Read Online Lucky Flash: A Lucky O'Toole Novella (The Lucky O'Toole Vegas Adventure Series) by Deborah Coonts - Free Book Online
Authors: Deborah Coonts
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together. Then, when I’m ready, you can tell me why you’re really here.”
Seated at the counter in my kitchen, wrapped in Turkish terrycloth, my belly comfortably warm with Schramsberg Brut Rosé, I felt fortified enough to deal with the man leaning in the corner with his arms crossed, his legs one over the other, his butt on my counter and his eyes on me.
“So what’s your story, Tumbleweed?”
“I don’t belong in Texas anymore.”
“Another square peg. Lucky tells me all the time that’s what we all are here, square pegs. She also told me once you live in Vegas, you can leave, but you always come back. It’s like some Indian legend or something.” I squinted at him. “You talked to Lucky? She know you’re back in town?”
“No.”
“Chicken.”
“I’ve got some explaining to do. To everybody.”
“Especially to her. Even if she wasn’t going to give you a tumble, she always had your back. Until you stuck a knife in hers.”
Some men are just so damn clueless there ought to be a charity to take them in and train them in the ways of women and the world. A lot of women would love that, but I doubted anyone would be up to the training task—like roping sea lions or something. Dane was a prime candidate, that arrogant yet lost look on his perfect face, hiding the hurt in his emerald green eyes. If I was just a smidge less principled, I’d press that perfect face to my bosom, run my fingers through his thick wavy hair, and just plain make him feel better.
Damn principles. “Well, Cowboy, I’m bettin’ you don’t have any idea where to take your Vegas reentry from here.” His eyes shifted from mine. “I knew it. You pretty boys think just ’cause you show up the world will grovel at your feet, at least the slightly more than fifty percent who are female.”
“This is an unusual situation for me.”
“Ding. Ding. You earn the prize for the biggest understatement of the year. Give that man a stuffed bear.”
The superb sparkling wine lit an idea, probably not a good one, but, with alcohol coursing into my bloodstream rushed in on tiny bubbles of bliss, I didn’t care. “Speakin’ of bears, if you’re planning on holing up in my cave, you gotta earn your keep.” I tried not to cringe at the unintended innuendo.
Thankfully, Dane didn’t take the bait. His eyes narrowed and his shoulders got all hunched. “What’s that got to do with bears?”
“Nothing. That was metaphorical.” I waited to make sure he knew what the word meant. With men, especially pretty ones, you never knew. “I need to talk to Busta’ Blue, and to get his attention I need to bring my own muscle. He got winged last night, then chased by a tiger. Spent the rest of the evening sucking down bottles of Cristal like they were cheap pop at a primo table at Babel.” I glanced at the clock. It read 4:00. Another glance out the window—afternoon. With my life I really needed a twenty-four-hour clock. “Right now, I suspect he’s holed up like a bear in hibernation nursing one serious hangover. And he’ll be about as mean and angry as a bear prodded from a long slumber.”
“Why would we do that?”
“Two reasons. Lucky needs us to, and we need him at a disadvantage if we hope to live.”
Word had it that Busta’ Blue was hangin’ at Dig Me O’Dell’s place on the Strip—the top two floors of one of those glitzy condo buildings stuck in among the casinos. I’m guessing Dig Me was pretty happy his place wasn’t one of the ones that had been constructed out of substandard materials and now sat empty awaiting the wrecking ball. Scratch that. I’m thinking the developer of one of the bad buildings was glad Dig Me wasn’t one of the clients he stiffed. As much as Vegas gave the appearance of having left the old ways behind, scratch just under the surface and you’ll find the old
Seated at the counter in my kitchen, wrapped in Turkish terrycloth, my belly comfortably warm with Schramsberg Brut Rosé, I felt fortified enough to deal with the man leaning in the corner with his arms crossed, his legs one over the other, his butt on my counter and his eyes on me.
“So what’s your story, Tumbleweed?”
“I don’t belong in Texas anymore.”
“Another square peg. Lucky tells me all the time that’s what we all are here, square pegs. She also told me once you live in Vegas, you can leave, but you always come back. It’s like some Indian legend or something.” I squinted at him. “You talked to Lucky? She know you’re back in town?”
“No.”
“Chicken.”
“I’ve got some explaining to do. To everybody.”
“Especially to her. Even if she wasn’t going to give you a tumble, she always had your back. Until you stuck a knife in hers.”
Some men are just so damn clueless there ought to be a charity to take them in and train them in the ways of women and the world. A lot of women would love that, but I doubted anyone would be up to the training task—like roping sea lions or something. Dane was a prime candidate, that arrogant yet lost look on his perfect face, hiding the hurt in his emerald green eyes. If I was just a smidge less principled, I’d press that perfect face to my bosom, run my fingers through his thick wavy hair, and just plain make him feel better.
Damn principles. “Well, Cowboy, I’m bettin’ you don’t have any idea where to take your Vegas reentry from here.” His eyes shifted from mine. “I knew it. You pretty boys think just ’cause you show up the world will grovel at your feet, at least the slightly more than fifty percent who are female.”
“This is an unusual situation for me.”
“Ding. Ding. You earn the prize for the biggest understatement of the year. Give that man a stuffed bear.”
The superb sparkling wine lit an idea, probably not a good one, but, with alcohol coursing into my bloodstream rushed in on tiny bubbles of bliss, I didn’t care. “Speakin’ of bears, if you’re planning on holing up in my cave, you gotta earn your keep.” I tried not to cringe at the unintended innuendo.
Thankfully, Dane didn’t take the bait. His eyes narrowed and his shoulders got all hunched. “What’s that got to do with bears?”
“Nothing. That was metaphorical.” I waited to make sure he knew what the word meant. With men, especially pretty ones, you never knew. “I need to talk to Busta’ Blue, and to get his attention I need to bring my own muscle. He got winged last night, then chased by a tiger. Spent the rest of the evening sucking down bottles of Cristal like they were cheap pop at a primo table at Babel.” I glanced at the clock. It read 4:00. Another glance out the window—afternoon. With my life I really needed a twenty-four-hour clock. “Right now, I suspect he’s holed up like a bear in hibernation nursing one serious hangover. And he’ll be about as mean and angry as a bear prodded from a long slumber.”
“Why would we do that?”
“Two reasons. Lucky needs us to, and we need him at a disadvantage if we hope to live.”
Word had it that Busta’ Blue was hangin’ at Dig Me O’Dell’s place on the Strip—the top two floors of one of those glitzy condo buildings stuck in among the casinos. I’m guessing Dig Me was pretty happy his place wasn’t one of the ones that had been constructed out of substandard materials and now sat empty awaiting the wrecking ball. Scratch that. I’m thinking the developer of one of the bad buildings was glad Dig Me wasn’t one of the clients he stiffed. As much as Vegas gave the appearance of having left the old ways behind, scratch just under the surface and you’ll find the old
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