Leaving Las Vegas (Entangled Ignite) (19 page)

Chapter Twenty-two

Glory threw herself forward, trying to break the handcuffs that tethered her body to a heavy iron radiator. This was not how she’d intended to spend her day. Chained up in an empty bedroom in one of the vacant houses by Black Lake. Clear blue waters flooded the view out of the room’s long windows, the pride and joy of her hometown. She’d finally reached Beaux, but not exactly the way she’d expected.
Damn
that Tiffanette.

What kind of a monster kept chains in her car? Seriously, what kind of a crazy woman woke up and thought, “Hmm, I guess I should put the chains in the SUV today because I might need to torture someone?”

She wrenched around again. The chains held, but the radiator moved. That probably wasn’t the best sign.

Even if she managed to get the radiator free from the floor, she wouldn’t make it very far dragging a giant metal box. And what about Luke? Had he survived the motorcycle crash? Her teeth dug into her bottom lip. He had to have survived. She’d been going slowly enough. The embankment he’d gone over had been covered with shrubbery. Nothing sharp in the way.

He must have survived.

Even if he hadn’t been with her when she woke up.

He must have walked away from the crash. He had to have escaped the thugs.

She couldn’t know for sure, but she could still hope.

Letting out a tired groan, she slumped back against the wall and tried to come up with some kind of plan.

If she were Hallie, she’d pick the locks, rush the door, and blow the whole place up on her way out of town. Ashley would just give her captors a single cold look and her demands to be released would be met.

Unfortunately, the only superpower Glory possessed involved getting into trouble—not escaping once she was caught.

The room she was chained in had a high ceiling, the rusty radiator, and tangerine walls. Someone had been working on the place. There were a bunch of empty boxes stacked in one corner, a bag of garbage hanging off the closet door handle, and a crowbar lying on the ground ten feet away. At least the windows were open, letting in the lush scent of Beaux. Of Black Lake. Of home.

If she leaned forward just a little bit more, she’d probably be able to see the chimney of her family’s big white house rising up two streets over. The DuSang house. The chimney was heavy stone, dragged in from the next county over, and the rooftop was bright metal that shone even on the darkest night. Her grandmother had flown an American flag from the roof’s highest point on special occasions.

She didn’t need to lean over to see Dandelion House nearby, the white rocking chairs lined up neatly on its front porch. It was a beautiful house, but so were all of the old summerhouses that lined the lake.

If she called out long enough, she might be able to get someone’s attention. But then she might not. Most of the houses were empty these days, victims of the developer’s cruelty.

No, there was no chance of rescue. Glory was going to have to save her own self. If Luke were with her, he could help figure out what to do next. The man was good in a pickle.

Together they’d break free of the chains, race out the door, and fall into each other’s arms.

But she’d left things sour between them. The thought made her stomach churn.

What if she never saw him again? No, she sucked in a deep breath. He had to be okay. He had to be safe. The thoughts kept repeating in her mind.

As she sat awkwardly, her knees sore against the hardwood floors, she had some time to review everything that had happened over the last few days. To revel in all the things she’d done right, the lengths she’d gone to and the successes that she’d had, and then to wallow in what she’d done wrong.

The final bet.

A million tiny things.

Dragging Luke halfway across the country.

If only he hadn’t been so damn nice. So understanding. So much fun to be with. If he’d been a jerk, she could have sent him home three days ago. He could have taken the damn car. Even if she couldn’t find a decent rental place on the highway, hitchhiking wasn’t completely out of the question. A couple of hours listening to truckers talking about the way things had been in the old days or stuck between two screaming kids.

Instead, she’d fallen hook, line, and sinker for a guy who wouldn’t know what to do with a hook, a line,
or
a sinker. That should have been a sign.

Luke was too different. He was foreign, exotic, completely alien. Talking to him was like talking to someone from a different planet. Where she knew all about fishing, hiking, and drinking lemonade under the summer sun, he was an expert on cutthroat business tactics and gambling. He’d never even been to a diner before.

The only thing they had in common was a penchant for poker and an inborn need to sing “American Pie” at the top of their lungs. That wasn’t enough to base a relationship on. Or so she’d told herself.

The sex was supposed to have driven him from her system. It was supposed to have fulfilled all the low-down dirty desires she’d suppressed for the last three years. One day of hot, sweaty,
fantasy
sex. That was all she needed.

But she’d gone and asked for more.

Now she wasn’t fantasizing.

She knew how Luke’s arms felt wrapped around her, how he felt inside her, filling her up until she didn’t think she could take anymore. Watching him shuffle cards in Las Vegas she’d known that he was good with his hands—clever fingers capable of making her sit up and pay attention. Instead of putting her newly awakened libido back to sleep, the sex she’d had with Luke had left her hungry for more. But not just hungry for sex. Hungry for a partner who would care about her hopes, dreams, and aspirations. A man who could bring the fireworks in bed and handle the explosions in the rest of her life.

Luke.

Not
Luke. She forced down her gut reaction. The casino tycoon was from Las Vegas, born and raised, but it was more than distance that separated them. It was worldview. He was going back to his shining lights and fancy business deals. He was going to build a freaking parking garage that would ruin a neighborhood.

She was going to stay in Beaux and bring lemon bars to church socials.

There was no middle ground. And that knowledge made her heart ache.

Downstairs, she could hear people talking. She recognized Tiffanette’s voice, but not the man with her. She bent over and pressed her ear to the ground, desperate to hear the conversation.

Something about neon lights and feathers.

Then a name.

“Luke.” The man’s voice rose. “This is all his fault. Where the hell is he? With him gone, I’ll have the position in society to give you everything you’ve ever wanted. Money, fame—”

“Yeah, yeah,” Tiffanette snarled. “I’ve heard it before. Now help me find my pants. I need to go check on the girl.”

Glory’s throat went dry.

Tiffanette was on her way up. The woman was violent. Unpredictable.
But she didn’t have Luke.

That meant he was safe. And most likely gone. Back to Las Vegas and his real life.

But she wasn’t safe. She had to get out of there. Standing up, she tested the chains a second time. The bolts holding the radiator to the ground squeaked. She glanced around the room, looking for something she could use to free herself. Nothing. No good.

Another tug. The chains were locked around one of the radiator bars with one of those locks from the hardware store. As she rattled it up and down, she tried to figure out a way to take the thing apart. If only she had some supplies. Nothing much, just a crowbar, an electric saw, and a sledgehammer.

Justin would tell her to look for the weak points.

Mrs. Marsters would tell her to look for a weak point. If there was no weak point, then she should make one.

She took a deep breath and focused. The radiator was made out of metal, molded into an intricate floral pattern and painted white. It was decorative and useful. It was also old, brittle. The strongest point would be near the top, where the bars were bent over in one solid piece. The weak point would be at the bottom.

She bent low, scraping the metal cuff against the bars as she looked for weld marks. Any place the metal had been joined together, that was where it would be weakest. There—a rather bad weld mark sat at the bottom of the radiator. She worked the chains until they sat right over the weld.

This was going to hurt. A lot. The last time she’d gone to the gym had been three years earlier. Most of her exercise came from lifting bags of potatoes.

Squeezing her eyes shut, she took a deep breath and lunged away from the radiator, yanking on the chain wrapped around her wrists. The radiator shook. Ancient metal groaned. Her hand felt like it was going to fall off. She’d have a bruise in the morning. Or worse. But one leg of the radiator came up off the floor. She slipped her hand out. She had one hand free. Just one. Her other hand remained chained up and too far from the broken weld to slip away.

“Poor little thing.” She could practically hear Cara May’s tongue clicking against her teeth. “Never really had a chance. The preacher was a good man, and—Lord knows—I did my best to help, but there’s no explaining some peoples’ choices. She’d bring a spoon to a knife fight.”

If she didn’t escape she’d never see anyone from Beaux again. Her family. Not just the ones who were related to her by blood, but Cara May and Justin. All the kids she’d watched grow up and all the church ladies who’d helped raise her. They’d be devastated, torn apart by her death.

Time to look for a spoon.

Glory patted down the pockets of her borrowed clothes, searching for anything she might have overlooked. Nothing. She raised her free hand to her neck, frowning when her cross clacked loudly against her borrowed watch. The cross. Her hand fumbled with the catch. It was taking too long. She pulled hard, breaking the chain and scrambling to catch her family heirloom as it fell toward the ground.

The charm wasn’t much as far as heirlooms went. A heavy silver cross held on to the chain by a silver loop. Glory put it on the ground, holding it carefully against the hardwood while she stepped on the end with her heavy borrowed boots. Steel-toed boots. Smashing the loop into a fine point.

Sweat beaded on her brow as she shoved the pointed end into the lock. Wiggled it around. She didn’t know what she was doing. Criminals in movies were always picking their way out of handcuffs and locks and stuff. They always made it look so easy. Liars. She took a deep breath, hoping, praying. Her eyes squeezed shut. The world felt too small. She was trapped, captured—

Click
. The sound of the lock opening filled the small room. Glory let out a deep gust of air. Her eyes flickered open. Freedom. She shucked the chain off her wrist and darted across to the windows, ready to find something to shimmy down. Some intricately carved gingerbread, rose trellises, even a nicely anchored drainpipe would work. It didn’t matter. She might be a novice lock picker, but she was an excellent shimmier. Her adventures with the bathroom window at the diner had proven that.

She peered outside. Nothing. The side of the house was as slick as a married man sneaking in at dawn.

She could hear Tiffanette walking up the stairs.

New plan
. She dodged across the room, snagging the crowbar from where it was lying on the scarred wooden floors. She ducked behind the door, holding her breath as it swung open. A squeak would have been ominous, but it swung silently on well-oiled hinges.

“Glory, Glory,
Glory
,” Tiffanette said. “You’ve been nothing but trouble. I should have known you’d make a bad hostage.” Her breath caught in her throat when she realized Glory wasn’t still chained against the radiator. “Damn it!” she shrieked, then ran to the open window.

One step. Two. Three steps, and then Glory made her move. She stepped out of the shadows behind the door. Swung the crowbar. Hard. Just like swinging a baseball bat in one of the pickup games the townspeople played all summer long.

Thud
. The crowbar connected with Tiffanette’s shoulders, the rusty metal dark against Tiffanette’s bare skin and burnt-orange halter top. The reverberations made Glory’s arms shake.

She ran.

Every movement made her body scream, aches and pains flaring up all over, a small reminder of the motorcycle accident. She gripped the banister with one hand, curled the other protectively over her waist. None of it helped her throbbing temple or shaking knees. A gust of wind blew through an open window and she pitched forward, stumbling down the last few steps into the center hall colonial’s wide entryway.

Click
. The sound of a hammer being dropped on an old-school revolver made her freeze in place.

A man stepped out of the nearest doorway, short, frumpy, and vaguely familiar. His hair was thinning, and when he raised his gun she could see sweat stains under his armpits. That didn’t make him any less terrifying.

“Up against the wall. Go on.” The gun waved wildly. “With your hands up!”

“Chester.” Out of his fancy suit, it had taken her a few seconds to recognize him, but now there was no getting around the facts. He was the same Chester from the poker game. Luke’s stepfather. “You set all this up? Luke’s your family. How can you want to kill your own stepson?”

“That boy never liked me. Never listened to a word I had to say.” Chester’s cheeks were a deep red. His head bobbed up and down angrily.

“And you think stealing his money will help?”

“I’m not interested in chicken feed,” Chester said. “This is about getting what I deserve. Getting what’s coming to me—”

“Us,” Tiffanette interrupted. “It’s about getting what’s coming to
us
.”

Damn
. Glory must not have hit her that hard after all, because the showgirl was making her way unsteadily down the stairs.

For a moment Glory’s mind went blank. This
had
to be about money. That’s why people had other people kidnapped. Put out hits on other people. For money, right?

“
I’m
going to be a headliner
.” No. Kidnapping Luke wasn’t just about money. She sucked in a breath. It was about twelve hotels, three casinos, and the music hall opening next month. Cleopatra’s Asp. Luke had said his mother would inherit everything if he died. His mother, who’d married a man who preyed on her loneliness.