Chasing Luck (2 page)

“
M
y attraction
to you runs fiery hot. It consumes my every waking thought. I burn for you, baby. Don’t stop this attraction, baby.” ~ Jelly Bean Queen

T
he text
from John Toombs directs me to a table near the center of the main room. I enter and can't believe my mixture of good and bad luck. Good because Ms. Smokin' Hot is with Toombs. And bad because Ms. Smokin' Hot is with Toombs.

He looks up at me and nods as he rises. I lean across to shake his hand and I can smell the girl. Something subtle like stuff from the bath shops. A sweet, vanilla scent advertising innocence.

But she can't be innocent hooked up with somebody old enough to be her father. He has money and she's too young to be whoring herself out. My stomach clenches at the thought of them together in bed.

"Ace, I'd like to introduce my niece, Malerie." Toombs waves a hand in her direction.

The scales definitely tip in the direction of bad news. She's not his trophy wife or barely-legal mistress. She’s his niece — the number one spot on the dateable-but-off-limits list. The girl looks at me and her gaze makes a slow run down the length of my body. I'm beyond screwed. Goodbye Miss Innocent, hello Miss Seductress.

The air sparks between us and her eyes say she feels the electricity, too. "Hi, Malerie. Nice to meet you," I say, wishing she'd given me this look earlier instead of the one like I was some psycho perv who hangs out near restrooms.

Malerie has an exotic look that I can't place. Her honey-brown eyes, huge in her pale face, remind me of some hot anime character with bottomless eyes and dangerous curves. The chick probably has guys lining up to take on her rockin' body and the attached load of money.

I tear my gaze away from her and meet the Clint Eastwood glare of John Toombs. With one look, Toombs gives me the hell-no warning. It's a warning that rubs me like running a hand against the fur up a cat's back. I don't like it, but I'm not stupid.

I can almost hear the
whomp
-
whomp
of his protective radar. If I were him, I'd bar the door and clean the rifle.

"Have a seat," Toombs says.

I pull out the chair closest to Malerie and avoid looking in her direction. The way she looked at me in front of her uncle spells defiance on steroids.

I put the envelope I've been carrying on my plate, take my phone from my jean pocket and roll it in one hand to relax my nerves. The wooden chair is uncomfortable and far too close to Malerie's. Why do all the swanky restaurants have such crappy chairs?

"I have the estimates for you." I move the large manila envelope across the table. "If you decide on the security setup, I can start next week."

Toombs slides the envelope to the spot in front of the empty place setting to his left.

"I'll look at the estimates later. It's Malerie's birthday. You're here in time for cake." JT motions to Malerie. "Cut a slice for Ace."

"No, thanks." I shift in my chair. "I didn't think I'd be interrupting. We can do this another time. Tomorrow?"

"Cake, Malerie," JT says.

The pink birthday cake sits in the middle of the table with candles circling the top. I'm tempted to count candles and rule out Malerie as jailbait, a stupid thought kicking me into a grimace. Malerie cuts a slice before I can stop her.

"Coffee?" JT looks at me expectantly. He lifts a finger to the waiter, who runs over. "Another dessert plate and coffee, please," he says. It doesn't take the waiter long to return with the items. Malerie slides the cake slice onto the plate.

People jump when JT talks—the waiter, the niece, probably the Pope.

"You're new in your business, but I believe in giving start-ups a chance. I have a friend from the small business bureau, and she's recommended you. She said you think big. What are your plans? Your goals?" JT leans back and folds his arms across his chest. "Eat some cake."

I push the coffee and cake forward out of reach. I'm not here to attend a birthday party. "My goals? Make money, build my business."

He's silent like he's waiting for the rest.

"Sir, if you want my references, I can get those to you. I brought you a quote on equipment, service, estimate of time, monitoring options, and support. Your current system is outdated—"

"That's what I asked you to provide. But I'd also like to hear about you. I'm letting you into my home." He makes a point to look at Malerie. "You'll have the security codes. You'll be doing routine checks on my system." He takes a bite of cake and waves his fork at me. "How do I know I can trust you? I need details about your background."

"Sir, no disrespect, but I don't feel it's necessary that you have knowledge about me personally. I'm bonded and I have references. My work is good."

"Good," Toombs repeats. "I've been told your work is excellent, or I wouldn't consider you." He's looking at me like I'm a thousand-piece puzzle to solve. "You're younger than I expected. Do you have family here in St. Louis? And I'm wondering why you chose to start a business instead of furthering your education."

One minute I think I can handle the questions and then I can't. You don't ask personal questions about contractors. Toombs isn't going to give me this job.

"It was nice to meet you, but I have another appointment." Lame excuse, but it'll cut this short. "Thank you for your time. I'll follow up with an email." I'm on my feet and catch the expression on the girl's face. This cements my earlier suspicion that people jump through every control-happy hoop this guy puts out. She does — her raised eyebrows and wide eyes are a giveaway. And there's something else in the way she's pressing her lips together to stop the smile. Admiration?

"Ace, sit down. No need to get offended," Toombs says, giving a quick, exasperated headshake.

"No, sir. I'm sorry. It's not going to work. Thanks for the opportunity. You should get back to your celebration." I have a problem with people knowing about my personal life. You can't judge when you haven't lived my life. I've been knocked down five feet for every inch I pull myself up this shaky ladder.

I take two steps away and stop to look at Malerie. "Happy birthday."

My temper's always gotten the best of me, and I regret stepping away from the table like a starving man regrets passing up a five-course meal. Starting a small business is tough. This job is the kind that could get me connections. Connections to clients who would bring in the bucks. A portfolio. A dent in my mounting debt.

I walk through Alessandro's Restaurant and the hostess watches my every move. She's an unnatural redhead from a bottle, wearing too much makeup and a barely-there skirt. People like Toombs would only see that her smile says she needs an orthodontist. He wouldn't see that her customer-friendly smile is the real deal.

The hostess glances at the table I've left, probably wondering how I'm associated with Toombs. Is Toombs watching me leave? Or has he already dismissed me as a minor glitch in his day?

Toombs figures the outside matches the inside. He took one look at my age and lack of a suit, and bingo—he thinks he has me figured out. He thinks he needs to dissect my background because he's wavering on trust and watching me scope out his niece.

I pass the corridor to the restrooms and remember the incident earlier. Malerie was shaken and pissed—like I'd done something more than stand in the wrong place. Her face said it was more than embarrassment. The girl had freaked. She wanted to crawl up the wall to get my hand off her.

Maybe Toombs has a reason to worry about who he hires.

It's good I'm getting far away from a girl I can't stop thinking about already.

I shove through the restaurant's front door and my cell buzzes. I pull the phone out of my pocket and there's a text from Mike, a guy from the old days who won't leave me alone. He thinks I'm stupidly desperate for money. I might have to change my number.

The small parking lot is packed with cars. I thread my way through the lot and notice a guy leaning against the building. His gaze follows me all the way to my truck, where I dig into my pocket for keys.

My gut tells me when someone is bluffing in poker. And my gut tells me now that the guy at the restaurant entrance is waiting for me to leave.

The guy is antsy. He moves from foot to foot and appears to be tweaking. I've seen the signs too many times. Plenty of meth-heads around who get so high they forget to stay out of sight. The restaurant will call the law on him before long.

Maybe I should tell the hostess about Mr. Twitchy.

My phone rings and I look at the display to see an incoming call instead of a text. I dig again in my pockets and scan the ground to see if I've dropped my keys.

"Hello." I lean back against my truck.

"Achilles, is that you?" Mrs. Prata's shaky voice sounds unsure. "It's me. Your neighbor from downstairs."

Once when I was out of town, she collected my mail and saw my real name. She said it was powerful, so I went from being Ace to Achilles.

"Yes, ma'am. I know who it is." I grin because she always begins this way. "Is everything all right?"

"Oh. I didn't mean to alarm you. Of course, everything is fine."

The silence stretches on the line. I try not to sigh, try not to hurry her.

"Are you still there?" she asks.

"Sorry. Still here." I grasp for a reason behind the call. "I'm headed home. Did you need something from the store?"

"Yes. How did you know?"

"I'm a good guesser. What do you need?"

"Flour. I'm out of flour. Self-rising, please. But not an expensive brand. And I'll make you some fried pies."

"You don't have to—"

"And be careful coming home. I'm not in a hurry. No speeding."

"Never."

"Goodbye then." She hangs up without waiting for my response.

I shove my hand in my pocket one more time, which is stupid since I've searched it twice. Keys. I had my keys earlier when the girl ran into me by the men's room. Had I pulled them out of my pocket with my phone?

Retracing my steps to the front door, I check the ground. The tweaking guy is gone. It doesn't take a criminal science degree to realize the dude is a time bomb waiting to explode.

“
I
’d kill for you
. You in your party dress. I’d make a deal with the devil for you. My love makes me crazy.” ~ Jelly Bean Queen

"
I
've dreaded
this day would come." JT's voice projects such a serious emotion that it startles me. He reaches down for the birthday gift and his knuckles gleam a white-hot grip on the handles. "Eighteen is far too young for such responsibility. I wish I could protect you forever. But we have to prepare for the future."

I scrunch my eyebrows and give him a half-hearted smile. “Hey. Are you getting all sappy on me?" The cute kid at the next table is turned completely around watching me and pointing at my present. Her mom scolds her, and I smile before the kid turns away. "Can I open it?"

He hesitates and his sad smile reaches across the table to trap my breath. "It's time—"

Crashing noises from the front of the restaurant rise to rock concert level. Every head turns. A choking sensation grabs me by the throat, imaginary fingers closing on my windpipe.

I fight the pressing panic, so familiar after all these years.

Calm down. Calm down. Calm down.
Irrational, screeching voices bleed into my brain. I attempt to find my happy place—my alternative rock fav’s jamming out, my podcast co-host chatting, anything but the noises here…

"You stupid bitch! You think you're better than me." A gruff man's voice, rage grinding through each word, makes my stomach churn. The restaurant's become a reality show nightmare.

The happy-place visual isn’t working. I look around for a place to run, to hide, to escape.

JT puts a hand on my arm, steadying me. "Malerie, don't move."

A popping noise rattles my ears. It's a like a car backfiring—which doesn't seem right inside the restaurant. Screams pierce the air. Dishes clang. Glasses crash.

JT half-rises in what seems to be slow motion—a push of the chair, a turn toward the restaurant entrance, a lurch away from me.

His chair tips backward—suspends for a moment like a time-lapse frame—then hits the cement floor and pops. The splintering sound of wood against concrete.

I squeak, startled by his movement. An elephant-sized squeeze inside my chest makes it impossible to breathe. If I don't get out, my heart threatens to spontaneously combust.

JT's gaze meets mine. His mouth opens and his lips move. There’s an indecipherable message in his eyes, intense and frantic.

Barely registering the screams of people in the restaurant, I focus on the red bloom marring JT's white shirt—an extra-white, extra-pressed, extra-stuffy shirt—now ruined. The cleaners will never get that red out.

The maroon spot grows in a larger and larger and larger circle, spiraling outward. The knowledge that it's a gunshot wound smacks me back into reality, knocking me all the way to my wobbly knees.

A hand grabs my upper arm and pulls me down and off-balance. My knees hit the floor and a sharp pain shoots through my legs and up my back. My teeth slam together and I taste blood. I swallow and suck down air.

Someone falls onto the table edge and tips it. Dishes shatter onto the floor, and send shards of porcelain flying.

I have to help JT.

I scramble a few inches on hands and knees, past the gift bag. He's a few feet from me, swimming in a pool of red.

I stare into his eyes, open and staring back at me. Unblinking. Unfocused. Unseeing.

No tears when they told me my mother didn't survive the bombing. No tears when I left the hospital with an uncle I’d never met. No tears during the years of nightmares. But seeing JT, my eyes fill with tears.

"Hey, Malerie." I think someone calls my name. But there’s too much screaming and crying…

Another shot. A wine bottle and a candle roll on the floor beside my hand.

Someone grabs my hand and yanks me. I fall flat. Turning my head to the side, I see the guy from earlier. He’s appeared from nowhere. Pushing up on my elbow, I struggle and pull from the grip that holds my opposite hand.

"No." I stretch my free hand inches from JT's open palm. My fingers spider-walk along the concrete floor to grab traction and my body is pulled in an opposite direction.

Ace is kneeling with his hand on JT's neck. Where did he come from?

"Checked his pulse. He's dead. Back exit. Now." He yells to be heard above the screams.

"No." My throat throbs as if I've shredded my vocal chords. "You're lying. You're lying. You're lying."

"I said
now
. Move—move—move," he commands in the clipped tone of a drill sergeant.

I look up to see the glimmer of the tiny white lights strung fairy-tale style above my head. The surreal halo of light around Ace's head catches my attention for a quick second before the police siren distracts me. I grab for the handles of the brown birthday bag that lay underneath the tablecloth. Grab for a piece of my life.

I look at JT’s face. My stomach twists and panic rides down my spine.

Ace yells, "Leave it."

I try again to grab it. JT brought it for me. He wants to watch me open it.

But that's silly because I know JT is dead. I know.

Someone pulls me to my feet. It's him again. Ace.

The shouting increases and the gunman appears, moving forward with his weapon pointed at the restaurant hostess. She sobs, and her red curls bob like Slinkys.

"T-Tim. Tim. Stop. You don't want to do this. You'll hurt someone," the redhead sputters.

You'll hurt someone?
This monster has already taken away the person I love most in the world. The person who saved me so many years ago.

Bitter bile rises in the back of my throat.

The person who helped me survive.

"Everyone freeze or I'll kill her." The man's eyes dart around. "And you'll watch me kill another and another. Do you hear me?"

A child cries. I move my head one inch, two inches, three inches—everything seems to exist in a world of time-lapse photography. A girl, four, maybe five, years old, stands with both arms wrapped in a tight grip around her mother's legs. Her screams pierce like microphone feedback.

I close my eyes, a memory imprinted on my heart. My mother. My screams. My terror.
Mama, help me. I'm scared.

I've lost everything. But the little girl next to me still has her mother.

I buck, freeing my hand from Ace. I wobble to my feet and lunge forward, my feet falling into steps I can't stop.

The lunatic with the gun dances to grab the hostess and snakes his arm around her neck. He taps the gun against her head and she cries harder. He points the gun at me. "What's wrong with you? I told you not to move. I will…"

I follow the line of his eyes and see what he sees.

JT lies on the floor with his mouth open in a perpetual gape.

A heavy thump echoes off the walls and distracts the man. I run between tables, for him. The gunman shoots twice, throwing the restaurant hostess to the side.

A terrible burning sensation erupts in my left shoulder.

I'm suddenly thinking of the candles on the cake.

No more birthdays with JT.

I reach the gunman in an instant and my hand shoots forward, palm aiming for the man's face. The heel of my hand moves in a perfect, upward thrust to ram his nose cartilage directly into his sinus area. Exactly like JT taught me for self-defense.

A satisfying crimson spray of liquid squirts out and covers my face and arm. I want to run into him again, but the murderer's screaming and falling backward.

"Police. Freeze."

The voice comes from far away. My vision is closing in; a black outline frays the edges. My hearing is fading. Everyone sounds so far away. My mind is a black hole that threatens to fold in and disappear.

I hear Ace's voice near my ear. My knees buckle. "She's been shot."

The floor comes up to meet me. There's blood and my hands slide forward, banging my elbows against the cool, hard tile. If I could put my head down for a second, I might be able to catch my breath.

My head is fuzzy. Sounds are all around me and I want to think, to move, to do something to help JT.

Because he cannot be dead.

I open my eyes and see Ace leaning over me. The lights form a white halo over his head for a second time tonight. He's angelic in that moment. Dark, ocean-blue eyes. Stormy blue. He places a hand high on my chest and presses.

"You're going to be all right. Hang on.” He looks up, a flash of fear on his face.

He's still pressing on my chest. Harder now. Why is he pressing on me?

I can't breathe. But it doesn't matter. I want my gift from JT. Somewhere in the darkest recess of my mind, I know this is stupid. And in another part of my brain that's struggling to remain in the moment—conscious—I think I knew this would happen.

Lucky girl, they'd say. Right. Lucky people don't lose the people they love. Lucky people don't walk around waiting for the next horrible thing to happen. I'd rather not be so lucky. I cause people to die.

Ace is shaking his head. "You'll be okay. You're going to make it. Hang on."

I focus on his eyes and they steady me.

"Please don't leave," I whisper. "Don't leave me to die alone."

He shakes his head. "Not gonna die."

And then I close my eyes.

The voices above my head talk like I can't hear them. "You with this lady?"

Another voice. "She was crazy to attack him." I feel my body being rolled on the gurney. Hands on each side of me move the gurney up and I think about protesting that it hurts a little. Only a little. I don't mind if it hurts.

I think about the fireman with the gray eyes who took me from the rubble in what seems a different life. My other life. Before JT.

"I want to ride with her," a deep voice says. I attempt to open my eyes to locate the voice, but my lids are heavy as cement.

I feel a prick in my arm and a warm sensation moving through my veins. I’m shaking hard, my teeth clicking together and telegraphing my body's lack of control. The warmth spreads through my body in a liquid massage.

I open one eye lazily. "Are you taking me to the morgue? You know, I've been dead before. Dead. But the man with the gray eyes brought me back."

Mr. Blue Eyes—and that's all I can think to call him, because I've forgotten his name—isn't in the ambulance with us. I look at the paramedic who sits in the back of the ambulance. He ignores my question.

"Don't try to talk," the paramedic says.

"My birthday present." Why doesn’t he help me? "My birthday bag?"

The paramedic looks at me and shakes his head. "I don't know what you're talking about. Your husband is in the front. He probably has it. Don't worry."

"My husband? I want to be cremated. Don't put me in a coffin. No coffin." I move my fingers, thinking I'll touch him, but I can't move my hand.

"I’m talking to you!” I say it louder this time. My voice sounds like I’m inside a barrel. "I said cremated. Not buried. My mom…" I trail off, too tired to finish and not even sure what I'm going to say.

The paramedic doesn’t answer. He's moving away toward the doors of the ambulance.

I close my eyes and see the inside of an elevator. An explosion rocks my body. People scream and shove and sob. A burning smell in the air. The heavy weight of bodies crushes me.

I blink, and I'm back in the ambulance. The doors open. Both paramedics move me to the ground.

"Is she going to be okay?" It's Ace. That's his name. Ace. He hovers at my side.

"Move back, sir. Please, out of the way." The paramedic blocks my view of Ace. I'm frantic now and reach my hand toward him. Fingers grasp mine for an instant before I'm wheeled inside.

I close my eyes and I'm back to the place from before. Before the firefighters found me. Before the smell suffocated me. Before the thirst numbed me. After I wished for death.