Rough, unedited version subject to change.
Chapter One
“Heads-up, that man is calling the cops on
us,” Ronnie said, glancing through the window and waving.
Paige leaned into the steering wheel and
smiled innocently at the man in the next car, but it didn’t help. He continued
staring at Ronnie and her with his eyes about to bug out of the sockets,
speaking even faster into his phone while automatically locking the doors.
Who would have guessed people would be more
scared of Paige clad in white than in her normal Goth attire? Then again, she
was wearing a wedding dress splattered in blood-red, Carrie–style. Ronnie was
too, so yeah, she could understand the panicked expression in the neighboring
car. That they were driving at three o’clock in the morning through Boston
suburbia with their makeup all smudged and their hair a messy snarl of paint and
crazy party didn’t improve matters.
“We are sooo ending up in jail.”
“Probably,” Ronnie said, trying to pat her hair
down.
When the lights changed, Paige floored it and
soon lost the spooked driver. Whatever came first, the arrest or the speeding
ticket, she was letting her lovely lunatic of a boss deal with it.
After all, their current predicament was all
Elle’s fault. She’d declared her bachelorette party was happening in stages
over a whole month, the coed paintball game being the first installment.
As if the women hadn’t been an easy mark for
all those testosterone-ridden ex-military guys with perfect aim to begin with,
Elle had had them wear old wedding gowns over the protective gear. Guess how
that ended? Not even leveling the odds by mixing teams had helped.
“Jail. A fitting ending for the night,” Ronnie
muttered. “Can’t believe it didn’t happened before, at the club.”
No shit. After the shooting fest, looking like
some sorts of vampire gore brides, they’d gone drinking downtown. How Elle had
gotten them in to the club dressed like that, Paige didn’t know, although it
shouldn’t be a surprise. Elle always got her way and now, with that ominous
weapon of mass destruction called Jack shadowing her 24/7, it was a miracle
anyone blinked at her twice, regardless of how nuts or unreasonable what she
was asking for was.
All and all, a memorable first installment.
Paige couldn’t wait to see what was to come. By Jack’s aggrieved looks, he
couldn’t either.
“You seemed to hit it off with Kay at the club,”
Paige said. “How come I’m driving you home and not him? Not that I mind. Just
curious.”
Ronnie laughed. “Didn’t you see the way Jack
looked at him when we were talking? I didn’t want to give my brother a
coronary. Besides, I didn’t want to jinx it now that he’s more relaxed and all
that crazy stuff about the drug cartel
is finished.”
True. At the time, when Jack had suddenly
started following Elle everywhere and ordering her around—well, trying to at
least—Paige had not known what was going on. Then Elle had gone underground
and James Bowen, Elle’s brother-in-law, had gathered all of Rosita’s staff and
informed them he was taking over the management of the restaurant temporarily.
From then on, more and more 250-pound, heavily tattooed, bodyguard types had
appeared at opening and closing. In hindsight, no frigging wonder. It was not every
day that you had a South American cartel gunning for you.
By the time it was all said and done, Jack
almost lost his life rescuing Elle. Now though, they were happily in love and
about to get married. If the groom or the guests could survive
the bachelorette party, that is.
“What about you?” Ronnie asked. “How come
you’re driving home with me and not with some sexy stranger? You are by far the
prettiest of all us brides, the way you Goth customized the outfit.”
She shrugged. “No one tickled my fancy.”
The last guy who managed that had been one of
the enforcers for the drug cartel. The second-in-command, as she later found
out. He had come to Rosita’s scouting the place and had struck a conversation
with her. Nick, sea platform worker.
Extremely handsome, interesting, easy-going man who almost had gotten
Paige to go out with him.
It figured that the psychopath would zero in
on her.
They always did.
Worst of it all? She could still remember how
badly she’d wanted him.
“You need to give them a chance,” Ronnie
insisted. “Talk to them at least. Take for example that cute guy who kept
sending Bloody Marys your way.”
A frat boy interested in taking a stroll in
the kinky side. Nope, thank you. Either they ended up disappointed or freaking
out and freezing, or she was the one doing all the freaking out and freezing.
Both options as unacceptable, really.
And unpleasant. Not to mention totally unsexy.
“So that’s me,” Ronnie said pointing at a
building after they turned into her street.
“Thanks for getting me home.”
That was what it had not to drink, that she
was a permanent designated driver. “No
problem. It was on my way.”
Paige would have gone straight home, because
she was dead on her feet, but she had a three-day holiday from Rosita’s and she
needed to make sure all was in order, especially as she had been the one
closing. At the moment couldn’t recall if she’d verified the lock. Besides,
Paige’s colorful roommate was having her boyfriend over and the only thing they
did more than fuck was fight and yell at each other so she was not in too much
of a hurry to get into that mess.
She parked in front of the restaurant. Time to
make her OCD proud. The lock on the roller shutter was closed. She opened and
closed it again, fixing the moment in her mind, and then pulled at it three
times, to ensure she wouldn’t forget. Then from the corner of her eye she
detected movement from a nearby parked car, the door ajar.
There was a man inside, hunched over, one leg
out.
Probably one of those drunk morons who thought
he drove better intoxicated. No sounds were coming from him. No drunken babble
or dribble or sideways swinging, but it was cold outside. She couldn’t leave
the man there to freeze or choke on his own vomit.
Paige approached. “Yo, buddy, you okay?”
No answer. The guy wasn’t moving, his head
still flung forward. She couldn’t see properly through the window so she opened
the door a bit more, and the hunched figure tipped sideways until his face was
buried on her stomach. She took a step backward and noticed a fresh splotch of
bright red on her dress. Oh, God. That was blood. Real blood. Thick. Sticky.
Dripping from his face. His side too.
She reached for him, and the second she
touched him, a strong hand clamped on her forearm.
The man lifted his bloody face to her, his
expression a snarl, his deep-blue eyes cold and murderous. Before she could
react, he shoved a gun on Paige’s neck.
Oh shit. She knew that man. “Nick?”
* * * * *
Nico had trouble focusing his sight.
Everything was blurry. Distorted. He narrowed his eyes. His trigger finger
twitched. The image in front of him sharpened little by little: a bride covered
in blood. Oh, well, it looked like the Grim Reaper had gotten a makeover. Or
maybe he was hallucinating. It wouldn’t be the first time tonight.
“It’s me. Paige,” the bride let out.
Who? He couldn’t recognize the face in front
of him, but her eyes were strangely familiar to him. For the first time that
night, he felt safe, so he lowered his gun. It must had been a right call,
because the Bride didn’t grab his weapon and shot him with it.
“You’re bleeding,” he heard her say. “You’ve
been shot.”
And drugged. Or poisoned. Hell, both probably.
He wasn’t sure he could articulate so many words, so he just nodded.
“You need a doctor. A hospital,” she
continued.
“No hospital,” he choked out. A hospital meant
police. Too many questions. If by any miracle he managed to survive, he didn’t
want to wake up in a government black site. Or in a hole in a jungle
compliments of the cartel.
The bride seemed to doubt for a second. “Okay.
No hospital. But you can’t stay here.”
That was true. Remaining in the open was a
sure death sentence.
Without waiting for his consensus, she scooted
him over to the passenger seat, jumped in, and revved up the engine.
Nick fought to keep conscious as his sight
became fuzzy again. Fuck, not now. He had to get to a safe location before he
lost it completely.
“Where are we going?” he managed to ask.
Hopefully she was not turning him in or driving him to a hospital because he
was too weak to fight his way out.
She didn’t answer. Just continued driving,
throwing furtive glances his way, eying the gun and his wounds.
He tried to fight the blackness, but he
couldn’t. He was drifting away. Resignation blanketed him, dulling his senses
as his body started shutting down. He looked at his driver. Vintage wedding
dress all covered in blood. Military boots underneath. Spiked choke collar.
Weirdly pretty raccoon eyes. He’d always thought that the last thing he’d ever
see in this world would be a hostile face snarling at him while sending him to
hell.
If that beautiful bride was the
last image before biting the big one, he was happy.
Taking into consideration the life he’d led,
that was more than he deserved.
