She laughs again. “You’re stuck, Vic. There’s no way out. No one is coming to save you.” She sniffs, and something brushes against the speaker like she might be wiping away tears of utter hilarity from her cheeks. “It doesn’t matter who you call, I’ve made sure you can’t get out.” The crack of hands slapping together with glee meets my ears through the phone speaker.
Groaning, I drag a hand over my face. “You paid to keep me here the whole time?”
“And then some.” Her voice is laced with delight. “It’s all for a good cause.”
“Yeah, yeah.” It is. But that doesn’t mean I want to spend an hour of study time in a cage looking like an exotic bird in this damn orange suit.
“Get comfy. You never know. Maybe your Prince Charming will get sent to prison too, and you’ll live happily ever after.” Her voice breaks on the last line as she dissolves into even more frenzied laughter.
I suppose it could be worse. She could have not given a shit that I left Iowa at all. If sending my ass to prison for a fundraiser is as much punishment as I’m going to get, I guess I should shut up and do my time.
“Fine.” I huff out a puff of air. “But no princes. No more men.”
“They aren’t all like that enormous dickwad you ran away to Colorado with.”
Prickles of pain radiate through my chest like each of her words lands a direct hit as a fresh wave of heat sears the back of my neck. I’ve known Jazz since we were awkward teens at band camp, but I’ll never get used to her being so…on the nose.
“No more men.” I’m resolved. Really. I am. No dick is worth a broken heart.
“How about no more hockey players.”
“Fine. No more hockey players,” I repeat with a firm nod.
And I mean it.
Movement to my right pulls my attention outside my fake cell. Fresh prisoner meat approaches the check-in desk. If the light didn’t catch his super dark hair I’d say it was black, but it’s got hints of red in it. Is he a redhead too?
His lopsided smile with a glimmer of mischief doesn’t work on the woman at reception—she still processes him into fake-jail—but I bet he gets his way more often than not.
“Vic?” Jazz is on the other end of the phone. I’m glad she can’t see me drooling over whoever the guy walking toward my cell right now is. I’m already retracting my “no more men” manifesto for this one. I can put my man hating in temporary time out.
His smile lights up the room, which considering it’sJanuary in Iowa is pretty hard to do. And he’s not even smiling directly at me.
“Vic?”
“Gotta go.” Hanging up, I attempt to smooth out my unruly auburn curls with my palms. I should have washed it this morning, dammit. Matted pre-wash-day curls are the worst.
Actually, a bright orange jumpsuit on a redhead is the worst.
There’s no fixing this.
My phone buzzes on my thigh.
Jazz: Did Prince Charming show up?
Victoria: No. But I do have a cellmate.
Jazz: Is he cute?
The air in the makeshift cell changes as he plops down on the bench about a foot to my left.
“No hockey players, eh? Someone do you dirty? I know some people. We could make sure they never find his body.” He crosses his long, muscular legs at his ankles, and stretches back, tucking both hands behind his head as he leans against the wall.
Jazz: He’s cute, isn’t he?
The weight of his stare on my face makes me turn to look at him. His blue eyes dance with delight and appraisal. My dude must have hit his head if he thinks his Prison Chic look is going to get him anywhere.
Victoria: No.
