Get Lucky (8 page)

Stacy reaches into her enormous tote bag for something. She stops talking to Mike, fishes around, and then comes up with—

“Holy shit,” Stacy cries, pulling out my purse. It is definitely mine; hard to find a vinyl number in that particular shade of hot pink. Her eyes go wide. “I forgot I had this. I found it in the boys’ hotel suite this morning, and you weren’t there, and—shit. I was going to find you after breakfast, but everything started happening and . . . . I’m so sorry. You must’ve been frantic,” she says, turning back to me.

I practically tear it out of her hands. I check my important things, and they’re all there. Credit cards, driver’s license, everything.

“I didn’t know how I was going to get on the plane without my ID.” I groan, squeezing the damn purse to my chest. “I love you, Stacy. Long time. Very long time.”

“Careful now, it’s my wedding day.” Stacy laughs. I turn back to Nate, who’s eyeing my purse with curiosity.

“You think there’s anything in there? Related to what we did last night?” he asks.

Oh shit. Maybe.

“You coming?” Stacy calls, grinning widely at us as they all cram into a cab. I smile and shrug.

“We’ll, ah, catch up with you all back at the hotel.”

“Have fun,” Shanna calls, wiggling her eyebrows.

Yep. We’ll have a ton of fun tracking down whatever insane shit we did last night. A regular Nick and Nora Charles, that’s us. Except without the insane amount of drinking and the murder mystery. Well. Without one of those things. Hopefully.

While the taxi drives away, we dig through my purse. At first we find only the normal stuff, wallet, lip gloss. At least I don’t have to carry my iPhone in my pocket any longer. I dump it in with the other items.

“What’s this?” Nate asks, finally noticing my phone and its blue, British telephone box casing.

“The TARDIS. Remember, like the one on my ass now?” I grumble. “If only you were a Whovian,” I tell him, continuing to paw through my things.

“A whatvian?”

“Who, not what. I mentioned it before, it’s a show—” And then I stop dead. Because in my hand, there’s a ball of gauzy white fabric.

Nate furrows his brow and grabs it, holds it up like he’s examining it.

“Why do you have Stacy’s bridal veil?” he asks, puzzling over it. But my heart’s now wedged right in my throat. That makes breathing kind of awkward.

“Stacy’s veil was shorter. And had a tiara. Trust me, romance authors know one wedding veil from the other.”

Is it just me, or is the desert rippling in front of my eyes right now? I expect a mirage any second, a neon sign with flashing lights shimmering, spelling out YOU’RE SCREWED in bold lettering.

“So whose is it?” Nate asks. He’s sounding a little panicked as well; I think he’s putting two and two together.

“Hang on.” I turn on my phone and flip through my photos. I don’t know why I didn’t think to do this before, but I don’t have to look very far.

There we are, sloppily drunk and grinning, with our arms around each other. My veil is hanging kind of askew on my head, and my lipstick is smeared all the way down my cheek. And all over Nate’s face as well. But there’s no mistaking the Elvis Presley impersonator standing behind us, holding up two gold wedding rings and grinning that lopsided King grin.

It can’t. It can’t be.

“Did we get . . . ” Nate chokes on the last word, then manages it. “Married?”

We gaze into each other’s eyes, horror seeming to flood both of us at the exact same time. Good thing, too, because if one was super excited and the other was about to vomit all over everything, it’d be kind of awkward.

“What do we do now?” I whisper.

“We need to stay calm.” He switches right into Lawyer Mode™ and puts his hands on my shoulders. Like I’m the one who needs to be soothed right now. “Do you remember what chapel it was?”

Before I can answer that, a white van pulls up directly in front of us, sending a cloud of dust swirling into the air. We both blink at it, neither knowing what to do when the door slides open and three guys in black balaclavas jump out.

Yes. Three guys in balaclavas. I don’t believe it at first, either.

Between the face coverings and the all black clothing, for a second I think a ninja dance party is going to break out. Until one of them rolls across the sand, distracting us, and the other two grab us. One guy pins my arms to my sides, the other seems to put Nate in a headlock. I cry out in horror, kicking backwards, but it’s no use. They drag me toward the van. I start screaming, but a thick, beefy hand covers my mouth.

“What the fuck?” Nate shouts. One of the men walks up to us, his eyes—the only thing I can see of his face—narrowed and calculating.

“You’re coming with us, meester!” he hisses in a thick Russian accent. Then a bag goes over my head, and the sunlit desert gets turned out like a light.

In conclusion:
Fuck Vegas. Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck Vegas in its glittery ass.

I
need to stay calm
.

Those five words keep repeating over and over in my mind. Julia isn’t shrieking about this any longer, so the quiet has helped me think. I had no idea what lung power she had. There was a good five minutes after they first put us into the van where she screamed something about sparkling ball sacks and dildos without Vaseline shoved into sensitive areas. While I’m not sure I appreciate the imagery, I know she has spirit. I admire that, but she should have realized when the fight became hopeless. As soon as they had us bound, I knew there was no way, in that moment, to fight back. Not without my hands free and my eyes uncovered.

This isn’t to say I’m giving up. Far from it. It just became very clear very quickly that I either wait until they pull the sacks off our heads—by which time it may be too late—or I manage to slip out of my bonds. And since my hands are tied with rope, not handcuffs or plastic zips, I think I have a solid chance.

While I test the knots, I keep asking myself:
What did you do, asshole? What did you do last night to cause this?

Around me, the men keep speaking in very, very thick Russian accents.

Shit. If they’re working for the Russian mafia, the police will never find our bodies.

No, fuck asking what
I
did. What did Julia do last night? Steal their money? Crash their car? Punch one of them in the face? Because I know I would never be drunk enough to get into trouble with the goddamn Russian mob. Even I’m not that much of an idiot.

Julia, though? She’s spirited as hell, but that can be a serious problem sometimes.

“You, fancy man.” I think the goon is talking to me. “Take woman. She kick,” the asshole says, and sits Julia on my lap.

“I’ll kick like a mule, you Moscow piece of shit,” she snaps. After a minute, “Get it? Moscow mule?” She laughs; no one else does. “Christ I could use a drink about now.”

“Maybe shut up for a while,” I whisper in her ear. I can’t see her—that seems to be a continuing theme in our quasi relationship—but I can feel her. Her round, perfect ass is pressed up right against me, hardening my dick.

Fuck, I’m about to get my head blasted off by Russian mobsters, and it’s all I can do to keep my erection from—

“I just wanted to tell you,” Julia mutters. “You’ve either got the barrel of a gun clamped between your legs, or you’re very happy to see me.”

“Hilarious,” I say.

“Personally, I’d be very happy to see the barrel of a gun right now, at least one that’s on our side, so I can’t fault you there.” She sounds a little high-pitched. She’s probably freaking the fuck out. And why shouldn’t she?

“Out of curiosity, did we cross any mobsters last night?” I ask.

“Right after the strip club fucking, right before the skinny dipping, and maybe sandwiched in the middle of our blackout drunk quickie wedding? Gee, let me check my calendar, I’m sure I’ll find it wedged right in there,” Julia snaps.

I give her a little bounce on my knee. That’s sexier than I thought it would be and . . . fuck, I’m hard again.

“You two are strangest hostages we ever have,” one of the mobsters says.

“Where the fuck are you taking us?” I snap. The guy says nothing, but, wonder of wonders, I start to work a hand free. Fuck me, yes. It’s not much, but if I need to, I can untie myself.

For the moment, I sit tight. This is the one element of surprise I have, and I’ll be damned if I give it up too soon.

Julia lies back against me, her head finally cradled against my shoulder. “I suppose we should be a little more helpful to each other right now,” she says.

Helpful’s good. Helpful will probably not get us killed. Her lying against me now, it’s comforting. I shouldn’t have been thinking about how she clearly must have made this happen. I don’t remember much of last night any better than she does. Apparently I can be incredibly impulsive when I have a few too many drinks in me.

“I’m sorry I implied this was all your fault,” I mutter. “For all we know, I’m the one who landed us in this situation.”

“Thanks, Mr. Wexler. Nice to know you’re not a complete dick,” she drawls.

Give some people an inch, man.

We ride in silence, until, finally, the van stops. My heart starts pounding, adrenaline coursing through my veins. This is it. I hope to God they take the hoods off, because otherwise this is going to be fucking impossible.

I hear the van door slide open, and two of the men talk to each other. Julia is pulled out of my lap. She gives a yelp, like she’s in pain, and instantly I want to rip people’s heads off. I rise to my feet, banging my head on top of the van roof. Cursing, I snarl at them.

“Where are you taking her? Are you all right? Julia?” I call. She doesn’t answer. Oh, shit. “Julia?”

“Calm down, hero man. We take you see her now,” one of the men says, strong-arming me out of the van.

I’m tempted to pull right out of my fucking ropes and give them a surprise, but not yet.

Wait. You’ll know when the moment presents itself, Wexler.

My feet hit the ground, and I can feel the sun on my back. The men shove me forward at least ten paces until they finally force me to stop. Then one of these jackasses rips the sack from off my head, and I’m left blinking in the light.

Around us, there’s only desert. Red mountains in the distance bake in the hot sunlight. The highway that stretches before us is dead. We’re alone. The wind whistles by, and it’s so quiet I can hear the blood working in my ears.

Julia’s standing right next to me, her blue eyes the widest I’ve seen them. That’s pretty damn wide. She glances over at me.

“Did they hurt you?” I ask her. It comes out as more of a growl. Despite the playing it cool game, if any of these fuckers tried anything—

“I’m awesome. As always,” she says, scanning the four—no, five—balaclava-wearing assholes surrounding us.

Impressive. With her purple lace bras and
Doctor Who
phones, at first I’d have pegged Julia as the type to curl up into a ball and plead for mercy from these scumbags. Instead, she’s facing them down with a look of steely resolve. I like a woman with backbone, and I’ve never seen more nerve than this.

I don’t need another hard-on right now.

“All right,” the biggest, burliest masked asshole says. He takes out a Glock and points it at us. “What you have to say for yourselves?”

Now is not the time to freeze. My heart pounding in my throat, I feel the last tightness in the ropes around my wrists falling away. So close. If I can get the gun away from him . . . . It’s not impossible. Just another minute . . . .

“Let’s start with, what the hell are we doing out here, you crazy pieces of shit?” Julia snaps. She actually stomps her foot.

Christ. Keep calm. Don’t antagonize the man with the fucking gun.

The Russian human tank laughs. I mean he guffaws, actually tilting his head back towards the sky. Overconfident ass. “Puny woman think we crazy,” he tells his friends, who start laughing and knee-slapping right along. Good. Show contempt for your hostages. “But perhaps it is puny woman who go crazy. When my men and I each take a turn.”

Fuck. Every hair on my body raises up. The adrenaline is making the corners of my vision turn sharp and bright.

I will make you eat that gun, motherfucker.
I need a minute to prepare, let the rope fall, and then—

“Fuck you!” Julia screams. She dashes forward, hands still tied behind her back, and stomps her wedge sandaled heel hard onto the asshole’s foot. She gets him right in the instep, a confident move. He curses, but before he can blast her she high kicks straight into his crotch. The guy’s eyes seem to bug right out of his sockets, and . . . he drops the gun.

Julia, you crazy fucking genius.

“Girl loose,” one of the thugs shouts. It’s the one standing right next to me, and I turn around, my hands now free.

“She is,” I say, in full agreement. Then I punch the dickhead right in the face. My knuckles immediately explode in pain, and I swear I feel blood running down my fingers, but hopefully nothing is broken. I duck and dodge the attackers, rolling in the dirt to grab the gun while Julia continues kicking the shit out of the biggest guy’s side.

There I am, with a gun in my hands. It’s like I snap back to sanity. What the fuck am I doing? I don’t even know how to use one of these goddamn things.

“Hold it on him!” Julia shouts, dodging around the guy and circling back behind me. She grunts as she struggles to get out of the rope tied around her wrists. So I hold up the damn gun and aim it at the mobster’s chest.

“Don’t fucking move,” I tell the guy on the ground. “Now. What the hell is going on?”

The dude sits up, groaning and rubbing his head. Then he says, in a perfectly normal American accent, “The fuck is wrong with you people? Jesus, I think I got a lump the size of a goddamn egg.” He moans and winces as he touches the side of his scalp. He then glares up at Julia and me. “You maniacs shouldn’t be allowed to drive a car, let alone hire people for role play!”

“Hold on,” I say, blinking rapidly and bringing down the gun. “We hired you? Role play? What?”

Have I lost what precious little of my mind I still have?

“Are you kidding me with this?” the guy says, looking over to the others in amazement.

I watch as they each pull their balaclavas off, shooting Julia and me sullen, dirty looks. They seem like completely normal guys, with patchy beards, pale skin, and slight double chins. It’s like the cast of
The Office
suddenly decided to go into the kidnapping business.

“What are you talking about?” I repeat, still stunned.

“Check out your gun, genius,” the guy on the ground snaps. “That thing look real to you?”

Now that he mentions it, the gun does feel a little lightweight. I point it away, and pull the trigger. Nothing. A few plastic clicks. Christ, it’s a toy.

“I’m sorry, I’m still not following. We hired you to do what exactly?” Julia snaps. One of the guys comes forward with a piece of paper.

“We’re an adventure role-play company. You know?” He rolls his eyes. “Your own Indiana Jones adventure? Actually, you didn’t want the treasure cave adventure; you guys chose the kidnapping and desert escape. Remember?” Our obliviousness makes this guy snort. “Jesus, you guys came into our office at like, one in the morning.”

“You’re open at one?” I say, incredulous.

The guy shrugs. “Some people like nighttime adventures. You know, night vision goggles and shit? Anyway, you came in and ordered a deluxe package for this afternoon. Remember? We added our stalker app to your phone just to know where you’d be so we could show up when you least expected. Holy shit, you don’t remember any of this?” The guy sounds disgusted. “How drunk were you two?”

The guy hands over the sheet of paper. The guy I punched is rubbing his nose, and I think he might be crying. Shit. This could be a lawsuit.

Julia takes the paper first, looks it over, then passes it to me with an expression that can only be described as nauseated and bemused. “Check it out,” she says.

I look and, yep, that’s my credit card number. Fucking fantastic.

“We were really bombed last night,” Julia tells the man by way of apology as he snatches the paper back. “Like, really bombed. Actually, do you happen to remember where we went after we left your office? Were you there?”

“You people are insane,” the man snaps.

Well, no argument there.

He whistles, and the other men jump back into the van. He gets into the front seat while the driver guns the engine. The van door slams shut.

Oh, fuck me.

“Hold on, you can’t leave us out here. It’s the middle of nowhere!” I shout as I run to the van and start banging on the side.

The tires squeal, and I jump out of the way just in time to watch the van tear back onto the highway, kicking up gravel in its wake. A cloud of dust engulfs me, and I cough and wipe my eyes. When the cloud clears, the van is driving fast down the highway, getting smaller by the second.

Now we’re alone. Me, Julia, her impractical wedge sandals, and . . . yep. I hold up my phone and walk around. Zero bars on my cell. It takes all my self-control to keep from throwing the damn phone to the ground and jumping up and down on it.

“This,” I say, stalking to the side of the road, my teeth gritted, “could have been handled better.”

“My, how observant you are,” Julia deadpans. She groans and picks up her left foot. “Great, I think I’m getting a blister.”

“I’m going to have their asses in a sling,” I mutter, starting to walk toward town. At least, I hope to God this is toward town. “Litigation wise, that is.”

“Yeah, I think they could maybe charge us with assault. Not that I’m a lawyer or anything,” Julia says, slinging her purse up to her shoulder and hiking alongside me. She coughs as a cloud of dust washes over us, and she spits a piece of hair out of her mouth.

Even watching that is starting to turn me on.

I’m losing my mind.

“What now?” she asks, and we halt to let a tumbleweed pass. A goddamn tumbleweed. I swear, if this turns into some animated cartoon with comically placed buffalo skulls and vultures circling overhead . . . .

“Now we walk,” I say. Julia nods.

“Sounds about right.”

We tromp along, side by side. She puts her arm through mine as we trudge along, and I don’t say anything. As bullshit as this whole day has been, her arm in mine feels sort of nice.