Getting Lucky (The Marilyns) (2 page)

“Know you are, but what am I?” His bland expression was quite a contrast considering the fifth-grade taunt he’d just thrown at her.

If she hadn’t been so worried that he’d drop Lana, something she couldn’t afford to replace, she’d have clapped her hands over her ears and refused to listen.

“I’m holding the laptop hostage until you hear me out.” He closed the lid and held it to his chest. “A new reality show—”

“No—”

“I’m not finished. A new reality show with you and the girls.” Lightning fast, he held Lana by the corner with only his index finger and thumb. “Punching me will only result in damaging the computer.”

“Threatening my electronics, I didn’t know you had it in you.” Lucky sat on the edge of the bench, grabbed her cup, and slammed the rest of the Diet Coke. Beverage rebellion wasn’t going to win the war, but it was better than no rebellion at all. Apart from a powerful need to burp, she felt a tiny bit better. Just to be safe, she poised to catch poor Lana should he lose his grip.

“The network is drooling over the possibility of a new show. Just think, you could dictate the terms. Money, fame, anything you want.” Gently, he placed the laptop back on the table. “
Rock-My World’s
season finale was the highest-rated reality show ever. It’s gone viral on YouTube—”

“Glad to know my humiliation is so entertaining. Too bad YouTube wasn’t around for Joan of Arc. The world could have toasted virtual marshmallows while she burned at the stake.” Not that Lucky saw herself as Joan of Arc, but if matrimony had a martyr, she might just beat out Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis for the privilege.

Infidelity was bad enough, but infidelity in the time of smartphones was public. A moment’s indiscretion now spent a lifetime on Facebook. To make matters worse, a zealous “Rockie,” as the
Rock-My World
fans called themselves, had set up a Facebook page inviting anyone who’d slept with Ricky to post pictures of their time with him.

“So what’re you thinking—me,
her
, and the kids in some
Gene Simmons Family Jewels
meets
Sister Wives
kinda thing? Why don’t we open it up to all of Ricky’s one-night stands? We could have a
Rock-My World
commune full of free love, drunk teenagers, and Ricky Strickland memorial tee shirts. Just think of the merchandizing … all the smartphone apps. We could have one where people insert their photo next to Ricky in our bed … call it,
Have you banged my husband
? Or … we could have one of you stabbing me in the back." She pantomimed a Momma Bates. "Wait … we could create a game where Ricky tries to sneak girls into my house—it would be like Angry Birds but with bimbos. He has to hurl them through the windows before I go all Shotgun Santa."

“Are you finished?” Will waited, nonplused.

She took a few seconds. “Yes.”

“You loved Ricky, I get that, but love wasn’t why you stayed married to him. You knew he wasn’t faithful. We discussed it many times.” Will’s tone was matter-of-fact. It really sucked that the only person she’d confided in was now using her past against her.

It was the children that hurt. She’d wanted to give them to Ricky, but her body hadn’t cooperated, so he’d found someone else who would ensure he didn’t end up as a stump on his family tree.

“You could ask for tens of millions … maybe even a hundred. Just one season—twenty-one episodes. And the show on your terms. You have all the bargaining power. It’s all up to you.” One side of his mouth turned up in a sardonic grin. “You have total control.”

“I can’t decide if you’re amazing or delusional. You’d sell ice to Eskimos and then make them believe they needed a commercial icemaker too. I know that bullshit was your livelihood as Ricky’s manager, but I didn’t know you’d elevated it to an art form.”

“So?” He crossed one foot over the opposite knee but kept both of his hands on her computer. “What do you think?”

She shook her head. “If I didn’t know for a fact that you have less of a sense of humor than George Stephanopoulos, I’d say you were punking me.” Slowly she placed her cup in the exact center of the table. “Did you really think I’d say yes?”

Will unfolded himself from the chair and stood. “No. I’m surprised you’ve listened to me this long.” He pulled a black Sharpie out of his back pocket and wrote a series of numbers across Lana’s cover.

Lucky’s mouth fell open, and her heart dropped to her stomach. Poor Lana, she’d cost Lucky a pair of Loubies, a vintage Chanel clutch, and some ruby earrings. “What are you doing?”

She grabbed for Lana as he turned the laptop to face her. “Here’s my new number. Call when you change your mind.”

“Satan will be hosting the Winter Olympics before that happens.” She ran a hand over Lana’s shiny silver top. Part of a zero looped onto her white Apple symbol. With so few possessions, every single one was special.

Will bent down and kissed her on the cheek. “Bye, Lucky, I’ll see you again soon.”

He turned on his Armani-clad feet and walked out the door.

Lucky grabbed up the napkins Will had used to clean his chair and started scrubbing her laptop case. Nothing. The marker had chemically bonded to Lana.

A loud clunk rocketed from the parking lot. Lucky rose and went to the window across from her. Stevie Nicks—her ’68 Camaro SS—was hitched to a tow truck and being led out of the parking lot like a dog on a leash.

The driver’s-side window of Will’s Maserati sedan glided down. He blew her a jaunty kiss and drove away.

Defacing Lana was one thing, but stealing Stevie Nicks along with all of Lucky’s possessions was another. She glanced back at her table. No purse. She’d grabbed the last of her cash out of it but had left it and her cell phone in the car.

She banged her forehead against the window glass a couple of times.

She was broke, homeless, and stuck at the Bee Cave McDonald’s. It was a sad state of affairs that this wasn't the worst day of her life. In fact, it wouldn't make the top fifty.

Will Brodie watched as the swarthy tow truck driver gently lowered the Camaro to the ground. He paid the man, got a receipt, and waved as the man drove down the mile-long driveway.

Will glanced at the cherry-red car. What had Lucky named this one? With her bad childhood, possessions had been few and far between, so she named the things she loved. Once she’d said that vintage American muscle cars, fancy clothes, and computers were the only things that made life worth living.

That reminded him. He pulled out his iPhone, touched the eBay app, and clicked pay now for the Manolo Blanik boots he’d finally won. It had been close—somebody in Wichita, Kansas, had kept outbidding him. Buying Lucky’s things had put a serious drain on his already meager finances, but it was the only way to take care of her. But no more. It was a crutch. He needed her at rock bottom so he could pick her up, brush her off, and help her make the life she should have had.

It was all he could do to keep from browsing her other auction items. The crutch went both ways—he wanted her to have her nice things, and one day, he’d give them all back to her.

“Uncle Will, did you get a new car?” Crushed granite crunched under the Mizuno running shoes of his eleven-year-old niece, Viviane. Right on the edge of womanhood, she was all long limbs and knobby knees. “Cool.”

“Want me to pop the hood?” He smiled.

Her brown eyes turned huge. “Really? Is she yours?”

Vivi accepted things at face value, loved basketball, and never backed down from a fight—in his book, that made her the perfect female. So many things about her reminded him of Lucky.

“No, she belongs to a friend of mine … well, Lucky.” He’d never sheltered his nieces, and he wasn’t going to start now. They knew their mother hadn’t been married to their father because he’d been married to someone else.

“Oh.” She took a step back and looked around like Lucky might materialize out of nowhere and snatch her up by the hair. “Is she here?”

“No. Want to see the engine?” Lucky had gotten Ricky into muscle cars, and he and his middle daughter had worked on them together.

“Is that a trick question?” She grinned.

He reached through the open driver’s window and pulled the hood release. “Just a heads up, Lucky will be here … soon.” He hoped. She was resourceful and sneaky and unpredictable, but she would be here, if only to murder him for touching her precious car. He smiled. Lucky was a survivor, and he admired the hell out of her.

“Oh my God. This is a 325-horsepower Turbo-Jet 396 V8.” Vivi was in love. “The porcupine cylinder heads improve engine breathing and combustion.”

She might as well have been speaking in tongues.

“What a beauty.” She leaned so far into the engine block that it looked like she might fall in. “Are we going to fix her up?”

“By ‘we’ I’m assuming you mean you and me.” The only reason he knew the difference between the steering wheel and the front wheel was that one was mounted inside the car and the other wasn’t. “No.”

“Turn her over.” She peeked out from the side of the hood. “I want to hear her purr.”

Will opened the driver’s door and slid behind the wheel. Lucky always kept an extra set of keys in the glove compartment. Reaching over to pop the latch, he noticed Lucky’s purse sitting on the floorboard. And right on top sat her iPhone. “Holy shit.”

Stranding her with no way of calling for help was definitely not the way to get what he wanted. He clicked the button to the glove compartment, and the little door popped open. ATM receipts and a pair of sunglasses fell out. Behind a hairbrush and a tube of toothpaste sat the spare keys, a tire gauge, and a package of peanut M&Ms. Messy. “Wanna go for a ride?”

“Duh.” She jumped down from the engine block and did her best to close the hood, but she was about three inches too short.

He unfolded himself from the car, walked to the front, and lowered the hood until it clicked.

“Go tell Lorna we’ll be back in an hour or so.”

Lorna was the latest in a long line of nannies. They’d been through so many they were now scraping the bottom of the barrel.

Vivi yelled at the top of her lungs, “Lorna, Uncle Will’s taking me on a ride—be back in an hour.”

Will cocked his head to one side. “Really, I could have done that. Go inside and tell her.”

“What did you say?” a voice called from the front door.

Will glanced over his left shoulder. Lorna’s scraggly blonde-gray hair hit her waist, and he knew her clothes were made entirely from hemp—she’d told him she was hippie chic. It looked more like unkempt and crazy, but she showed up every day, was nice to the girls, and didn’t smoke marijuana on the job, which put her miles above the last nanny.

“We’re going to pick up a friend.”

“Your energy isn’t calm.” Lorna touched the purple amulet around her neck and mumbled something. “Sending you mellow vibes.”

“Sure.” Coherence had never been Lorna’s strong point, but she was willing to work nights and weekends, so he tolerated her weirdness.

“Ready?” Lightly, Vivi slid her hand in his.

“You bet.”

Hand in hand, they walked back to the car.

Quality time with his niece wasn’t the only reason he wanted her along. Lucky had one huge weakness—children. She loved them and had wanted to have them so badly, but Ricky had stolen that right from her.

“Lucky probably hates me.” Vivi didn’t sound angry, only thoughtful.

“She doesn’t know you … but when she does, you two are going to be best buds.” Acid churned in his stomach. He was about to hurt his two favorite people, but it couldn’t be helped. He opened the door for Vivi.

“What’s she like?” She hopped onto the leather seat and buckled the lap belt. He’d forgotten that old cars didn’t have real seat belts. Maybe she should ride in the back? Through the small back window, he checked out the backseat. It didn’t have any seat belts.

"Smart, funny … pretty. Just like you." He closed the door, walked around to the driver’s side, slid behind the wheel, and shut his door. It smelled like Lucky—Burt’s Bees Coconut Foot Cream and Chanel No. 5 and something under it that was all her. His heaven smelled like this. He slammed the key in the ignition, and the engine roared to life.

Being in love with the woman his brother had married hadn’t been Will’s choice. But he had to live with the consequences, and now, with any luck, the consequences would want to live with him.

Lucky was learning that humiliation came in all shapes and sizes. This afternoon’s version was a hot pink Volkswagen Beetle. The poor thing didn’t even have the dignity to be vintage, and worst of all, it sported plastic eyelashes on the headlamps.

If her bloodlust to murder Will hadn’t already been at an all-time high, this pink tennis shoe of a car full of the three giggling girls from McDonald’s would have pushed her over the edge. Still, Kylie, Morgan, and Reyleigh had let her sit in the passenger’s seat, and Lucky had managed to control her cringe reflex every time a high-pitched giggle squeaked from the girls. Ignoring their constant ramblings took lots of self-control and the occasional smile and nod so they’d think she was listening.

As they weaved through traffic on MOPAC and finally exited onto Fifth Street, tall buildings lined either side of the street and had them playing hide-and-seek with the clear blue sky. Signs selling condos and lofts invited anyone with a gazillion dollars and a desire to stare at rooftops to buy a one-bedroom and live the high life in downtown Austin. Will had been one of the first suckers to plunk down money to live smack dab in the middle of everything. Lucky preferred more space. She adjusted Lana to a more comfortable position on her lap.

Will had gone too far. Betrayal was one thing, but stealing Stevie Nicks was over the line. True, Lucky had been avoiding Will, but her car—the only true symbol of freedom. She’d deal with him…. Oh yeah, she was looking forward to it.

“So, you must be really rich?” It was either Kylie or Morgan asking from the backseat. She couldn’t remember who was who.