limo.
Fuck. Me.
“Least it explains how we got home last night,” I say. My truck was still at the casino this morning. I’d had to call for a ride to retrieve it.
“Home?” She shakes her head. “You may have gotten home. I ended up in a stranger’s bed.”
I haven't been here long, but the anger I’d felt when I knocked on the door has completely diminished.
She shakes her head and shrugs, looking about as forlorn as anyone I’d ever seen.
“Why’d you do it?” she asks. “Why marry me? A total stranger. Is this some sort of stag party? A joke gone too far, maybe? Like that movie several years ago, where a bunch of guys kidnap the groom and go to Vegas for one last hurrah before the poor sucker gets hitched?”
I wish like hell it was.
“No,” I tell her, practically mute. There's nothing left to say. This shit is far too real, and we both know it. “Listen, Lucky –”
Before I can say more she throws her hands in the air.
“No, Mr. Noah, you listen! Tell me what's going on. For real. What is this really? Why? And what're we going to do about it? I can’t stay married to you.”
“Obviously,” I bite off.
It's harsher than I intend, but fuck, I've reached my limit. None of this makes sense.
My mind circles in on itself like buzzards waiting for a feast in the desert. There’s no rhyme or reason why Lucient would've done this.
If it's a trap, some kind of blackmail, it's messier than his usual style.
I set the phone on the table with a heavy sigh. “Don't worry. I'll fix this one way or another. You said it yourself – no frigging way on earth can we stay married. We'll get ourselves a divorce lawyer tomorrow. ASAP.”
