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Chapter one
Mina
Sometimes,agoodmandoesfall out of the sky.
Five years ago, on the worst day of my life, Timothy Foley landed at my feet after a jump from a second-story balcony. Tonight, he drops into the limo via the sunroof, landing—through some impressive contortions—on my lap to the utter amazement of the friends sitting across from me.
“Why yes, Mina,” he drawls with a diabolical grin, eyes crinkling at the corners, dimples popping. “Itdidhurt when I fell out of heaven.”
“You’re an overgrown lapdog,” I complain, digging my fingers into his ticklish ribs to dislodge him from my lap. He howls, spilling into the seat next to me—all two-hundred-some muscled pounds of him.
He might fall out of the sky all the damn time—forfun—but that’s not me. My heart is banging around my chest and if the cold sweat I’m now sporting ruins this beautiful midnight blue Mioe dress, I will kill him. That he gave it to me for my birthday two hours ago will not save him from my wrath.
This dress is everything I am not. It’s freedom and luxury and wild nights. Wearing it, I could be someone who’d jump through the sunroof of a limo.
“You love me,” Timothy teases, and I do. He’s my best friend, though we’re cut from a very different cloth. I’m the calm he craves, he’s the thrill that inspires me—from a safe distance. It sounds like a bunch of bullshit, but it’s woven into us in a way that’s hard to put into words.
We just…work.
It used to terrify me, the idea of Timothy let loose in my life. Like the Tasmanian Devil, he’d whirl through, tossing my careful existence into the air and leaving me precariously perched in his wake. But something about him drew me in and I’ve never had cause to regret it. He never pushes my boundaries.
He’s my person.
“Do I though?” I ask in response to his certainty of my love, side-eyeing him as the limo slinks through LA traffic.
“Yes.” He pulls me into a hug, enveloping me in the fresh citrusy scent of his cologne. I wrap my arms around him and squeeze him back. He gives the best hugs. The kind that takes all the nearly severed pieces and pushes them back into place. This week has been hell and I’m hanging on by a thread, but five seconds in his arms and I’m whole again.
He nuzzles my hair, his chest expanding as he takes a deep breath. With a barely audible sigh, he lets me go, turning to the two women sitting across from us. “He wasn’t there. One more place?”
We’re kidnapping a movie star.
Honestly, this night is on par with most friendiversary nights, but to Charlotte and Lexi, who flew to LA to surprise me for my birthday, this is bonkers. They’ve met Timothy a few times via video chat, but they have no idea what a night out with him is like. Thankfully, they’re on board, dying of curiosity because he won’t tell them who our target is.
“We’re coming in this time,” I say. I’m not spending my birthday- friendiversary sitting in a limo while Timothy ducks in and out of clubs looking for his wayward other bestie. I want to dance.
Timothy grins, dipping his chin in agreement. The beauty of our yearly celebration is that, while there might be a plan, no one ever sticks to it. Anything can happen.
The day we’d met, I’d walked in on my boyfriend balls deep in another woman. On mybirthday. Timothy saved me that night. He let me be a mess, then he took me on one of the craziest nights of my life. Every year since, we celebrate my birthday and our friendship, and he does everything in his power to make sure I have the best day since he met me on one of my worst.
It’s the one day of the year I allow myself to let loose and pretend I can live as he does—fearlessly, impulsively, but also risk-free, because Timothy’s got my back.
It’s become my favorite day of the year.
Charlotte pushes her coppery hair back, letting out an excited squeal when the limo stops in front of LA’s hottest new club. A line stretches outside the entrance and a cluster of paparazzi mill about, hoping to catch a shot of a celebrity. Possibly the celebrity we’re here to kidnap.
Timothy exits via the door this time, holding it open and helping us out. A smattering of flashes goes off at the sight of a well-dressed man stepping out of a limo before the photogs realize none of us are famous. Still, I smooth down the slinky dark blue dress and pray no one got a puss shot.
This dressiscriminally short, held on to my body by the grace of god. The back dips low, nearly to the top of my ass crack, while the front is a narrow halter loose enough that a stiff breeze could have me tits out if not for judicious use of boob tape. The designer behind Mioe hit it big last year when Kate Van Sandt, America’s Sweetheart, wore one of her dresses to the Oscars. Now only celebrities and rich people get their hands on a Mioe dress. Timothy’s a stunt performer, not exactly a celebrity or someone making obscene money, but he does know everyone, so it’s not surprising he managed to get this dress.
We bypass the line, Timothy greeting the bouncer by name and engaging in a complicated handshake, then we’re inside with the top tier of LA’s party scene.
My friends immediately point out a few celebrities, speculating who our target might be. Charlotte’s pale skin is already rosy with excitement, and Lexi’s brown eyes are sparkling.
I know who we’re here for, but even if I didn’t, I’m used to celebrities. I’ve worked various wardrobe jobs in movies and TV. Seen a lot of famous butts.
The club is swanky and dark, awash in neon blues and pinks, and filled with sexy bodies in motion. The thumping EDM isn’t half bad. More tension slips off me. Tonight, I’m not going to worry about my job, my bills, or my side hustle. My inner party girl is coming out to play.
“Happy Birthday, Mina!” Timothy snags us all shots and we clink the glasses together and tip back the blue drink. It burns on the way down, setting my blood on fire. I love it.
