His phone vibrated. He pulled it from his pocket and checked the screen. A text from Trevor read, At the back door. Wait for me. For a nanosecond he considered waiting, because, procedurally, Trevor was in the right. Smart cops didn’t rush headlong into an unknown situation without someone at their back. But the bloody feathers spelled emergency in big, flashing letters. He couldn’t stand there with his thumb up his ass while time ran out for Stacy.
Another hallway extended from the other side of the stage, and led to the back door of the club. If whoever grabbed Stacy managed to get her out the door…he refused to let his mind go there. They’d have to get through Trevor, and that wouldn’t happen. He hurried across the stage and into the second hallway, moving fast until a realization struck and stopped him in his tracks. No feathers. He looked around. There were absolutely no feathers in the hall.
He retraced his steps, back down the hall, across the stage. Still nothing. When he reached the other side of the stage, he stood by the last feathers in the trail and peered down the hall the way he’d originally come. Had Stacy and her abductor doubled back toward the club while he’d charged off down the other hall? Impossible. He’d been on high freaking alert for any signs of movement, and any hidey-holes. There was no place for them to have stayed concealed while he’d walked past. Was there? Could he have missed a trapdoor in the stage floor or…?
He sprinted back to the stage and quickly paced off the entire floor, all the way to the concrete-block wall at the back. Nothing. He’d missed nothing. So where the hell was she and why did the trail of feathers stop at the end of the first hallway?
Another few seconds brought him back to that spot. He looked to his right and saw nothing but a solid, blank wall. He turned and looked to his left. The rungs of a narrow metal ladder extended from the wall. Dread gripped him. Stacy didn’t like heights. She’d never attempt a climb like that by choice. He started to look up when somebody screamed.
Chapter Ten
Stacy’s scream ended in a grunt of pain as she hit the lighting rig. One hard bounce, and then gravity immediately sent her sliding ground-ward again. She reached up, scrambling for a hold somewhere along the steel frame of the rig. Her right hand touched a smooth steel bar, but she couldn’t keep her grip. The metal might as well have been coated in oil. She caught a bar with her left hand, but her grasp couldn’t withstand the downward momentum of her body. She slipped off. Like a cartoon character running off a cliff, she pumped her legs, stretched her arm, and snagged the last bar with the tips of her fingers. She locked her left hand around the metal, gritted her teeth, and hung on for dear life while she waited for the full weight of her body to test her hold.
When it did, she screamed again, this time in agony. Her side burned like she’d been stabbed with a red-hot poker. Every molecule in her body wept, but somehow, she held on. The one-handed grip wouldn’t last forever though. She needed both hands, and she needed them now.
Come on. You’ve danced through pain. You can do this. She swung her right arm up, but only brushed the bar before the strain on her left arm had her lowering it again. Her fingers slipped a few millimeters. If she didn’t get her hand on the bar with the next attempt, she’d have to hope her angel wings worked.
This time she scissored her legs for an extra boost when she grabbed for the bar. She caught it, slipped, tightened her grip and, yes! Held. With her right hand locked on, she finally adjusted her left hand and secured her grasp. Good. Her weight felt evenly distributed, which took some pressure off her side. Now, if she could just… She swung her legs back, then forward. On the next upswing, she lifted her right foot, snagged the bar parallel to the one she held on to, and looped her leg through. She followed suit with the left leg and hung there for a moment, sucking in oxygen and letting her arms recover from the strain of clinging to the rig while her body had dangled.
Movement to her right drew her attention back to the platform. Mandy stepped gingerly onto the metal framework and made her way toward Stacy.
“Jesus, you’re like a spider.”
Stacy scooted her legs farther onto the bar, flexed her arms, and struggled to pull herself upright. Too late. Mandy crouched down and lifted the gun over her head, butt end out like a hammer. Stacy held her breath and watched, helplessly, as Mandy brought the gun down on her right ankle. She cried out as the impact reverberated through her body. When Mandy raised the gun again, Stacy’s pain-avoidance instincts kicked in. She shimmied her leg free of the frame and let it hang in the air.
Her strappy, thousand-dollar shoe slipped off her foot. She watched as it fell like a stone into the darkness below.
…
The scream from above jerked Ian’s head up, and his heart stopped. He watched helplessly as Stacy fell from the platform into the lighting rig, caught herself, and dangled from the stage light housing, at least two stories off the ground. He stood below, paralyzed with horror, as she struggled to pull herself up onto the rig while a black-cloaked figure closed in on her. The sight mobilized him. He leaped onto the ladder. At the same time, something whizzed by his head and crashed down on the stage directly behind him. He glanced back and saw Stacy’s shoe lying on the floor. If she took her shoe’s path down, she wouldn’t survive.
Chapter Eleven
Mandy squinted into the darkness, following the progress of the shoe, and then cursed and looked back at Stacy. “How sweet, your boyfriend’s here to save the day. Don’t go anywhere. I’ll be right back.” She scuttled off the light rig.
No fucking way. Fear for Ian gave her new strength. She swung her dangling leg back up onto the lighting rig, and then pulled herself through the bars until she sat on top of the metal framework. The world tilted and threatened to topple, but she put her clumsy limbs into motion and scooted back to the platform.
Mandy squatted beside the access ladder, with her back to the rig, taking aim at Ian. She’s so certain she’s got you beat. Figures you’re too weak to pose a threat. Her eyes landed on the kitchen knife, lying on the platform where Mandy had tossed it. Think again, bitch.
She lunged for the knife at the same time Mandy pumped off a shot. Stacy’s heart stalled. Return fire from below relieved and galvanized her. She grabbed the knife. Mandy edged closer to the ladder and prepared to take another shot.
“No!” Stacy charged forward and brought the knife down with all the strength she could muster. She aimed for a lung or a kidney, but Mandy sensed the attack and straightened at the last second, and the blade ended up planted between her shoulders.
Mandy screamed and turned on her, eyes wild, teeth bared. “Bitch,” she muttered.
Stacy would have liked to reply, “Takes one to know one,” but there was no more spit in her mouth.
“And now you die.” Mandy raised the gun and pointed it at her head.
She stared down the barrel and swallowed bitter regret. This was it. She’d missed her chance to tell Ian, “I love you.”
…
Ian climbed the last few feet like a monkey on crack. He hauled himself onto the platform, pulled his gun from the waist of his jeans, and yelled, “Drop it!”
The nun didn’t drop it, and he didn’t waste time on a second warning. He fired.
The slug he put in her leg knocked it right out from under her. Her gun flew out of her hand. Stacy dove after it, snagged the airborne weapon, and landed on her knees.
He raced toward her. From somewhere behind him he heard Trevor say, “I’ve got the nun,” and then, thank God, he had Stacy in his arms.
“Ian,” she looked up at him with big, pain-hazed eyes, held out the gun, and gave him a weak smile.
“Good catch,” he replied, hoping to make the smile linger, but it was too late. She’d already passed out.
Chapter Twelve
The light hum of female voices registered first, followed by the smell of roses and lilies. Stacy lay still for a moment, kept her eyes closed, and did a quick physical inventory. Toes? Check. Fingers? Check. Head st
ill attached to shoulders? Check.
Best she could tell, all parts were present and accounted for. She felt stiff and groggy, like she’d been asleep for a week, but nothing too alarming. A vague impression of Ian holding her hand and telling her not to worry about anything danced through her mind, but she couldn’t say for sure whether that was memory or wishful thinking. She racked her brain for something more. Other images formed—a nurse with a short brunette bob offering her water. Kylie smiling through tears while helping brush her teeth and hair—but no Ian.
Deciding to chance a look around, she opened her eyes, and blinked a few times to adjust to the sudden brightness. Sunlight streamed through an unfamiliar window, below which sat a metal cabinet holding a farmers’ market worth of flowers. “Holy crap. Am I dead?”
“What a question, Snowflake.”
She turned her head and realized the flowers were not the wildest, most colorful things in the room. Ginger sat in a chair beside her bed, wearing short, eye-popping red spandex. Lee Ann perched on the arm of her chair, in Daisy Dukes and a pink plaid shirt knotted under her breasts. Ari stepped to Ginger’s other side and adjusted the thin shoulder strap of a slinky purple dress.
“Oh, my God. I am dead. I’ve died and gone to hell.”
Ari raised one perfectly plucked brow. “No. The devil did not want you.”
“That’s right, sugar. Instead, you’re stuck in the hospital for a few days. But don’t fret one little bit.” Lee Ann smiled her big, beaming, Southern belle smile. “We’re here to help you pass the time.”
“You’re here to hit on the doctors,” she shot back, but couldn’t keep the grin off her face.
“The upside of you being here is that we can do both,” Ginger said.
Just then a humongous arrangement of white flowers waddled into the room.
“Holy shit, Vern. What did you do, mug a flower cart on your way here?”
Vern lumbered over to the flower-laden cabinet by the window and dumped his load. “Least we could do, kid. Thanks to you, we’ve had calls for reservations tonight. Reservations! We’re a strip club, people. We don’t take no stinking reservations.”
“What makes you think that’s because of me?”
“Last night’s escapade has been all over the news. Now every agent in Hollywood wants to come down to Deuces and discover the next Stacy Roberts.”
Stacy laughed. “That’s…great, I guess.” Her voice trailed off because a lump suddenly wanted to form in her throat. She took a deep breath, looked at her friends, and said quietly, “You guys are a sight for sore eyes.”
“Uh-oh. She’s delirious,” Ginger quipped, and elbowed Ari. “We better find that cute doctor we met on the way in and get his sexy ass down here right away.”
The brunette’s lips stretched into a slow, wicked smile. “If I find him, I don’t bring him here for a while.”
“Yeah, yeah, I see what kind of priority I am for you girls.” She planted her hands on the mattress and tried to push herself into a sitting position. It turned out to be a lot harder than she expected. “Before you go seduce Dr. Feelgood, can one of you help me sit up?”
“That sounds like a job for me,” a deep voice replied. Stacy looked up to find Trevor coming through the door, carrying an enormous bouquet of cheerful yellow sunflowers. Kylie followed, holding three huge, happy-face Mylar balloons that read “Get,” “Well,” and “Soon.”
Stacy watched as everyone exchanged greetings and hugs. Then Kylie took the bouquet from Trevor and walked to the window to add their arrangement to the bounty already taking up most of the surface of the cabinet. Ginger, Ari, and Lee Ann followed to help rearrange all the flowers.
“You’re looking a little better than last time I saw you.” Trevor leaned down to kiss her cheek. Then he slid one arm around her back, hooked the other under her knees, and lifted her higher in the bed.
“Thanks.” She hit the button to raise the bed. “Of course, last time you saw me I probably looked like I was about to fall off a light rig and crack my skull like an egg.”
“Yeah.” He smiled and pinched her chin. “I could go awhile without seeing that again, so in addition to putting your Worst Nightmare in custody where she belongs, I’m putting a five-foot vertical limit on you.”
She settled back and grinned at Kylie. “Man, he’s a tough one. Bossy.”
Kylie snuggled against his side and smiled up at him. “He has his softer side too.”
“You’re not supposed to tell anybody about that,” Trevor complained, and then tipped his bride-to-be’s chin up and kissed her with a thoroughness that had every woman in the room sighing.
“All right, break it up, you two,” Ginger joked, and tossed a handful of rose petals up in the air so they rained down on the lovebirds. “Save something for the wedding.”
“Can I join the party?”
Stacy’s heart stuttered at the question. She swung her eyes toward the door. There stood Ian, leaning against the doorframe, holding a dozen red roses and looking unfairly gorgeous in wash-faded jeans and the emerald-green cashmere crewneck she’d gotten him for Christmas last year because it was the exact same shade as his eyes.
“Whoops, would you look at the time!” Ginger pointed to her nonexistent wristwatch. “We gotta go. See you tomorrow, Snowflake. C’mon, Vern.”
“What? I just got here!”
Ginger elbowed him, hard, and glanced pointedly at the door.
“All right. All right. I’m going.”
The girls headed out in a flurry of hugs, good-byes, and waves.
“We better go, too,” Kylie said. “We’ve got that thing.” She tugged Trevor’s arm.
“Right. The thing. Bye, Stace. Remember, five-foot vertical limit.” He clapped a hand on Ian’s shoulder as they passed.
Ian straightened and sent Stacy a crooked grin. “Do I know how to clear a room or what?”
She laughed, and then, to her utter horror, burst into tears.
He dropped the roses and had her carefully gathered in his arms before they hit the floor.
“It’s okay. Shh. C’mon, Stacy, don’t cry.” The low words vibrated from his chest to her cheek. His hand rubbed slow, comforting circles over her back. “Tell me what’s wrong.”
“I’m ruining your s-s-sweater, t-that’s what. And I…I l-love you, goddammit.” Well, shit. That hadn’t come out right.
The hand on her back stilled for a moment. His heartbeat sped up a couple notches, but all he said was, “I know.” The response was so typically Ian—calm, cocky, completely in control—she almost laughed. But then he followed it with, “Glad you finally worked up the courage to say the words,” and she wanted to cry all over again, this time out of shame for how she’d handled things.
Instead she lifted her head, wiped her face, and looked at him, drinking in those patient, observant eyes, the thick fringe of eyelashes God sometimes wasted on a man, and the firm, expressive lips. A muscle ticked in his jaw, and she realized he wasn’t as calm and cool as he let on. She owed him an explanation and an apology, and hoped that for once in her life she could find the right words, because even if he’d figured out for himself a long time ago that she loved him, she’d let him think she did so against her will, or at least her better judgment. And, honestly, that’s exactly how she’d felt. He needed to know how much she regretted her lack of faith in them.
“I’m sorry, Ian. I should have told you a long time ago. I didn’t because I thought—I don’t know—I was scared.”
“I know. I get that. I always knew you were holding back—”
She snorted. “You’ve had my number, right from the start.”
“I understand you, Stace, that’s all. And because I do, I knew certain things would be bigger issues than others, like the whole ‘I love you’ thing. I thought I could afford to be patient. What I don’t understand…what I didn’t see coming…was you walking away.” His fingers tightened the tiniest degree on her shoulders, and the small gesture
gave her a world of insight into the depth of his frustration.
“I was afraid you’d change your mind,” she confessed. “When you asked me to move in, I thought you were keeping your options open. I mean, marriage is a big step…a big public commitment. A divorce takes time. But living together?” She shrugged. “It’s not so hard to just pack your stuff and leave if things don’t work out. Not that I blame you,” she quickly added when he would have interrupted. “The show took off practically overnight, and suddenly, I realized it was only a matter of time before bits and pieces about my past came to light. Little details like me working at Deuces. These were my choices, and I always considered them part of what made me…well…me—uninhibited, a little bit wild, and shocking. But I saw how my past had the potential to embarrass or alienate people I cared about, like you, and your family.”
“I love you, Stacy. I love that you’re uninhibited, and, yeah, a little bit wild. As for shocking, well,” he shrugged, “I think you know by now I’m kind of hard to shock. Same goes for my family.”
Her heart soared at his words, but she shook her head. Get all the fear out. Drain it like venom. “Your parents didn’t sign up for notoriety. How are they going to feel when someone posts a video of me stripping on YouTube, and some tabloid reporter shoves a recorder in their faces and asks them if I pole dance at the family barbecues?”
“Honey, if you want to pole dance at the next barbecue, my parents will install a pole. And, as much as I hate to say it”—he grimaced—“my mom would probably be the first in line for a lesson. She keeps talking about what a great workout it’s supposed to be. Obviously, I can’t be there for that, or I’ll have to tear my eyes out, but—”
Wicked Games (McCade Brothers novella) Page 9
