Page 5 of Lucky Puck

“What about the ring? We need to take that off.” I grab his hand to pull the ring from his finger, tugging at it, using both hands.

He pulls his hand back. “What the hell are you trying to do? Make me a four-fingered phenom? That’s my shooting hand.”

“The ring seems to be stuck.”

“No kidding. Don’t you think I tried to get it off? I even used soap. I don’t know how she got it on me.”

“What happened? Tell me everything.”

“The details are fuzzy.”

“You must remember something. What chapel did you go to?”

“As far as I know, I never left the room.”

“What’s her name?” I’m thinking we can leave the police out of it and hire a private investigator, but I don’t share that because I’ll need Jett’s approval.

“I don’t know her name. I’m not sure if she’s a showgirl or a stripper. Though I am getting flashes of a naked body.” His devilish grin returns, the full-frontal dimple version. And damnit, I picture him naked.

I clear my throat. “Do you remember the party? Her asking to go to your room? Me chasing you to the elevator?”

He nods his head; his smile takes a different form, causing that notorious dimple in his left cheek to deepen like the mark of Satan—if Satan were Adonis—a big red beware sign for women everywhere to hang onto their panties.

“That’s right. She invited you in,” he says, and I can see his imagination working, distracting him from the mystery that needs solving. Well, hell. I guess it won’t do any good for me to say I told you so.

“Focus, Brody. We need to figure out if you’re married or if that chick was playing games.”

“The last thing I remember clearly is the party. Things get fuzzy after that. Why don’t you tell me what you know and see if it jogs my memory?”

I look at him, reluctant to give him credit for a good idea. “You really don’t remember?”

Heaving a breath and trying to hold my shit together while I refuse to think about the possible horrible things that might have happened—like that she drugged him and maybe took compromising pictures—and that she has something devious in mind about that wedding band.

“We need to find her—I mean I need to find her.”

“Right. So she doesn’t ruin my reputation.”

He’s being sarcastic, but we both know there’s a lot worse she could do to him. His smirk fades.

“Don’t worry, Brody. I won’t let anything bad happen.” The ridiculous words are out of my mouth before I think, and my face flushes. I don’t know where the fantastical superhero-like promise came from, except maybe deep down my conscience collided with my imagination, because I really feel strongly. Strong enough not to back-track or soften the promise in spite of the cliché of its over-the-top nature and, not to mention, my embarrassment.

He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t call me out on my melodrama.

We stare at each other for a few beats of silence, and it feels like we come to some understanding, like a kind of trust, a pact between us that we’re in this mess together and we’ll work together to get out of it.

Only I’m just not sure what exactly we’re dealing with yet.

Chapter Three

BIANCA

THE NIGHT BEFORE

Casino parties are a special breed of party because casinos are specifically designed to keep you inside, with the exits purposely obscured with all manner of distractions along the way. If it weren’t my mission to keep track of Brody, I’d be lost like everyone else and have no idea how to get out of this place. But of course, I’ve done my homework because I’m a professional. Or that’s what I’m telling myself right now as I peek over the top of my water glass to watch Brody with a leggy woman draped around him.

Feeling more like a skanky private eye or a lowly snoop than a high-powered assistant agent—I know that’s an oxymoron—I follow Brody and the lady who’s commandeered his attention. She looks a lot like a showgirl who just stepped off the stage wearing a barely-there dress and more make-up than an entire Macy’s cosmetic counter. Exactly his type.

They’re laughing, and I cringe when she plucks a drink from a tray and hands it to him. He takes it, and I heave a breath hoping he doesn’t down it like he did the last one. Never mind that he’s not of legal drinking age—that’s bad enough—but I’m more worried about the fact that he has a game tomorrow. His rookie year NHL All-Star game, to be exact.