Better Off Dead (4 page)

“Okay,” Jeff said, and then turned and grabbed up something in his arms.  When he turned back to her, Lucy cooed sweetly.  In his arms was the cutest little golden retriever puppy.  It was one of the few things she’d never been allowed to have.  Her father was allergic.

But her smile hastily faded as she really looked at the little golden bundle of boundless joyful energy.  It was dead.  Not only was it dead, but it was missing an eye and blood was dried in a thick line from its mouth all the way across its chest. 

But it was looking right at her, panting with its little puppy tongue hanging out, and its tail wagging.

“How do you like your gift?”  Jeff said.

~*~

Lucy clawed and screamed her way out of the dream, her eyes opened wide and her head scalded with pain.  She reached up to hold her head, but then her arm joined in on the pain-a-palooza.  She was pressed up against the stained stucco wall, the greasy tiles cold and hard against her body. 

At first everything else was a blur.  Odd shapes hovered around her, and she heard voices.  They were all talking about her.  The only thing that was clear was a blackness that snaked around the periphery of her blurred vision.  It faded into the din as she heard someone say, “I saw her come barreling out of the cooler.”

“Yeah, well, I think she was stuck in there,” said someone else.  “I’ve had that happen before.” 

“And don’t forget Brad and his pickle mishap.  That shit was all over the floor.”

Gradually everything came into focus, and she felt cold and sticky, on top of the pain in her head, shoulder and arm.  There was a tangy, sweet, totally nauseating smell.  She looked down at herself and saw she was covered in special sauce.  It dripped from her hands, was splattered over the black slacks she’d bought on sale at Wal-Mart, and had plastered her McDonalds polo shirt to her chest.  She knew without looking that it was dripping from her chin, and a glob ran cold and wet down the lobe of her right ear.

“Shit Lucy!”  Greg stood over her, eyes wide and his hands on his hips.  He looked pissed.  “Look at the mess you made.”

The pain in her head turned to a hot annoyance as she looked up slowly into Greg’s eyes.  “Mess
I
made?”  Her voice was low and strangely even sounding.  “
You
sent me after too many things at once—”

“You should’ve made two—”

“I got stuck in there because you never had the latch on the door fixed, and I slipped because there was—” She looked over to the floor in front of the walk-in cooler.  There were even some pickle slices shining green against the sandstone red tile.  “Pickle juice on the floor!”

When she looked back up at Greg she saw him gulp.

She was about to point her finger at him and tell him her father’s lawyers were going to sue the shit out of him, and McDonalds, and the company that designed such a faulty latch, when the pain in her arm suddenly sparked to life again and raged like a bonfire.  It sapped her words out of her head and replaced them with raw pain.

There was a long, cold silence, and then Greg said, “We’ll call an ambulance to take you to County.”  His voice was thin and very polite.   

A hospital! And doctors and tests and needles and... 

“I’m fine!”  she snapped, and Greg’s head jerked back at the force of her words.  Seeing the sudden effect of her voice, she forced a fake smile on her face and pulled herself—though cringing at the nagging pain—up off the tile floor. 

“I’m fine,” she said again, this time with smooth sweetness.  All she wanted was to get the hell out of there, and go home.  Her birthday had already been heinous enough; she’d rather not tempt fate anymore.  And she wasn’t about to spend the night in the emergency room.  

“I don’t know.”  Greg was returning to form.  And once Greg got it into his head about something, he always forced the issue.  His beady eyes squinted down at her.  “I think you should go to the hospital and get checked out.”

“I...am...fine!”  That annoyed heat was back in her voice as she rounded on Greg, and practically spit each word at him.  “I didn’t black out,”—which was a lie—“so I don’t need to go to a hospital!”

Her voice ricocheted off the walls like a shotgun blast.  Greg’s eyes bugged out and then he cleared his throat.  “You’ll have to sign a waiver,” he croaked.

“Fine...whatever.”  She shifted her weight and almost fell back into the wall.  She was dizzy, yet still on her feet...with the help of her hand gripping the wall.  “Can you call my Gram to come drive me home?” 

No way was she making it to the bus stop, not to mention all the way home, like this.

~*~

People whirled by in blurred colors and shapes as Lucy sat alone in the booth closest the side entrance.  That’s where Gram would pick her up.  It wasn’t the main entrance to McDonalds, so it was where the least amount of people could see her. 

The globs of special sauce on her chin and ear were easy enough to remove.  She’d tried unsuccessfully to clean the special sauce from her shirt; the goop had soaked into the fabric.  She could have asked if someone had a shirt they could loan her, but she was so tired, and her arm was throbbing incessantly.  She sat in the booth and shivered as the air conditioning made the special sauce cold on her chest.

She was glad though.  Glad that at least that that had been the worst of it.  Her birthday had delivered pain and degradation in spades.  Now all there was to do was go home and take a long hot shower, and then crawl into bed.

One of the blurs of movement stopped right in front of her, and she looked up to see a beautiful couple in a lover’s embrace, kissing like it was the end of a big budget romantic comedy.

She closed her eyes. 
At least someone’s getting it right
.  But when she opened her eyes again
they
stared down at her with mirrored expressions of revulsion on their faces. 

Their faces...so familiar...oh crap!

Lucy’s ex-boyfriend, Jeff Haas, and her ex-best friend, Tara Minger, stood clutching each other, the looks of shock and horror clear and nightmarish on their faces.  But Tara didn’t remain shocked for long.  And with a practiced and horribly malicious smile, she held her perfectly manicured hand to her chest—the chest that had magically grown two cup sizes in six months, and clad in a thin silk sweater that looked like it had been woven onto her body by the demented monks of
Playboy Magazine
.

“Lucy Hart...is that really you?”  She turned her head and made with a faux embarrassed bat of her eyes lashes.  “Omigod!  I so thought you were just some homeless person.”        

Cold tingles ran down her arms, and her heart literally fluttered in horror.  The only thing that warmed her was the burning sensation that had bloomed across her face.  She took a breath, ready to say something, but then she got a look at Jeff. 

Jeff’s face wasn’t cruel, like Tara’s.  No, the look on Jeff’s face knocked the air out of Lucy’s lungs and made each beat of her heart painful.  It was pity she saw in her ex-boyfriend’s eyes.  And as he looked away from her and then slowly shuffled away to the ordering counter, she could well imagine what he was thinking. 

How did she let herself get like that?

I can’t believe I wanted to sleep with that.

Thank god I didn’t...oh thank god...

Tara stood there, lean and strong and so well dressed.  Her hand on her hip, her long shiny blonde hair tossed with practiced perfection as she pursed her lips. 

“Lots has happened since you left.” She gave a happy little laugh.  “Did you really have to leave town on a freaking bus?”

Lucy felt the weight of the world pushing down on her, and that at any moment she would be pulverized into the vinyl seat of the booth. 
Please,
she prayed, tears welling up in her eyes. 
Pulverize me now...   

“Oh well,” Tara chirped. “Back to the real world.  I’m captain of the cheer squad now, and we’re so ready to go to state.  I mean, I’m not knocking your leadership skills, but I know this is going to be our best year ever!”  The manic cheerleader intensity in her voice spiraled in the air and practically dripped sparklers and confetti.  But then her voice dropped to a smooth, robust growl. 

“And if you didn’t catch the show, Jeff’s mine now.”

Even though she hadn’t let herself contemplate Jeff in months, she felt this horrible pang of despair at Tara’s words, and the cruel curl of her freshly glossed lips
.     

She gritted her teeth and forced down the sob that was trying like hell to burst free from her lips. 

We were friends...how can you be so mean?

She learned that from the master,
an inner voice said. 
You reap what you sow.

Tara leaned down closer to Lucy and the friendly smile evaporated.  “And unlike you, I take care of my man’s needs.”  Her eyes sparkled and the curl came back to her lips—she was enjoying herself. 
 

Tara’s voice pitched into a dangerous whisper.  “And I’ve been taking care of his needs since the night your daddy got arrested.”

Lucy stared hard into Tara’s eyes, and the heat in her face moved suddenly to inside her head.  She sat up and glared into Tara’s big, pretty eyes.

“Well then, he’s all yours,” She moved forward until their faces were almost touching.  “But did he tell you what I had him doing when the FBI crashed the party?”

Tara’s eyes opened wide and her mouth turned into a grim line.  “What do you mean?”  She stood up straight again and glowered down at her.

“Just...if Jeff really is yours, then he’ll tell you what we were doing that night.”  She smiled even though her head throbbed and her arm screamed for mercy.  “And if he really is
all yours
, then he’ll let you do it to him too.”

Tara huffed and folded her arms over her surgically enhanced chest.  “Why would I want to play one of your tired old games?  I already said I’m satisfying
all
his needs.”

Lucy leaned back, exhausted but feeling the old satisfaction she’d get from manipulating other’s lives.  “Well, every need but...that
one
.”

Raw anger drew a hard blank stare on Tara’s face.  It made Lucy feel just a tiny bit better.  Impoverished, working at McDonalds, covered in special sauce, she could still knock someone down a peg or two.  But then Tara’s smile came back, and it wasn’t fake.  She was suddenly very happy.

“Too bad your convict father left you so high and dry you have to work in a grease pit like this.”  She flipped her golden locks as she turned to walk over to where Jeff stood mute, and still red-faced embarrassed.  “You
used
to be so pretty.”  She stopped and slowly peered over her shoulder at Lucy, her smile brilliant.  “Have a nice life, you dumpster-diving freak!”

~*~

Gabriel hadn’t slept much all week.  He had entirely too much on his plate, and far too many concerns whirled around in his mind.  Ever since Delia concocted her plan, things had gone all wrong.  The instant she unveiled her scheme to him, to hire some woman to play the part of his secret fiancée, his mother declared that she knew he was hiding something—and she correctly guessed that it was a girl.

Thus, procuring a false fiancée became not just an insane idea, but seemingly their only option.

But Gabriel didn’t have the contacts or the expertise in such covert, dishonest, and probably illegal enterprises.  That was why he’d hesitantly enlisted the aid of his most trusted advisor and friend, his Uncle Dante.

Though Dante was his father’s brother, he had always taken Gabriel’s side in matters, even encouraging his brother to relinquish the CEO position at Enoch Industries to Gabriel in the last year.  When Dante had inadvertently found out about Delia, he’d raged at Gabriel for such poor judgment, and for endangering everyone he held dear, including Delia.

He was also a lawyer, Gabriel’s lawyer, not to mention the head of Enoch Industries legal division, so covert wrangling and deception were nothing new to him.

Yet above all else, Dante was his uncle, and his closest ally.

That said…he was currently having a hard time overlooking his uncle’s abrupt loss of his senses.  He hadn’t expected Dante to go out trolling for potential brides-to-be, but he had never imagined he would recruit someone of such low character to subcontract to.

“Francis?”  Gabriel groused, his gaze burning a hole through his uncle.  “Of all the scum-of-the-earth degenerates you could have reached out to, you picked him?”

They were in Dante’s office at Enoch industries.  The walls were painted a warm brown that was almost a peach.  The furnishings were antique art deco, with clean lines carved out of rich woods.  And though not cluttered, the entire room was used—photos of family and friends, Dante’s law degree, Chamber of Commerce awards, a few pieces of avant-garde art, even a pewter wolf sitting on its haunches, muzzle raised as if baying at the moon.

Dante raised one eyebrow in mock surprise.  “He is loyal to me.”