Perfect Kind Of Trouble

3 Kayla

I knew today was going to suck the moment I woke up with a spider on my face.

A spider.

ON MY FACE.

This is what happens when the only motel you can afford is a lopsided building called THE QUICKIE STOP.

But the spider wasn’t the only thing that kicked this day off to a stellar start.

First there were the mysterious body hairs on the nightstand that I accidentally touched when I tripped over the 1970s porn rug that coats the floor. A shaggy porn rug—because a flat porn rug just wouldn’t have been gross enough. Followed by the trickle of ice-cold water from the mold-caked shower, which turned out to be the home of my friendly face spider from earlier. And lastly, there was the lovely smell of cat urine that wafted in through the rusted ceiling vent all morning.

So I’m not exactly in a good mood by the time I’m dressed and ready to leave. But I’ve handled worse. Much worse. This might be a crappy motel room, but it’s a luxury establishment compared to the roach-infested place I left back in Chicago.

I catch sight of my reflection in the bathroom mirror and scowl. I suppose I’m dressed the way one is supposed to be for the reading of a will. A royal blue blouse with a black pencil skirt and black heels. The top is too fitted for my comfort, molding around my breasts and making me feel like I’m on display. And the neckline is relatively respectable but if I were to lean over my cleavage would hang out. Note to self: No leaning. The skirt is worn and a little too short to be considered professional, but it’s the only one I have so it will have to do. And the shoes are scuffed up and old, but from far away they look decent enough. Overall, it’s not my favorite outfit. I don’t like tight clothes that emphasize my hourglass figure. But since my only other options are jeans, pajamas, or the thick gray dress I sweat through in the summer sun yesterday, this is what I’m wearing.

I throw my purse over my shoulder and grab my car keys. All I have to do is get through one stupid meeting with Dad’s lawyer—the same lawyer who called last week to shockingly inform me that my father had passed away—then I can pack my things and head home. Although “home” doesn’t really mean much when everything you own fits in one small brown bag.

My eyes drop to the suitcase on the bed and a ball of stress forms in the pit of my stomach. I have no idea what my next move is. Not just in Copper Springs, but in life. Riffling through my purse, I find my wallet and count the bills within.

Thirty-six dollars. Crap.

I shove a hand into my bra, where I always keep emergency money.

Twenty-one dollars.

I pull off my right high heel, carefully pull up the black leather sole, and lift a precious few bills from the hiding place below—where I keep my emergency emergency money.

Eighteen dollars.

So altogether I have… seventy-five dollars. To my name.

Every other penny I had was spent on my trip out here and I couldn’t qualify for a credit card if my life depended on it—which it might, if things keep going the way they have—so I’m officially broke. And unemployed. And homeless.

The ball of stress tightens.

I had a job at a diner back in Chicago, but when I asked my boss, Big Joe, for time off for my father’s funeral, he refused. So I quit—which didn’t go over well.

Unbeknownst to me, my mother, Gia, had borrowed $20,000 from Big Joe to pay off some old debts. I knew nothing about this until I tried to leave and Big Joe started demanding his money. Since my mom was no longer able to pay him back, he insisted that I work for free in order to pay off her debt. It was a threat, not a negotiation, and I was scared out of my mind.

My lease was up at the roachy apartment so I packed up my stuff, cashed my last paycheck, and drove out to Arizona. And now, even if I had the gas money to drive back to Chicago, there’s no way I’d be able to afford a place to live and I’d be forced to work for Big Joe until my mom’s debt was settled. And knowing Big Joe, he’d probably demand reimbursement in other ways too, like by smacking my ass or squeezing my boob. Or worse.

I shudder.

I’m broke, but I’m not a prostitute. I’d rather sleep on a park bench than let myself be groped for favors.

Ugh. I might actually have to sleep on a park bench.

I shake myself from the thought. One day at a time, Kayla. Just get through one day at a time. God. Life isn’t going the way I’d hoped at all.

I’m supposed to be in nursing school right now with a bright future ahead of me. Instead, I’m on the run from a debt collector, attending unforeseen funerals, and waking up with arachnids on my face.

Stuffing all my emergency dollars back into their designated hiding places, I exit the motel room. It rained all night but the storm passed quickly, leaving the air clean and crisp, and a lungful of fresh air lightens my mood a bit as I head through the parking lot and climb inside my mom’s car. Although, I guess it’s mine now.

It’s the color of dying grass, a few decades past its prime, and beat-up at every corner, but I’m not complaining. It has four wheels and doesn’t smell like pee. In my book, it may as well be a limousine.

I drive through the small-town streets of Copper Springs and a hint of nostalgia wafts over me. The best years of my life were spent here; first living as a family when my parents were still married, and then visiting my dad every summer after they divorced and my mom and I moved away.

The cute storefronts and well-manicured streets look every bit as pleasant as they actually are—or were. I haven’t been back here in over five years. My plan was to never return at all, but it just seemed wrong not to come to my father’s funeral. And if I’m being honest with myself, I needed the closure. Especially after the way my mom passed away…

Don’t think about it. Don’t think about it.

I swallow and concentrate on the road, forcing my mind to stray somewhere else—anywhere else. I easily find the lawyer’s office and park. Then silently give myself a little pep talk.

I know my dad didn’t leave me anything in his will, which is no shock. He didn’t share his money with me when he was alive so why would I expect his death to change anything? But I can’t help but feel a little disappointed.

Being a descendant of the original town founders, Dad owned quite a bit of land in Copper Springs—including most of the town square, which made him relatively wealthy. The most valuable thing he owned was Milly Manor, his stately home on the outskirts of town. Since it was a historic building, my father always let people take tours and pictures of the place. He was always more than happy to share his home with the people of Copper Springs.

So when the lawyer called me last week and explained that my father had donated his estate and all of his belongings to the town, I wasn’t that surprised. But when he said he needed my signature to finalize some of Dad’s will papers, then I was surprised—and not in a good way.

I went through a myriad of emotions: shock, curiosity, bitterness, annoyance. It seemed needlessly cruel for my father to ignore me for five years and then have the balls to ask me to come out to Arizona to sign off on all the expensive crap he wanted to give to other people. Especially when my mother and I lived like paupers and he barely offered us a smile, let alone a handout.

Nevertheless, I’m here, so I will sign his precious papers. Surely, I can do that gracefully. Or at least without cursing or spitting.

Turning off the car, I stare at the lawyer’s office door and fidget with my keys, then pull down the visor and fuss with my long hair in the mirror. I already feel out of place and I’m still in my own car. Maybe this was a bad idea. Maybe I should have stayed back in Chicago and suffered through the debt payment. Though, even in Chicago I felt out of place… even more since Mom died.

I immediately shift my thoughts, flick the visor up, and exit the car. There is a time to mourn and that time has passed. Straightening my shoulders, I stride inside the lawyer’s office.

The first thing I notice is that Mr. Perkins is quite possibly the most unorganized lawyer of all time. Papers and files are everywhere, with no rhyme or reason to their placement, and random articles and pictures are taped up on the walls like this is his seventh-grade bedroom and not the place he practices law.

The second thing I notice is the guy sitting on the black pleather couch against the far wall. Purple shirt. Dark jeans. Devilish good looks…

Ah, hell.

I knew he looked familiar at the funeral yesterday but now, without sunglasses covering his dark brown eyes, there’s no doubt.

“Daren Ackwood,” I say.

He grins up at me and a dimple appears. “Kayla Turner.”

You know how some people are so good-looking you just want to stare at them with your mouth open? Daren is that kind of handsome.

No. Handsome isn’t the right word.

He’s beautiful.

And he has been since he was a kid.

His dark brown hair is short and styled in a messy way that looks like he just rolled out of bed and into a Hot Guy catalogue, and matches the thick eyebrows arching over a pair of chocolate-colored eyes. A golden tan dusts the skin of his corded neck and the sinewy muscles of his forearms, stretching out from rolled-up sleeves and down to long, sturdy fingers. And his mouth is a distraction in itself, all full lips and white teeth, as the edge of his smile dips into that one naughty dimple on his left cheek. He looks like pure trouble.

His devastating good looks, in combination with his family’s ridiculous wealth, drew every girl in Copper Springs to him like a magnet—or so I heard.

After age five, I only visited this town once a year so I didn’t have a lot of time to make friends. I really only had one close friend in town, Lana, who moved away after high school. But when I was thirteen and Daren started doing yard work for my dad, Lana was beside herself, always making up excuses to come over to my house so she could drool over him. It was ridiculous how smitten she was. And she wasn’t the only one.

Soon everyone in town knew Daren worked for my dad, so anytime I’d meet a local girl she would always ask the same giggly thing: “Do you know Daren Ackwood?”

The answer was no. I didn’t know Daren Ackwood. I saw him through the kitchen window sometimes, and I was always aware of him when he was working in the yard—especially when he didn’t have a shirt on—but I didn’t know Daren Ackwood, and he didn’t know me. We never spoke. We never interacted. Frankly, I’m surprised he knows my name.

For a moment we just stare at each other, him seated leisurely with his legs spread apart and me standing in my last pair of high heels with a bored expression.

“It’s good to see you.” His eyes slip over me with another dirty smile lifting up his clean-shaven face.

Oh, he’s trouble, all right. The kind of trouble I can’t afford to get into.

I’ve heard more stories than I care to admit about Daren’s sexual prowess. All through high school, Lana kept me up to date on all things Copper Springs, including Daren the Woman Whisperer—that’s what she called him.

According to Lana, and every other girl at Copper Springs High, Daren was some kind of god in bed. I doubt any of the things she told me were true, but they certainly gave Daren quite the reputation.

Regardless of the rumors, I know his type. They charm and seduce and leave a trail of broken hearts in their wake. I have no intention of being a left-behind heart. Not for Daren or anyone else. So I’m careful to keep my expression neutral as I glance over his wrinkled clothes.

“Nice outfit,” I say. “Did you forget to go home last night?” I raise a judgmental eyebrow, just to drive home my disapproval.

His dirty smile grows. “Something like that.”

Whore.

“Oh, hello! You must be Kayla.” An older gentleman with thick white eyebrows and balding hair and a cheerful expression emerges from a door at the back of the office. His short, round frame wades through the minefield of papers and over to me. “I’m Eddie Perkins.” He holds out his hand.

I shake it firmly. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Perkins.”

“It’s very nice to meet you, Ms. Turner,” he says. “Though I wish it were under different circumstances.” His cheery face sobers. “I’m so sorry for your loss.”

Yes, yes. My dad is dead. We’re all sad.

I smile politely. “Thank you.”

“I’m pleased that you showed up,” he says. “Your father didn’t think you’d come, you know, but I’m glad you proved him wrong.” He smiles warmly then looks around. “Now where… are my… glasses…?” He pats down his suit coat and turns around in a circle as he searches the pockets of his pants.

“On your head, Eddie,” Daren says.

He taps his head until his hand smacks against the reading glasses propped in his sparse white hair. “Oh! There they are.” He smiles as he pulls the glasses down and sets them on his face. “I’m always forgetting where I put them. Now”—he clasps his hands together—“since everyone is here should we get right down to it?”

I look around and pause. “Everyone?”

The lawyer pulls off the glasses he just put on. “Yes. You and Mr. Ackwood were the only two requested.” He shoves a hand into his inner coat pocket and comes up empty, muttering, “Now… where is my handkerchief?”

Wrinkling my brow, I say, “My dad asked that Daren be here?”

“Yes. Oh, here it is.” The lawyer pulls a yellow handkerchief from his back pocket and starts cleaning his glasses.

I blink a few times. “Why?”

Daren answers, “Your dad owes me some baseball cards.”

I stare at him. “Huh?”

“You are both here to sign papers, Ms. Turner.” Mr. Perkins tucks the handkerchief into his coat pocket and props the eyeglasses back on his face. “But first we need to go over your father’s will.” He scratches his head. “Where did I put the will?” He looks at his messy desk. “It was just here a moment ago.” He shuffles a few papers around then starts digging through a tall filing cabinet.

“By the coffee pot,” Daren says.

“Oh, that’s right.” Eddie smiles as he retrieves my father’s paperwork from a small kitchenette in the corner.

I love that my father’s will was carefully filed between a set of ceramic mugs and a bottle of powdered coffee creamer.

“I still don’t understand,” I say.

Mr. Perkins looks at me and shrugs. “Perhaps your father’s baseball card collection is why Mr. Ackwood’s presence was requested.”

“It’s actually my collection,” Daren corrects. “Turner was just holding on to the cards for me. Kind of.”

I look at Daren first then the lawyer. “I thought my father didn’t have any belongings to bestow to anyone. I thought he gave everything away before he died.”

“Most everything.” Mr. Perkins gestures to the couch. “Please. Have a seat.”

I look at my only seating option and inwardly groan. Daren is sitting on the fake leather couch with one tan arm stretched over the backrest while the other casually hangs off the armrest, stretching out his broad chest, and his right leg expands out with his opposite ankle propped on the knee. God. Could he take up any more space?

His brown eyes dance with amusement like he knows just how obnoxious his splayed-out limbs are and is waiting to see how I react. I pointedly avert my gaze and situate myself on the far end of the sofa, squeezing my hips as close to the other armrest as possible to avoid touching him. He looks at me with a hint of a smile. I ignore him and cross my legs with a deep inhale.

Daren smells good. Really good. Like oranges or lemons or something. Clean and fresh.

How in the hell does he smell good when he’s wearing a walk-of-shame outfit and yesterday’s deodorant?

Mr. Perkins leans his round frame against his cluttered desk as he silently reads through the will then looks up. “What it comes down to is this: Mr. Turner donated Milly Manor to the town of Copper Springs and designated a few personal items to some of his close friends.”

I tilt my head. “He left personal items to friends?”

He nods. “There were a few things he wanted to give to his loved ones.” He refers to the papers. “He donated all of his books to the local library. He left his golfing equipment to Gus Ferguson—you might know him as Golf Cart Gus. And his antique furniture and record collection he gave to Valerie Oswald.”

I bite my tongue to keep from cursing. My father donated everything but a handful of possessions, and of course he left those things to a guy named Golf Cart Gus and some woman I’ve never heard of before. Typical James Turner. Slighting his daughter, even in death.

“Of course, Gus and Valerie weren’t requested for the reading today because Mr. Turner settled his affairs with them before his passing.” Eddie pushes his glasses up with a plump finger and looks at us. “Which brings us to his unfinished business with the two of you.” He leafs through the folder and distractedly says, “Although I don’t believe… it concerns Mr. Turner’s… baseball card collection.”

“It’s actually my collection,” Daren repeats.

I snap my eyes to him. “Why are you even here?”

“Uh… because your father and I had an arrangement concerning my baseball cards. Have I not made that clear?”

“Oh, you’ve made it clear. You’ve made it crystal clear,” I say, feeling my pulse rise. “I just don’t understand why my father is leaving a bunch of crap to people I don’t even know.”

Daren mocks an offended look. “You know me.”

“Do I?” I say, mimicking his sarcasm. “No. I know of you, but I don’t know you. So forgive me if I don’t understand what you’re doing at the reading of my father’s will.”

His charming good looks ice over and a muscle works in his jaw. “I spent more time with your father than you ever did. If anyone’s presence here is unmerited it’s yours.”

Our eyes lock in a gaze of mutual contempt. Daren’s attendance at this very personal, and somewhat heartbreaking, will reading makes me want to howl. He knows nothing about my father and me. Nothing.

Mr. Perkins clears his throat and we break our gaze to look back at him.

“James Turner’s last wishes were to leave something to you both. Something he entrusted to me.” He sets the folder down and scratches his head again before scurrying about the messy room. “I know I had it here somewhere…”

I have no idea what the bumbling man is looking for now, but after spending two minutes with him, I’m impressed he managed to leave his house today without forgetting to put on pants.

Daren leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees as he watches Mr. Perkins fret about the room. I watch as he laces his long fingers and casually taps the pads of his thumbs together.

“Ah, yes. Here it is.” The lawyer holds up a DVD then slips it into a large TV across the room and cues it up. “James put together this will himself just a few months ago. I only opened the initial package last week. Inside, he requested that the two of you be present for this video message.”

He presses Play and my father appears on the screen. His brown hair is grayer than I remember, his green eyes a bit faded, and he’s thinner than ever before, but everything else about his youthful face is the same. He was in his fifties when the cancer took him, but he looked like he was thirty and probably acted like he was twenty. Mom always said that’s what she loved most about him—his childlike silliness. That’s what I liked most about him too.

My heart twists and I drop my eyes to concentrate on a small tear in the couch. That was a long time ago. I look back up.

James Turner is dressed in a tweed jacket and tie, and has his thin-rimmed glasses on. He looks like a college professor from the ’50s. All he’s missing is a pipe and a mustache. And he really did smoke a pipe when he was alive.

He was an eccentric man, always goofing around and doing odd things. But he was good to our family when I was young. My parents divorced when I was six, but before they broke up we used to go on a family picnic every Sunday. My dad would send my mom and I on little scavenger hunts for things like white roses and four-leaf clovers and then we’d lay our blue-and-white-checkered quilt on the grass and eat fried chicken until the sun set.

That was before my mom decided she’d rather be single and swept me off to Chicago. And before my dad decided he didn’t want a family anymore.

I stare down at the couch rip until I hear my father clear his throat. “Hello, Kayla and Daren.” I look up. “If you’re watching this, then I assume I’m dead. Which is unfortunate, because I really liked being alive.”

I already hate this.

“Nevertheless, now that I’m gone I have a letter I want to leave to you—to both of you. The only catch is that you two must agree to wear handcuffs while retrieving it.”

I blink, not sure I heard him correctly.

He smiles. “It’s really the only way to ensure that you stay together and cooperate with each other. You’re both only children with circumstances that have taught you not to rely on others, and being such, I’m sure your first instincts will be to separate and go at it alone. So you’ll understand why I feel the handcuffs are necessary.”

My jaw drops. It actually falls open in shock.

Handcuffs?

Handcuffs? What the hell?

He continues, “I’m sure this sounds preposterous and I have no doubt you both hate this idea but you might someday thank me for it anyway.” He winks at the camera. “Happy hunting.”

And the screen goes black.

Is he—what in the—why would—

WHAT. THE. HELL.

I shift my eyes from the lawyer to the TV and back to the lawyer. I don’t even know where to start.

“That’s it?” I say, stunned. “That five-second message is the entire video from my deceased father?”

Mr. Perkins nervously nods.

I let out a sharp exhale in disbelief. My father has a chance to say his final words to me and he chooses “Wear handcuffs” and “Happy hunting”?

If he weren’t already dead I’d go kill him myself.

Daren puckers his lips and furrows his brow. “I don’t get it.”

Mr. Perkins inhales slowly. “It seems Mr. Turner wants you and Kayla to be handcuffed together while you go find a letter.”

My jaw is still hanging open like a broken nutcracker soldier. What the hell is happening right now?

“Yeah, I got that. But go ‘find’ a letter?” Daren squints. “What does that mean? Is the letter lost?”

I drop my face into my hands, trying to get a grip on the emotion swelling behind my eyes. James Turner couldn’t be a normal father, oh no. He couldn’t just leave me a message saying he loved me or that he was sorry for being a deadbeat dad these last few years, no way. He had to be his usual pompous self and leave me some cryptic video note.

I pull my head up and blink a few times. I will not cry. I will not cry.

Mr. Perkins refers to his papers again before reading out loud, “ ‘If Kayla and Daren work together while handcuffed, they should be able to complete their task in a single day.’ ”

All words fail me. I want to cry and scream and laugh hysterically. I might do all three. Right here on this squeaky black couch. In front of God, and Mr. Perkins, and Daren effing Ackwood.

“It’s going to take a whole day to pick up this letter?” Daren looks just as baffled as I feel. “Where did Turner leave it, in another state?”

The letter. Right. Because that’s the crazy piece in this crackpot puzzle.

“ ‘But if they fail to cooperate with each other,’ ” Mr. Perkins continues, “ ‘their mission may take longer.’ ”

“Mission?” Daren says. “What are we, spies?”

“So let me get this straight.” Shifting in my seat, I press my lips together and try to control the anger bubbling up inside me. “The only thing my father left me, his only child, in his will was a stupid letter? And the only way I can get this stupid letter is by handcuffing—handcuffing—myself to a total stranger?”

“Wha—” Daren turns to me and makes a face. “I’m not a stranger. And I’ll have you know, lots of girls would be happy to be handcuffed to me.” He pulls a crooked smile. “Some actually have been.”

Something in his expression wavers, making me question the cockiness in his eyes—not the fact that girls have played sexy handcuff games with him, just the arrogance with which he announced it, and I stare at him incredulously.

“Yeah, well, lots of girls are morons.” I turn back to the lawyer and plead, “Please tell me I’m misunderstanding and that this is all just some horrid nightmare.”

“Nightmare.” Daren lifts an eyebrow. “That’s a bit dramatic, don’t you think?”

“You are not misunderstanding, Ms. Turner.” Mr. Perkins pulls his handkerchief back out and dabs his lip again. “Your father does, in fact, want you to handcuff yourself to Daren while you retrieve the letter he left you.”

I laugh darkly and lean back on the couch with my already broken heart breaking into more pieces than I even knew were left. “Fantastic,” I mutter.

It was sad when my father missed by sixteenth birthday. It was hurtful when he stopped returning my phone calls every year after that. But failing to leave me anything in his will other than a ridiculous hide-and-seek game for what is probably a disappointing handwritten message scrawled out on his monogrammed stationery is just. Plain. Insulting.

And I thought the face spider was bad.