Get Lucky (3 page)

“Experience this,” I say, dumping the expensive contents on his shirt. He jumps like a very alcoholic spider just bit him. I slam the glass down, grab my trusty purple suitcase, and roll away at high speed.

Blood’s pounding in my temples, and the edges of my vision are blurring with tears.

Calm down. Be one with the Force. Use every Jedi mind trick you know.

“Hey,” Shanna gasps, rushing up beside me. I slow down. Just a bit. “That got really intense, huh?” Her eyes widen. I sigh.

“Sorry. It’s been kind of a weird month.”

“‘Experience this.’ I fucking love it. What a line,” Meredith says, waltzing up beside me. She puts an arm around my shoulders. “Think of it this way, hon. This is a big city, big enough to lose even the smuggest of assholes. Feel better.”

“Thanks,” I mutter, hugging her in return. She’s got a point. One nice thing is the hotel is huge and the convention is busy. I never have to see that jackass again.

I
can’t believe
I slept with that jackass. What is
wrong
with me?

All right, don’t panic Julia.

Frazzled, I take the elevator down to ten and hustle back to my room. The plastic key card slips out of my hands once, twice, until finally I get the door open and stumble inside. I walk into the bedroom, grateful for the fact that at least the curtains are still drawn. The room exists in that cozy almost twilight, Shanna’s bed still rumpled from having been slept in. Mine, on the other hand, is pristine, the sheets perfect, the pillows plumped. Never made it back here last night.

Oh God. Think, Julia. Did you actually do the nasty? Did you fuck the Worst Guy Ever? And if you did, can you remember if he was good or not?

Wow, brain. Not the time.

I groan as I flip on the lights and rush into the bathroom. I need a shower. That’s it. A good hot shower will stop the pounding headache. I look at the mirror over the sink, grimacing at my smeared eye makeup. Then, just to make sure, I pull down my skirt, turn around, and bam. Tattooed TARDIS, right square over my ass. My Whovian heart has led me astray at last.

“Well, Ten, here’s another fine mess you’ve gotten us into,” I grumble.

Confession: I like to imagine that the Tenth Doctor is kind of like the physical embodiment of my wild and crazy side. I mean, he’s played by David Tennant. How could he not be reckless?

Okay, I need to focus on things other than my imaginary Time Lord and my hangover. I groan and close my eyes. This is all alcohol’s fault. God as my witness, I will never do shots again. For at least forty-eight hours, that is.

I turn on the shower full blast. I’m pretty sure this is going to mess with my tattoo—I try smoothing the square of plastic wrap back over it—but fuck it. There is no time. Before I get in the stall, I look back at my reflection. I need a pep talk.

“Okay, stay calm,” I say aloud, my voice a little jarring in the otherwise silent hotel room. I breathe deeply. Nothing terrible has happened. It’s not like I’m late for any—

Oh fuck. I rush into the bedroom to check the clock on the nightstand, and freak out a little. Shit. My panel!
Sex, Lies, and Superspies
starts in half an hour!

“Shitballs and fucksticks,” I mutter, and run out to the bed to grab my laptop. And that’s when I make a wonderful, nauseating discovery: my purse and laptop aren’t here. At all. Even when I get on my hands and knees and inspect under the beds, under the table, and in every cabinet drawer, they still elude me. I plant my face in a pillow and give a loud, muffled scream.

Okay, Julia. Don’t melt down. Don’t go on a rampage. Think. And maybe shower, because you smell like cigarettes and bad decisions.

I rush back to the bathroom, undress fully, yanking off my bra and panties, and jump into the shower. I lather up as fast as I can. I’m out, toweled, and dressed in ten minutes flat. My makeup is hastily applied in an additional three.

Okay. I stand back and admire myself in the mirror. Cute. I look cute. It looks a little bit like I made out with the Joker and took off some of his lipstick, but right now there’s nothing much else I can do.

“Nate Wexler. You are a monster,” I grunt. Then I grab my key and race out the door.
Damn, damn.
I’m supposed to be at my panel at least ten minutes beforehand. This is cutting it dangerously close.

I race down the carpeted halls, take the elevator, and soon find myself standing outside one of the galleria rooms. There are clusters of women chatting together as I stumble towards the raised stage. A woman with a clipboard and a tense expression rolls her eyes as I stagger up to her.

“Sorry I’m late. I had an, ah, emergency,” I say, adjusting my bra strap. I am a professional, dammit.

“Whatever. You’re on time,” the woman grunts, and turns her back on me.

Everyone’s a real sweetheart this morning.

I climb up the stairs to the stage, heart jackhammering in my chest, and sit down in the seat marked for me. My newest book,
Forbidden Desire
, is sitting right in front of me on a stand. Already, the women by the door have taken their seats, and the room is filling with cheerful smiles and excited faces.

I take a deep breath.
Be poised and calm, Julia. You can do this.

“Hey there.” I turn to find Shanna sitting next to me, wiggling her eyebrows.“Hey.” I smile, and she smiles back, and I smile wider, and she smiles wider back, and I’m pretty sure we’re going to have to stop this soon because I think my face is going to rip. “Are you okay? Why do you look like you want to slather me in butter and eat me?” Granted, I’d eat anything slathered in butter. Even myself.

“Just proud of you.” She throws an arm around me and kisses my cheek. “Congrats, you know?” She giggles.

Shanna never giggles. Wait.

“You remember where we were last night?” I say, grabbing her hand. Finally, her overjoyed smile eases somewhat.

“You mean you don’t remember?” Her eyes widen.

“I would love to. Holy shit, remembering would be the sweetest thing right about now,” I say. “What did I do?”

“I don’t know,” she says, now looking kind of freaked out. “After the club, I thought—”

“What club?” I ask, but we have to shut up. The moderator sits down at her podium: Brenda Summersby, queen of the Revolutionary spy romance.

We do a quick intro, running down the table. It’s me, Shanna, Jane Morningside (real name Cathy Grimsby), and a couple of e-book only authors. The whole time we’re all laughing and exchanging stories of researching espionage, my skull seems to be pounding.

Just make it to the end of the panel. Then Shanna can tell me all about the glorious things I did or, hopefully, didn’t do last night.

“I think we’ll take some questions,” Brenda says, opening the floor for discussion.

A thirty-something woman stands up and asks Shanna about her
Babylon Corrino
series. While Shanna is talking about Hypatia Mercurado, alien queen, and her tortured backstory, I notice a guy in a suit enter and stand off to the side of the room. He looks fortyish, with thinning hair and a wilting moustache. Definitely not the typical romance reader, but hey, it’s always nice to know you can move people outside the target demographic.

But the unnerving thing is . . . that he’s looking at me. Constantly. Even when other people are speaking.

Nah. No. Nope. No way. This day has been hell enough already and it’s only just started. I don’t need
Men in Black
rejects following me around, making me even more paranoid than I already am. Maybe this guy just really likes my latest hero Jack Fathom and his naughty BDSM helicopter rides over Puget Sound. Anything is possible, man.

But then I watch as a guy in a full on security guard outfit enters and stands right beside Gray Suit, and I know I’m screwed. They’re both staring at me now.

“Julia? Hello?” Brenda says. Oh, shit. I completely wasn’t paying attention. The nice-looking lady in the audience is now staring at me expectantly.

“Sorry. I, er, had a blackout moment. Get those sometimes. Vegas, you know?” I say. A ripple of laughter goes through the audience, but Gray Suit doesn’t smile. Oh shit. “Unless I’m operating heavy machinery! Then my blood alcohol content is perfectly legal,” I snap, looking at Gray Suit in a panic.

No one laughs at that one. In fact, it’s kind of awkward. Like my life.

When the panel is over, I grab Shanna’s hand. “Can you sneak out with me?” I mutter, keeping my head down and not making eye contact with the fuzz. Shanna, who is no one’s fool, narrows her eyes at me.

“Is this about those guys? Julia, what is going on?” she whispers.

“Why don’t you tell me?” I whisper-shout right back at her. “What did I do last night? Did I kill anyone?”

“No! I mean, I don’t think so,” Shanna says, eyes going even wider.

“Oh, fucking fantastic.”

A man clears his voice right above us. Wincing, I look up and, sure enough, there’s Gray Suit standing over me. He’s got a wicked comb over, and a mouth set to permanent scowl.

I sit up, grinning brightly. Grinning. Always grinning. Even when it hurts.

Ow, my hangover.

“Can I help you?” I ask him, trying not to burst into tears and throw myself on his mercy. I succeed. Just.

“Ms. Stevens, I’m with hotel management. Would you come with me, please?”

Dear God, just tell me I didn’t harm any kittens last night. Or operate a crane lift. Or sell anybody’s organs on the black market. I am pretty sure I’ll be fine so long as none of those things happened. Unless I crane-lifted a bunch of kittens after selling their organs on the black market, because there’s no coming back from that shit. Then you join Hannibal Lecter behind a plexiglass wall for all eternity.

What were we talking about? Oh, right. Hotel management.

“Of course I’ll come with you,” I say, getting up slowly. See, nothing wrong here, sir. Shanna looks at me with wide, freaked out eyes, but I wave her concern away.

It’s not like they’re going to put me in jail, for God’s sake.

T
hey put me in jail
. Holy shit. They put me in fucking jail. Call my mother and tell her I love her, call my father and tell him I can’t loan him any more money, call my grandmother and tell her she needs to stop day drinking. I am never getting out of this.

All right, on the plus side, it’s not like I’m sitting in a city jail. It’s a hotel holding room, which basically means beige-colored carpet with beige walls and a beige futon. In Vegas, if they put you in beige, you are seriously fucked. No sequins or rhinestones anywhere means I must have done something abominable.

Okay.
I take three deep breaths, trying to achieve my zone of neutrality. Or something. I don’t know!
Okay, keep calm, Julia. Maybe they can help. Maybe they can help piece together whatever insane stuff you did last night. Or rather, the weird shit that your David Tennant personality did.

On second thought, maybe talking about
Doctor Who
would be a very bad thing right now.

The door opens, and Gray Suit—his name’s actually Todd, but I’m sticking with Gray Suit—enters and sits down in a chair opposite me.

“Now Ms. Stevens—”

“I’m not going to prison,” I blurt out. “I’m too soft. I watched
Orange is the New Black
. I don’t want to eat tampon sandwiches.”

Gray Suit blinks slowly. “Okay. I’ll bear that in mind.”

“Look, what the hell am I even doing here?” I snap.
Great, Julia. Get snippy with the authorities. This’ll go down swimmingly.
“What is happening?”

Gray Suit sighs. “It’s about what you did last night, Ms. Stevens.”

I
thought
a cup of coffee would kill this bastard behind the eyes, but apparently I was wrong.

I’m sitting in the Café Bellagio, a high-ceilinged room with a faux French country furniture design and a loud carpet pattern of crimson red and abstract gold lines. I’m sitting here, rubbing my temples and wanting to die, while Tyler talks about . . . something. Probably something related to sex, but I’m barely paying attention right now.

Vegas is the capital of noise. The faux European ambiance does nothing to inspire a restful atmosphere. There’s a sea of people all around us, people taking pictures of everything with their phones and yelling to each other. Every shouted word is like a bomb going off in my brain. I swear, I think my head’s about to explode.

“Dude, that Shanna girl was fucking rad,” Tyler says, sucking down some kind of papaya cold press concoction. I don’t even know. “Writes about aliens, huh? Kinky ray gun submission fantasies. Princess Leia in a gold bikini. Oh yeah.” He waggles his eyebrows.

I have no idea what any of that means. At least Mike and Stacy are here to even things out.

“I don’t know, Tyler. You seemed pretty into that older lady, the one with the really filthy mouth?” Stacy says, laughing. She and Mike are sitting side by side, his arm slung around her chair. Something about that image of closeness right now just makes my head hurt even more.

“I mean, sure. But, uh, she’s old enough to be my mom,” Tyler says. Is it just my imagination or does he sound defensive?

“Nate. You look like you’ve come back to the land of the living,” Mike says. He whistles. “You must’ve gotten shitfaced last night. Hope you had a good time.” He’s giving me knowing eyes.

“You know what I did last night?” I ask, feeling desperate. “Where I was?”

My total sincerity makes them stop laughing. Stacy puts a hand over her mouth.

“Oh, honey. Blackout drinking? That’s fucking dangerous,” she says. Mike leans in over his half-eaten eggs Benedict.

“Dude. How bad is your hangover?” he asks.

I’m about to tell him everything—me waking up with Julia, the gaping holes in my memory—when there’s a cough right next to my chair. Someone is standing beside me, waiting for my attention.

“Sir, excuse me,” the man says. I look up. My double vision condenses down to one image of a gray-suited man with steely eyes. “I’m Todd Andrews, hotel management. I need you to come with me, please.”

“What’s wrong?” I ask. It’s taking a moment, but my lawyer senses are kicking back into gear. Mike, Stacy, and Tyler all share freaked out looks.

“It’s about a video, sir. Security has a few questions.”

O
f course Julia’s here
, too. I sit down next to her in a small room at a stainless steel table. Mr. Andrews sits opposite us. A video monitor is off to the side, and my stomach lurches. Whatever I’m about to see, I doubt it’ll be good.

“What’s this about?” I say again. Julia nods and points at me.

“Him. He’s a lawyer. He knows lawyer tricks.” She squints. “You
are
a lawyer, right? Yesterday’s kind of a blur.”

Thanks for the help. “Yes. I’m a lawyer,” I say, my voice flat. She rolls her eyes.

“Thank you, wielder of the mighty sword of condescension.”

“If I can have your attention,” Andrews says, and hits play.

I watch, and there I am. With Julia. At—checking the timestamp—five-thirty in the morning. Well, that’s something at least. Now I know where I was just before dawn. We’re in the enormous Bellagio fountain, dancing right on the lip of it. Dancing. I kind of want to bang my head on the desk, but lawyerly cool must be maintained at all times. Especially when Julia is making more panicked and “I’m guilty” faces with every passing second.

Now we’re stripping down to . . . okay, nothing. I join her in the fountain, lurching around. Now she’s got her arms around my neck, and we’re kissing. Deeply. Passionately. And my hands are very actively going down her body.

We each snatch glances of the other out of the corner of our eyes. I can’t remember anything about this, and it’s clear she can’t either.

Finally, mercifully, the video ends. Andrews turns to us, his lips pursed in victory. “Would you care to explain, Mr. Wexler? Ms. Stevens?”

“Okay, so—” Julia begins, and I know she’s going to incriminate us hopelessly.

“Is that the only footage you have?” I ask, putting my clasped hands on the table. Business. Professional. Pitcher of iced drinking water. Pretend we’re back in my office on Wacker Drive. Pretend you have tickets to the Bears after legally destroying the man sitting right in front of you.

“Yes,” Andrews says, narrowing his eyes. “What’s your point?”

“There is no way to be certain that those images are of myself and Ms. Stevens. The picture is too grainy. It would be impossible to accurately identify facial features.”

Beside me, Julia’s eyes are bulging and she’s biting her lip. But she starts nodding.

“I can’t tell, honestly. No way to be sure,” she says. Good.

“I’m pretty damn sure,” Andrews says, but he’s looking a little uncertain. “We have footage of you two entering the hotel lobby twenty minutes later. Wet.”

I’m sure he does, but I shrug. “We were at the Mandalay Bay, attending a pool party. I believe we came home sometime close to six.”

“I remember. Definitely around that time,” Julia says. “Pool parties. Vegas, right?”

“Right,” Andrews says, though his face is falling. I’m sure he doesn’t believe it, but again, there’s no way to prove that there was no pool party. And if I call my contact over at Mandalay Bay, he’ll tell them I was there the entire day. No lie is too big for the lawyer who saved him from fifty million in alimony.

“Unfortunate coincidence, isn’t it?” I ask. Now to go in for the kill. “Considering you apprehended myself and Ms. Stevens in front of colleagues and friends, your hotel has done significant harm to our reputations.”

“I may not be able to work again,” Julia says, her voice mournful. She even sniffs and wipes her eyes. Good. A little high school playish, but effective.

Andrews freezes; he knows he could get sued.

“Imagine my children, out on the street, freezing in the winter snow,” Julia moans, laying her head on the table.

Okay. Don’t overplay it.

“You have children?” Andrews asks. I press my foot on top of hers under the table, telling her to play it cool. She responds with a swift kick in the shin, and I have to bite my tongue to keep from shouting.

“Kittens. Three kittens,” Julia sighs. Cat lady. I was right. I usually am.

“The point is, you should let us go. Chalk it up to a misunderstanding. I don’t want to take any kind of action,” I tell Andrews, my voice as cool and smooth as silk. “I would like to spare you from that kind of embarrassment.”

Andrews squares his jaw, and I have a moment where I fear I’ve overplayed my hand. Even I have to acknowledge that arrogance is one of my failings. But instead of pushing it further, he nods once and grunts.

“All right. I’d recommend staying clear of the fountains for a while. Just to be safe.” He looks from Julia to me. We’re both the image of silent cooperation.

With that, Andrews rises up and buttons his coat. Julia sighs, batting her eyelashes. Her eyes are dewy.

I have to admit it—once she stops the larger than life theatrics, she’s a damn good actress.

“Thank you so much,” she sniffles, and we walk out of the room. She even slips her arm through mine, playing up to the idea of being desperately in love. Cute. Once we’re back in the hotel hallway, we pull apart so fast she nearly rips my sleeve.

“Careful. This is Armani,” I snap. Julia yanks me to the side, puts her hands on her hips, and frowns.

“Okay. What the hell happened last night?” she asks. Her face flushes pinker.

Despite all my annoyance, I have to force myself not to notice how sexy she looks when . . . wait. Flushed face. I have a memory of that, a quick one. My expression must change, because Julia notices.

“What? Keep me updated on the brilliant thoughts coming in over the wire.”

“I don’t know what happened. But now I’m worried,” I say, checking over my shoulder. We don’t need Andrews to see us conspiring together in the hall.

“Why? Think I gave you the clap?” she deadpans.

“No, of course not! Wait. You don’t have it, do you?”

Oh shit. Tell me we used a condom, if we did anything. That’s all I ask.

“I kind of want to say I have a bunch of communicable diseases just to see the look on your face.” She groans and pinches the bridge of her nose. “Look. Let’s get a coffee and talk it over. All right?”

“Fine,” I say. “We can’t take too much time.” I check my phone. Half past ten. “My friends’ wedding starts in less than seven hours.”

“You don’t have to spend your day running around with me, you know,” she says, folding her arms.

“Actually,” I say, “I do.” Because if that video was any indication, Julia Stevens and I had a hell of a good time last night. And on the off chance any of that good time was illegal, it’s probably in my best interest to find out what happened.

“
Y
ou think we committed crimes
?” Julia asks, her eyebrows shooting up. She blows on her mocha, a smile spreading over her face. She even bounces a little in her seat. “Oh my God. This is epic. Sort of
Bonnie and Clyde
, but we don’t get shot at the end. Wait.” She rummages through her pocket—of course her dress has a pocket—and pulls out her phone. The phone case is the same blue box weirdness she got tattooed on her ass. Naturally. “Vegas Bonnie and Clyde would be delicious for my new romantic thriller series.”

“Would you concentrate?” I take a sip of my mint tea. I don’t imbibe any caffeine after my first cup of coffee. I don’t like to be dependent on anything. “Skinny dipping might be the least of our worries. If we were out of control, and people find out, it could do damage to our careers.”

“Maybe to yours, O Great Divorce Attorney. My fans would probably eat it up. They like to think I’ve culled all the wild, romantic escapades in my books from experience.”

But Julia’s not as flippant as her remarks would make her sound. She’s chewing on her lip, a clear tell of nerves. I stare at her mouth. Her full, soft lower lip does look very bitable.

Don’t let your dick lead you around, Wexler. So far this girl hasn’t brought you anything but migraines and a possible criminal record.

“Let’s start with you. What’s the last thing you remember doing yesterday?” I ask. I grab a paper napkin, take my pen out of my coat pocket, and get to work. When discussing techniques and strategies with clients, I like to sketch out the plans. It helps when I see something in front of me.

Julia groans.

“I don’t remember doing you. That’s a shame.” She puts her chin in her hand. “You were probably good, given the video footage.”

How the hell do I respond to that? “We couldn’t see the expressions on our faces,” I say at last. Clearing my throat, I continue. “No way to get a proper reaction.”

“No, but from your body language, I could tell you were
very
excitable.” She grins and chews on an almond biscotti.

If I didn’t have to make damn sure I haven’t murdered anyone . . . .
It’s okay, Nate. You just have to keep it together until we piece together last night’s timeline. Then you’re out.

“Again. What do you remember?” I say. Apparently I’m being too businesslike about this, because she sighs in annoyance.

“Wow. Lighten up, Nate. I’m just as worried about this as you are.” She frowns.

“Clearly you’re not, because I’m the one trying to make a plan and you’re the one making jokes.” My headache is coming back, a dull pounding behind my eyes.

“I like to think of it as ‘I’m trying to keep us calm.’ You’re dead certain we’re headed to Alcatraz.”

“Alcatraz isn’t a functioning prison anymore,” I say.

“You’re a functioning prison,” she says.

“That doesn’t make sense!”

“Neither does splashing and frolicking and groping your dick in the Bellagio fountain, but in case you hadn’t noticed, there’s a whole buffet of
doesn’t make sense
going on right now. So load up your plate, grab the crab legs before they run out, and eat.” She huffs, running a hand through her eternally frizzy hair. “All right. I remember meeting everyone for the Cirque de Soleil show here—
O
, I think, that’s the name. Then we went for a drink afterwards before going to dinner. That’s all I—”

“You remember the bar?” I ask.

She screws up her face. “Yeah, the Lily Bar and Lounge. How many bars does one hotel need, you know?” She shrugs.

“Let’s go,” I say, turning and heading like a shot for the lobby. I slow down, pause. Julia sidles up next to me.

“You don’t know where it is, do you?” she asks, smiling sweetly.

I hate Vegas.

“
I
remember you
,” the bartender says, grinning at Julia. He’s a handsome guy, mid-thirties with thinning blond hair.

He wipes down the bar while I stand beside her. The place is intimate, wood-paneled walls with some purple velvet hangings. It’s closed, but he’s setting up for the afternoon.

“This your boyfriend? Fast work.” He winks at Julia, who laughs a little.

Somehow, their flirtation irritates me.

“Can I ask you a crazy question?” Julia says, putting her chin in her hand and looking up at the guy. That would be disarmingly attractive if I didn’t know her. “What did I do after I came here last night?”

“You kidding?” the guy says, raising an eyebrow. He leans against the bar. “You didn’t have that much to drink here.”

“I’m guessing I did shots somewhere along the way. This bar was the only thing that stood out in the haze,” she says. God, she even winks. “Or maybe this bartender.”

“Bam.” He claps a hand over his chest and laughs. “Right through the heart.”

We’re wasting time here. That’s why their flirting is getting on my nerves. Probably.

“Can you help us or not?” I say. I’m trying for glassy, lawyer cool. The bartender smirks.