Page 6 of Lucky Shot
Slowly, he leans down and picks up my bag. His brows arch, possibly in surprise or judgment as he realizes how heavy it is.
“I promise it’s not a dead body,” I say with a nervous chuckle. “I mean, not that an entire body would fit.”
The way he stares at me is so impassive, like I could literally tell him anything and it wouldn’t faze him. It must be for that reason that I keep babbling.
“I guess it could be just the head, but I’m too squeamish for dismembering bodies, let alone transporting them through an airport. I’m more of a ‘plot your demise but never act on it’ kind of girl.”
Hmmm. There’s an idea.
“A woman flees thousands of miles from home with a head in her backpack,” I say like I’m pitching the story concept.
If this man were in charge of judging my idea, his face just told me “that’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard.”
Regardless, I make a mental note to give Lily this story-nugget idea when I text her next. In the world of suspense and horror novels, dead bodies—even dismembered ones—aren’t anything new, but I still like to pass on plot ideas anytime I have one. You never know what will strike a writer at any given moment. Plus, she’ll be impressed by my depravity. My brain is way too Pollyanna for her liking. Sometimes I have to remindmyself that it’s okay to be pissed or mad or anything other than happy. Toxic positivity is a real thing.
Even still, it’s my default mode. Like right now I’m already wondering if the woman in the story will have a happily ever after. Another occupational hazard, I suppose. Maybe she’s been set up.
I snap my fingers and point at the man as I share another brilliant nugget. “A handsome stranger in the airport swapped out her bag!”
“What’s happening right now?” he asks, looking over his shoulder like he expects cameras and a celebrity host to jump out and say, “Gotcha! You’re onAmerica’s Most Awkward Encounters!”
“Nothing,” I mutter, shoulders slumping. My optimism is on a teeter-totter, and he just sent me plummeting back to the bottom with his apathetic demeanor.
“O-kay.” He has this deep, sexy voice, but his tone is all boredom. He extends my backpack toward me. “Here you go.”
“Right.” I take it from him, struggling a lot more with the weight of it than he had. “Thank you.”
I get a nod instead of "you’re welcome" or "no problem” or even “I’m calling security.” Why is indifference the most frustrating response to be on the receiving end of?
He steps past me and rejoins the steady flow of foot traffic. I watch him retreat, head and shoulders above the crowd, until he turns a corner.
Jerk.
Sure, he was nice enough to stop and help me, but would it have killed him to pretend I’m hilarious and charming instead of awkward and klutzy? Whatever. Hot girl summer, take two.
My next stop is the car rental line. The guy working behind the counter moves at an impressively slow pace and everyone shifts their luggage from shoulder to shoulder, inching forwardwith heavy sighs. When I finally make it to the front, his lips curve slowly.
“Hello. Welcome to Moonshot Lake,” he says like I’m the very first customer he’s had all day, and the greeting is a novelty.
“Thank you. I have a reservation?—”
“How are you today?” he asks, leaning forward with something like genuine curiosity on his face. He looks like he’s in his early twenties. His light brown hair is cut in a fade that reminds me of Billy Matthews’s second-grade picture and sends a wave of nostalgia over me. The friendly smile he continues to aim at me takes me by surprise, while also making me feel like an impatient asshole.
“I’m doing well. Thank you. How about you?” I summon a little patience as I set my backpack on the floor between my feet.
“Not too shabby.” With that same slow, unrushed pace he stands straight. He’s a big guy. Tall, although to be honest everyone feels tall to my five feet three inches, but it’s more than his height. He’s wide shouldered and sturdy. He looks like the kind of guy who could wrestle a calf to the ground or block a doorway by simply crossing his arms over his chest. Admittedly, I may have binged one too many episodes ofYellowstonein preparation for this trip.
“Do you have a reservation?” No hint of an accent and didn’t call me darlin’. Pity.
“Yes. Ruby Madison.”
“Ruuuby.” He draws it out, finally hitting me with just a little of that Montana charm I was anticipating. He grins at me as he begins to tap on the keyboard. “Cool name.”
“Thanks.” I glance at his nametag. “Curtis.”
One side of his mouth lifts higher at my use of his name. “I’ve got you in a mid-size for…” He pauses. “Six weeks?”
“That’s right.”
