Perfect Kind Of Trouble

16 Daren

If I weren’t so exhausted, I’d be offended by the horrified look on Kayla’s face.

“That’s not happening,” she says, shaking her head adamantly. “No way. We’re going to pick the lock on these things. Now.” She yanks up our wrists and jiggles the handcuffs.

A family of four walks by with confusion in their eyes as they stare at our criminal restraints.

Kayla casually lowers our wrists and half-smiles at the family. “We’re not dangerous. Promise.”

The parents gather their children close and shuffle past us without looking back.

I slant my eyes to Kayla. “People don’t think we’re dangerous. They think we’re crazy,” I say. “And we are. But if we want to pick the lock, we probably need to do it somewhere other than outside the post office. I don’t want someone to see and report us to Eddie.”

She nods at her car. “Let’s just get back in the front seat and do it in there.”

I shrug. “Or we could just do it in the backseat.”

We glance at each other.

The back of my neck grows warm and a tinge of pink stains her cheeks as we stand locked in a hot gaze. I would love nothing more than to do it in the backseat with Kayla. But she’s made it clear that doing anything with me, in the backseat of her car or elsewhere, isn’t on her agenda and I need to respect that.

“You know,” I clarify, “just so I don’t have to climb over the center console again.”

“Right.” She nods. “Of course.”

Walking back to the car, we pass three different guys who stop to gawk at Kayla. They crane their necks to follow her. They eye her lewdly. They adjust themselves.

God. It must suck to be a girl.

Kayla doesn’t pay the guys any attention, but I can’t help but want to pop them in their drool-covered jaws. She’s not a walking centerfold for them to openly ogle. She’s a human being.

The hot protectiveness slipping through my veins is new to me. It’s not the same as when I want to protect Amber or keep Pixie safe. It’s thicker than that. Meaner. And it’s rooted so deep inside me I can’t pinpoint when it came to life. But it’s very much alive and thrashing wildly in defense of Kayla.

I trail my eyes over her face, down her body, and to our joined wrists, oddly satisfied by the fact that she’s literally locked to my side. Twisted, I know. But everything about this girl tangles me up.

Kayla opens the back door on the driver’s side and motions for me to get in. I awkwardly scoot over to the other side, knocking cups and shoes and other miscellaneous items out of my way as I go. She follows after me, slipping into the car gracefully and crossing her legs like we’re sitting down for tea and not about to break into a set of steel handcuffs.

The setting sun warms the car and all the noise from the street—the birds, the pedestrians, the traffic—disappears the moment she closes the car door. The only sound now is our staggered breaths.

She uncrosses and recrosses her legs. Her black skirt rides up, showing more of her legs, and I inhale through my nose. If I have to see her thighs one more time today I might just explode.

Which is weird for me because I don’t explode. I am a cool cat. I do not get worked up and feverish over girls. Until now. Until Kayla.

Twisted. Tangled. I’m a total mess.

“So.” She lets out a breath and lifts our adjoined hands. “Do you know how to pick locks?”

“Nope. But Google probably does.” I pull my phone from my back pocket and search for how to pick handcuff locks. Then sort through the results.

She leans over my shoulder. “Do the wikiHow page.”

I scroll down. “Nah. I’m going to do the How Things Work page.”

She clucks her tongue. “I’m telling you, wikiHow is better.”

I look at her with a cocked eyebrow. “How would you know? Do you find yourself handcuffed often?”

I immediately picture Kayla handcuffed in other, more sexy situations and all the blood in my body darts for my pants. Dammit.

She lifts her chin. “Do you?”

“Yeah, I’m not answering that.” I pull up the How Things Work page and scan the directions. “Okay, we need a paper clip or something that’s small, flexible, and strong.”

Uncrossing her legs, she pulls her purse onto her lap and rummages through it with both hands, forcing my attached wrist to hang above her bag.

“Your purse is as messy as your car,” I say.

“I know. And you’re welcome.”

“For what?”

“For this.” She pulls out a bobby pin and holds it up. “A less messy purse might not have had a lock-picking device inside.”

I nod. “Point well made.”

Readjusting our wrists so I can see better, I read through the how-to process and I bring our hands to my lap. Her wrist falls dangerously close to my love tool, so I have to slyly reposition our hands so those delicate fingers of hers aren’t near any stroking zones. I can’t help but wonder if she’s ever given a guy a hand job.

And has she ever been handcuffed before? Maybe to a bed? I picture her lying in a tangle of sheets with her pink lips parted as she moans, and her blonde hair tossed around her flushed cheeks, and her throat exposed as she arches her back…

Dammit. Now I’m hard.

What the fuck? I am not a teenager. I have more self-control than this. Usually. I do not like this whole Kayla-Turner-getting-under-my-skin thing. I do not like it one bit.

I glance at Kayla. She’s focused on her phone, looking up lock-picking strategies on wikiHow and completely oblivious to my current state of arousal. I carefully adjust myself and think about grandmas and baseball until I get my body under control.

Looking back down, I insert the bobby pin into the lock hole on my cuff and slowly bend and turn its small tip inside. Nothing. I try a different angle.

“I think you’re turning it wrong,” Kayla says, leaning over my shoulder again. The smell of coconut wafts all around me and I purse my lips. “Let me do it.”

She pulls our wrists back to her lap and slips the pin into the lock on her cuff.

I shake my head. “That’s the same way I was just turning it. And now you’re wrecking the pin. Let me try again.”

I bring our hands back to my lap and fidget with the lock, more aggressively than before, determined to get us out of these things before I get hard again.

“That’s the wrong way,” she says.

I dig deeper into the keyhole. “No, it’s not.”

“You have to twist it up, not to the side. I’ll show you.” She reaches for the pin.

“Back off, Blondie.” I swat her hand away and twist the pin.

“You’re doing it wrong,” she sneers. “Turn it the other way.”

“Shh.”

“The other wa—”

The bobby pin snaps in half and the top breaks off inside the lock. I hold up the broken pin as we stare at the clogged keyhole.

“Great,” she mutters.

I twitch my lips. “I don’t suppose you have another bobby pin in that glorious bag of yours?”

“Nope.”

“Okay. Uh…” I say. “We could go buy a lock-picking kit.”

Not that I have money to buy a lock-picking kit. My palms start to sweat and I wipe them on my jeans.

“Where would we buy a lock-picking kit?” she says.

“The hardware store?” I think for a second. “Actually, I’m not sure. The store owner is pretty stingy about what he stocks. I doubt breaking-and-entering tools are something he splurges on. But maybe the drugstore?”

She leans against the seat and sighs. “Maybe instead of parading around a store in search of a lock-picking kit we could just go buy a pair of bolt cutters and cut the handcuffs off.”

I raise my eyebrows. “Right. Because that won’t look suspicious. ‘Hi Eddie. I know you said we had to keep the handcuffs on all night, but would you believe these babies just sawed themselves in half?’ Yeah, no. I’m not forfeiting the money because your wrist was being a wuss.”

She rubs her temples and inhales through her nose. “You’re right. The money is worth it. We’ll just have to figure out sleeping arrangements for one night and then get back here, bright and early.”

I nod, not sure where Kayla and I are going to sleep tonight. I’d offer up my place, but…

I give her my best grin. “So I guess we’re off to the Quickie Stop for the evening?”

She scoffs. “If you think I’m going to stay the night with you in a porn motel with handcuffs on, then you’re crazier than my hunt-making dad.”

I shrug. “All right. Let’s go back to my place, then. You have everything you need, right? Because I don’t feel like driving across town just to pick up your pajamas. You can wear one of my T-shirts to bed. Or nothing at all, if you wish.” I wink at her. “And I’m sure you’ll sleep like a baby in my bed. Women rave about how comfortable it is.” I plaster on a smile and wait.

Please, dear God, let the idea of sleeping on an oversexed mattress freak her out or piss her off enough to bow out. There is no way—no way—I’m letting Kayla see where I live.

She eyes me skeptically like she knows I’m full of shit and purses her lips in hesitation. She doesn’t want to sleep in a motel room with me, but she also doesn’t want to sleep in a manwhore’s bed. Decisions, decisions.

Her shoulders fall just a smidge, and I know I’ve won.

“Fine,” she says between her teeth. “We’ll stay in my hotel room.” She opens the back door and starts sliding out.

I follow after her and groan as we then climb into the front seat. It’s really quite ridiculous, all the crawling and climbing.

She starts the engine and pulls away from the post office. The sun has fallen behind the horizon now, so the sky is a light purple color and dotted with a handful of stars.

We drive to the edge of town and out of the city limits, following the stretch of freeway I take when I drive to my job at Willow Inn.

Crap.

Ellen.

I really need to call and let her know there’s a small chance I might not be coming into work tomorrow.

I glance down at the handcuffs.

A medium chance.

The engine revs as Kayla picks up speed.

“Slow down, Danica,” I say. “We don’t want your Oompa-Loompa-mobile to peter out and die a slow, green death in the middle of the road.”

She glances in the rearview mirror once, twice, three times and looks increasingly more worried with each view.

“What?” I look behind us. “What’s wrong?”

She bites her lip. “Do you see that black sedan three cars back?”

“Uh… yeah?”

Her eyes dart from the mirror to the windshield. “Do you think it’s following us?”

“To the Quickie Stop? Not likely.”

“No, I mean in general. Like following me.” If it weren’t for the slight tremor in her voice, I’d be scoffing at the idea. But Kayla seems genuinely concerned, so I keep my body language relaxed and my voice casual.

“I don’t think so,” I say. “There aren’t very many streets in this town, so that black car is probably just going the same general direction as us. And besides, I seriously doubt anyone in town wants to be seen with us, let alone follow us around. We’re the dirty couple in handcuffs, remember?” I grin at her but her eyes stay locked on the mirror.

Okay, well this isn’t normal.

“Kayla?” I draw out the word.

She clutches the steering wheel even tighter. “Huh?”

“Why are you so freaked out?”

I watch her swallow. “Okay, well. It’s going to sound crazy, and I’m sure I’m just being jumpy and overdramatic, but…” She chews on her lip. “My mom sort of owes my ex-boss twenty thousand dollars. And Big Joe wanted to collect from me right before I left Chicago by making me work at his diner for free, or something like that. And when I quit he sort of threatened me so I fled town.”

My eyes widen. “And you didn’t think to mention this sooner? Like say, before we agreed to chain our wrists together and make ourselves one incredibly awkward and slow-moving target?”

“I didn’t think Big Joe would come after me!” Her voice squeaks.

“Listen. There’s no need to stress.” I say. “That black car is probably just some little old lady on her way to get groceries.” I inhale softly. “No one is coming after you.”

I look calm, but oh. My. God. Kayla has some Chicago diner villain coming after her for twenty grand? Holy shit. That’s like movie-quality drama. And I’m handcuffed to it!

“You’re right.” She nods and takes a steadying breath. “I’m probably just being paranoid.”

I give her a reassuring smile. “Exactly. Everything’s fine.” I tap my fingers on the center console then furrow my brow. “Wait. If your mom passed away, how does she owe someone money?”

She shrugs. “She must have borrowed it before she died. I knew nothing about the debt until after she was gone.”

I stop tapping my fingers. “So… your mom siphoned all the money out of your trust fund in addition to borrowing twenty thousand dollars from a restaurant thug?”

“Yeah,” she says slowly, her eyes flicking to the side.

I look out the window. “That’s a lot of money. Do you have any guesses on where it all went?”

“I have my theories,” she mutters.

But she doesn’t say anything else on the matter so neither do I.

Several minutes later, the black sedan disappears and Kayla visibly relaxes. The seriousness with which she’s taking the whole Big Joe debt thing alarms me. I don’t know what we’re in for. Mobsters with guns. Street thugs with baseball bats. A lawyer with a strongly worded letter. It could be anything, really.

But fortunately, Kayla no longer has to face “anything” alone. She has me, bound to her side at all times. For a fleeting moment I’m ridiculously grateful for James Turner and his handcuffs idea.

Soon, we pull into the Quickie Stop. I look over the old motel and let out a low whistle.

It really is a shady dump and looks like the setting of a low-budget porno flick. I glance at Kayla as she parks and grabs her purse from the backseat.

Why in the hell is she staying at a shithole like this? Especially with someone who may or may not be coming after her for money. She’s way too pretty and sweet to even step foot onto the premises, let alone lay her pretty head on one of the nasty room pillows.

I wrinkle my brow as she rummages through her purse. Is she really as broke as she claims? Is she so low on cash that she chose the frugality of this place over the safety of Willow Inn or Martha’s Bed & Breakfast?

Well I don’t like that idea at all.

Not just because I hate the fact that she’s sleeping at this dank motel, but because her being poor puts a serious dent in my plans to keep the entire inheritance for myself. I was okay with ripping her off when I thought she was a selfish brat who could afford to sail around the world in a yacht. But now that I know just how not selfish or spoiled she is and how difficult things are for her financially right now, taking money from her is no longer an option. Especially after how Gia robbed the trust fund.

I run my eyes over Kayla’s small hands, still digging around in her purse, and my chest tightens. There’s no way I could ever steal from this girl.

She pulls out her room key—which is an actual metal key hanging from a tacky green plastic keychain—from the depths of her bag and starts to get out of the car.

I get out of the car as well and follow her to door #3. The motel only has sixteen doors. Two look busted and unused, while the others are scraped up and covered in questionable stains and dents.

Bars are in front of every room window, laced with cobwebs and dirt. And the small lights that hang outside each door give off a dull orange glow, which makes the place look like something from a horror movie.

What. In. The. Hell?

As Kayla inserts the key and opens door #3, visions of the world’s creepiest game show pop into my head.

What’s behind door number three? A dead guy! And what’s behind door number two? A murderous clown with a butcher knife!

Flicking the switch inside, Kayla lights up the tiny motel room and I can’t help but make a face.

Shaggy orange carpet sticks up from the floor, matted in some places and clumped together in others. The full-size mattress on the bed is lopsided and covered in a stiff bedspread from the 1970s. It’s orange with brown and green stripes, and has several cigarette burns in it. The smell of stale smoke and urine fills the air, while mysterious stains coat the walls and ceiling—yes, ceiling—complementing the various cracks and dents in the drywall. And the small bathroom in the back has a toilet that looks clean enough, but is probably disgusting inside, and a yellowing sink beneath an old mirror marbled with gold.

A cockroach skitters across the bathroom floor before disappearing into a small hole behind the toilet.

“Yeah, no. We’re not staying here,” I say, shaking my head as Kayla tries to walk us into the room.

She swings her head to me. “Why not? Is my hotel room not good enough for you, Pretty Boy?”

“Your motel room isn’t good enough for the cockroach I just saw dance across the bathroom tile.”

“Well I’m sorry I can’t afford five-star accommodations everywhere I go like your family, but this is how normal people live.”

I want to correct her about my family’s lifestyle, but there’s no point. “This is not how normal people live,” I say. “This is how lowlifes with drug addictions and sex appointments live.”

She juts her chin. “Well too bad. This is where we’re sleeping tonight. It’s been good enough for me for the past two nights, and it will be good enough for you tonight. So suck it up.” She shuts the door behind us and secures the three locks on the back.

It’s a bad sign when the motel installs three fucking locks on their guest room doors.

I open my mouth to protest once again, but think better of it. Our only other option isn’t much better than this, if I’m being honest with myself. And if Kayla’s going to be sleeping in a shithole like this, at least I’ll be with her, which makes me feel a little bit better about tonight. It makes me feel downright pissed about the last two nights, though.

Looking around, I notice the only personal item in the room is a suitcase on the bed. Inside the suitcase are a few clothes and some personal items: a framed picture, a few books, some papers. When Kayla said she “fled” Chicago I assumed she meant temporarily. But why would she bother packing such things if she planned on returning to Chicago?