Lucky Bastard Read Free

onto the dealership’s Parts and Service counter and now sat, hands tucked under our thighs, feet swinging. My thoughts whirled as I concentrated on my alternating white ankles and studiously avoided looking at anything else. My feet, which protruded from the ends of my purple flannel pajama pants, were tucked warmly into fuzzy slippers. A departure from my normal vice president costume, but at this god-forsaken time of morning it was all I could muster. I was particularly proud of the faded UNLV tee shirt that rounded out my ensemble—a Vegas fashionista to the end.
    The whir of the motor turning the Ferrari’s dais and the imagined drip of blood mingled with the distant echoes of fun and frivolity leaking in from the casino beyond the closed doors, thankfully keeping silence at bay.
    Quiet would have been way too creepy.
    Unable to resist the draw of the macabre, I cast a furtive glance at the girl’s body as if half expecting her to push herself to a seated position, remove the shoe from her neck, and laugh at a really great practical joke.
    But she didn’t.
    “Do you normally sleep in flannel pajamas?” Dane’s voice sliced like a knife through my carefully constructed calm.
    I flinched, then shot him a sideways glare. “Why would you care?” I snapped. “We resolved that issue, as I recall.”
    “Not entirely to my satisfaction.” He gave me one of his famous grins although it lacked its normal wattage. Still it seemed out of character, not to mention out of place and inappropriate.
    Too antsy to sit any longer, I hopped down from my perch and turned to face him. “I’ll have you know there are numerous factors that influence what I sleep in.” Hands on my hips, I paused and looked at him. A smirk lifted one corner of his mouth. Smirking was not on my list of acceptable responses. “Why are we talking about this? It seems…irreverent or something. Not to mention that it’s none of your business what I sleep in or who I sleep with.” Now where had that come from?
    “You don’t have to rub it in.” Dane eased himself to feet. “But somehow talking about something normal…”
    I knew what he meant, comfort in the mundane. Not that my sex life was mundane, it was nonexistent, but that was another story. And not that Dane and I normally talked about it, but there had been a time, fairly recently in fact, when he’d been in the running.
    Standing in front of me, with a finger under my chin, he lifted my gaze to his. His eyes were dark, troubled. His expression serious. And he was way too close for comfort.
    While I was wise to his charms, I wasn’t immune. I wanted to step back, but his hand on my arm held me.
    “Lucky,” he said, his voice shaking. “I’m going to need your help.”
    For a moment time stopped. The empty room crowded around us. I stared at my friend and for the first time truly saw.
    Red scratches on the side of his face—one deep enough to draw blood that had dried to a dark crust. A tortured look in his eyes. The stern slash of his mouth. The slight tremor to his hand as he quickly stuffed it into the front pocket of his jeans.
    The touch of his skin on mine was unexpectedly cool.
    Oh God, what had he done?
    We both jumped as my former lover Teddie’s voice shattered the silence singing “Lucky for Me.” My phone! Dang! And why had I chosen that song as my ringtone? It skewered my heart every time I heard it.
    The jump-start surge of adrenaline pegged my heart rate. My hand closed over the offending device, jerking it from my pocket. I shot Dane what I thought might resemble a rueful look. “Self-flagellation.” I flipped the thing open. “What?”
    “Lucky?” The delicious French intonation, the voice as smooth and rich as a homemade hollandaise, could only belong to one person: Jean-Charles, our new chef and, if he had his way, the new man in my life. But once burned, twice shy, I was riding the brakes. “I am thinking you are not sleeping,” he continued. “I did