The Lucky Ones
Cassie Cross
Contents
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Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
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Copyright © 2020 by Cassie Cross
No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations for reviews or other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is completely coincidental.
Chapter One
I’ve been staring at the timelines in my editing software for so long that when I blink I see nothing but pink, green, and blue bars. I know from experience that this is a sign that I’ve been at my desk for way too long and that I should probably take a break, but I hate breaks. I’d work until I fell asleep at my desk if the people who care about me would let me.
I’m holed up at my favorite editing bay in the back room of my office with the blackout curtains drawn because I hate having any glare on my screen. I’m like this weird little goblin surviving on Wheat Thins and bottled water that I keep in the tiny fridge under my desk. Speaking of water…
I reach down to get a fresh bottle, and find a cold, empty void. All out. I ate the last of my crackers some time ago. Could’ve been hours, could’ve been days. Who knows?
My stomach growls. Traitor.
I stand up and stretch my muscles, working all the kinks out from my shoulders down to my knees. I turn my head from side to side, cracking my neck, then I crack each of my knuckles on my left hand, then my right.
Skye, who’s seen me do this hundreds of times, calls it my warm-up routine. Elite athletes stretch, elite video editors crack.
I plop down in my chair and take stock of the footage I have left to get through, and my eyes catch on the little girl who’s the star of this commercial. She’s tasked with convincing her fellow children that this healthy cereal tastes as good as the sugar bombs that line the grocery store aisles.
I thought she was cute about 12 hours ago, now she’s just a sunny little gremlin whose face I don’t want to look at ever again. I also never want to hear the sound of anyone saying “mmmm” ever again.
It’s not that I’m bitter or anything, work is work and as the owner of a relatively new business, I’m willing to do whatever I have to in order to keep the lights on. I just really want to get into feature work. Skye tells me that the work will come if I just keep my head down and work my ass off.
I’m trying, but sometimes the wait seems interminable, and the payoff completely out of reach.
As if he can somehow sense that my stomach is growling and I’m all out of food and water here on my little island, my business partner and man that I am unfortunately head-over-heels in love with knocks on the door.
Jordan doesn’t give me a chance to answer before he pushes it open. He does it slowly, like he’s expecting me to either be asleep or dead. I like to work in dim lighting, and sunlight floods the room.
I squint against it; I can feel my pupils contracting. I hold my hand up over my eyes like some kind of disgruntled vampire.
“Oh, you’re awake,” he says. I can’t make out any of his facial features, he’s just a bulky, built silhouette of a man.
“Why wouldn’t I be?”
“You’ve been in here since 7:30 this morning, and haven’t even come out to use the bathroom.”
“That’s creepy,” I tell him pointedly.
I can practically feel his smile. It changes the air in the room.
“What time is it?” I ask.
“Almost six.”
“At night?”
A soft laugh. “Yeah.”
He flips on the light and yeah, he’s smiling. It’s a cute, distracting thing. It almost makes me feel bad for being slightly annoyed with him.
“At least it’s still the same day,” I tell him. I’m not exactly a stranger to working through the night. Or several nights.
“C’mon,” he says, tilting his head back toward the front door. “I’m gonna go get something to eat. Come with me.”
I look down at my work, which is 75% done. I could knock it out in a couple of hours and be done with that cute little girl’s face forever. I bite my lip, trying to figure out how I can argue my case so that it’s a winner.
“Absolutely not. You need to eat, the work will still be here when you’re done.”
“I didn’t say anything,” I add defensively, despite the fact that it’s only true because he beat me to the punch.
“I know you, Kendall, and I can tell by that wild look in your eye that you want to stay and finish up. I can see how bloodshot your eyes are from over here and I know for a fact that you didn’t have breakfast and Wheat Thins aren’t enough to keep you going. Let’s go get something real to eat.”
“You’re concerned about my eyes now?” I ask, behaving like a petulant jerk to this beautiful man who’s just trying to drag me out of my self-imposed dungeon to get some nutrients into my body.
It’s not his fault that I’m in love with him. It’s not his fault that I fell despite knowing better, when his list of exes is a mile long and full of model and actress types. It’s not his fault I’m just me, all girl-next-door and messy on the inside.
“I’m always concerned about your eyes,” he says, his own going kind of soft as he looks at me. “They’re a beautiful blue.”
See? I can’t help but love him when he says things like that.
“Not to mention, they’re kind of necessary to keep this business going. They make me a lot of money, so…c’mon.”
And just like that realty comes crashing down. She’s a cruel bitch.
“I’ll put you over my shoulder and carry you out to the car if I have to,” he warns.
It’s not an empty threat. He may have done it once before when I was being particularly stubborn, back before we started this business and instead of hiding away in a dark office, I would be glued to my laptop in my living room.
Jordan comes closer. He smells like he just got out of the shower. His dark hair is kind of messy in that stylish way, and he’s wearing a t-shirt that accentuates his muscles. It’s annoying that he can work as much as he does and still manage to look like this. He’s always pretty put together, because even though he does his fair share of editing, he’s the face of the business. He’s a filmmaker at heart, and he has the right connections to keep booking projects.
I told him when we first decided to go into business together that even though my best friend is an A-list movie star that I didn’t want to have to use her to get work. She’s tried to push some our way, but Jordan does a phenomenal marketing job for us.
He’s standing in front of me, and I’m all blissed-out on his yummy, soapy smell and his gorgeous honey brown eyes and rugged jaw with stubble that’s just the right length. He goes in for the kill.
“Come to dinner with me,” he says, voice low and warm.
Jordan Murphy is someone who looks like he should be in front of the camera instead of behind it. His lo
oks make it hard for people like me to say no to him, which always works in his favor.
I sigh, resigned. “You always did have a way with women,” I tell him as I make sure this project is saved in three different locations, just in case.
He lets out this grumbly, annoyed noise.
After everything is saved, I look up at him and manage a bright smile. “Do I get to pick where we go?”
“So long as the place doesn’t have a drive thru.”
Ugh, killjoy. “I want a Cobb salad from Green Street Cafe. With extra bacon, and a buttload of that yummy dressing.”
“We can go there as long as you actually ask for a buttload.”
“I can agree to those terms,” I tell him, offering him my hand so we can shake on it.
He keeps hold of it and pulls me out of my chair, our fingers tangled together all the way out to the car.
* * *
We’re sitting on the hood of Jordan’s car, near Clutter’s Park so we can watch the planes land at LAX. This has always been our thing, and this place is special to the both of us. It’s where Jordan encouraged me to go freelance, where he pitched the idea of going into business together, and where we came to celebrate signing the lease for our office.
We sprawled out on the hood of this Explorer, drank champagne out of red Solo cups, and had one hell of a night.
We had a nice dinner, and on the way out he asked for a Death By Chocolate to go, which is sitting on the passenger seat, calling my name. It’s a bribe, I know it, so I wait patiently for him to spill whatever idea he has that he thinks he needs chocolate to get me to agree to.
Right now, Jordan’s lounging with the top half of his body propped up on the windshield. His arm is crooked behind his head, which hikes the hem of his shirt up a few inches, leaving a slice of tanned skin exposed. I can make out the muscles on his Adonis belt above the waist of his low-slung jeans, and honestly this sight is more mouth-watering than the cake.
He’s unfairly gorgeous, and here I am in hastily thrown-on clothes with my hair in a messy bun. I can’t even remember the last time I put makeup on. My skin is a shade of white that would probably be blinding if I were out in full daylight. The sun and I are practically strangers at this point.
Jordan turns his head in my direction and looks up at me with this lazy, content smile. It makes my heart ache, because I’ve definitely thought about him lying in this position in completely non-platonic circumstances.
In order to keep myself from flinging my body over his just to see what happens, I blurt out, “It’s bad to lie down like that so soon after eating. You’ll ruin your esophagus.”
His mouth quirks up in a grin. “You need to stop working yourself so hard,” he says, ignoring my concern for his digestive tract.
“What’s new?” I tease, because really. At this point this is who I am.
He turns his body in my direction, and that’s when I know he’s being serious.
“Ken,” he says, playing with the hem of my sweatshirt. “You’re twenty-six and it’s fine now, but in a few years you’re gonna be completely fried and swigging Pepto directly out of the bottle to deal with the inevitable ulcers that are coming your way if you don’t slow down and take a break once in a while.”
I can’t find it in me to be mad at him when he’s so sweet and genuinely concerned.
“It’s chaotic in here,” I say, pointing toward my brain. “I second-guess myself all the time, and don’t like it when my mind has a chance to wander. Staying focused helps keep me sane.”
“You need to figure out a balance,” he says gently. “Find something else to focus on that can distract you when you’re not working so you don’t burn yourself out.”
I laugh, trying to let this roll off my shoulders. “Don’t worry, I’m not gonna fizzle out and tank the business.”
He gives me a withering look that lets me know that humor was definitely not the right way to go. “I don’t care about the business,” he says, dead serious. “I care about you. I care about your well-being, and it doesn’t seem so great at the moment.”
Yeah, well…honestly, it’s not. I’m worried about whether I made the right choice to branch out on my own or if I should’ve settled for a job somewhere with built-in vacation time and a retirement plan. I worry about the loan we took out to get this business started. I worry about what work is gonna be like once Jordan falls in love again and I have to sit there and watch, loving him quietly.
There’s a lot going on.
And I know it’s hard for him to understand, because Jordan doesn’t really wallow too long in the decision-making process. He thinks things through logically, and goes with his gut. And if his gut doesn’t tell him which way to go, he rolls a die. Literally. He keeps a pair in his pocket for such occasions.
He’s lucky; that’s always worked out for him.
I’m just not built that way.
I’m not lucky; I don’t just roll dice and leave things up to chance.
“I appreciate that you care,” I tell him, placing my hand over his where it’s still fiddling with the hem of my sweatshirt. “I’m just hard-wired at this point. A workaholic.”
His brows knit together, and I know I’m not gonna get off that easy.
“I have an idea.” He says it slowly, like he’s trying to reason with a small, frightened animal and doesn’t want to scare it away.
“I’m not gonna like this, am I?”
He laughs. “I’m hoping that you will if you hear me out.”
I take a deep breath. “Okay, I’m listening.” There may be a nervous ringing in my ears, but I can hear him over that.
“You know that film I’ve been working on forever?”
A Robin Hood-esque heist movie that’s been his creative baby for almost as long as I’ve known him? “Yes.”
“I have the chance to get some arial shots for it this weekend,” he explains. “You know my friend, Danny? The one with the helicopter business in Vegas?”
I nod. “Yeah.”
“He has a slot open on Friday night, and he offered to take me up so I can film. I’m flying to Vegas Friday morning so I can take him up on the offer.”
“That’s great,” I say, squeezing his hand. “But how does it involve me?”
The question hangs in the air as he stares at me meaningfully. “I want you to come with me.”
“No,” I say reflexively.
“Why not?”
“I’m not going to Vegas.”
“That’s not an answer. You’ll be done with the commercial by then, and our next project doesn’t start until next week. You haven’t been out of LA in a hundred years, Ken. It’s time.”
I playfully kick him in the shin. “It’s only been, like, a year. Maybe two.”
Yeah, okay. Still not great.
“It’ll be fun,” he says, really putting on the full-court press to sell me on this. “We’ll fly in and spend the night, have dinner and gamble a little. I’ll pay for the plane ticket.”
I love a night of debauchery as much as anyone, and I’m having a harder time saying no than I thought I would.
“Jordan…”
“You have an editor’s eye,” he argues. “It’ll be nice to have someone there to tell me what to shoot so I’ll have the best final product.”
Yes, this much is true.
“Please,” he says. He’s gone full puppy-dog eyes and I can never say no to those.
“No,” I reply, but it’s weak. A slight breeze could knock it over.
He reaches in his pocket and pulls out those dice. “You roll an odd, you come home with me. Even? You can edit all weekend and I won’t say a thing.”
I grab a die and inspect it to make sure it actually has evens and odds.
I’ve never let dice make a decision for me. The prospect is oddly freeing.
I start to roll, but he gently grabs my wrist and pulls my hand to his mouth, giving it a quick kiss.
“For good luck,” he says wi
th a playful wink.
I roll my eyes, trying not to think too hard about how soft his lips are.
“Good luck for you or good luck for me?”
A full-on grin. “For me, of course.”
I toss the die on the hood of the car. I come up with a three.
“Better start packing,” he says, looking like he just hit the jackpot.
Chapter Two
My best friend Skye has commandeered my closet and forbidden me to pack for myself. She said something under her breath about not wanting me to look like I got dragged out of bed in Vegas. There’s a pristine Louis Vuitton Keepall open on the foot of my bed that she’s letting me borrow (I guess, because I didn’t have any say in the matter). If left to my own devices, I’d probably just throw a packing cube in a backpack and be done with it.
She walks out with a few pairs of neatly folded jeans and puts them in the bag.
“You know I’m only going for a night, right?” I ask.
“Yes, but it’s a night in Vegas, Kendall. That’s like the equivalent of a week in other places; you never know what can happen.”
“What’s going to happen is that Jordan and I are gonna shoot his B-roll, have dinner, and then we will retire to our separate rooms and return to LA the next morning.”
Skye hums in reply, sarcastically mocking my plans.
She heads back into the closet and returns with a couple of pairs of my best heels, which haven’t seen daylight in ages. She delicately places them in shoe bags that she must’ve conjured out of thin air and tucks them in the duffle.
“You’re really going overboard here.”
“Vegas is overboard. Trust me, you’re gonna thank me when you get back.” Well, that has a tone to it that has me slightly nervous.
I look down at my laptop and skim the email that I’ve been attempting to answer since she barged in and took control of the situation. “Doubt it,” I tease.
The Lucky Ones Page 1
