Fields' Guide to Abduction - - (best sales books of all time txt) 📗

eyes, and faced the woman in the mirror.

A celery-hued paleness in my cheeks spoke of a wild night. That and the bags beneath my bloodshot eyes. I could pack for Europe in those bags. And my hair? I poked at it. Gingerly. As if my finger might get stuck. I’d crossed a screwball comedy line—Kate Hudson would never look this awful.

God help me if there were photographers in the lobby.

I wrapped myself in a towel, staggered to the door, and pressed my ear against its cool expanse.

Not a peep on the other side.

I cracked the door.

Thank God the room wasn't bright. As it was, I squinted into the lavender glow of early morning sneaking through the gaps in the drapes. The dim light revealed a dresser littered with glasses and a half-empty tequila bottle.

There. Panties on the floor. Bra, black against the bed’s white sheets. Dress, draped across the chair. Shoes? I’d find them when I wasn’t naked.

I tiptoed toward the panties. Tiptoed, because talking to the man in the bed might be the only thing worse than my headache.

He didn’t move. Not an inch.

I hooked the panties with my big toe (bending over wasn’t an option—my brains might leak out of my ears), kicked them into the air, caught them and, using the bedpost for balance, slid them on.

With one hand still clutching the towel, I tiptoed to my side of the bed and reached for the bra tangled among the pillows. I tugged. And tugged. Dammit. I tugged harder and the wisp of silk and lace came free. I stumbled backward—thunk—right into the bedside table.

A glass teetering on the table’s edge fell onto the hardwood floor and shattered. 

The crash reverberated through the bedroom—through my skull. Loud. So loud. Loud enough to wake the dead. I didn’t breathe. I didn’t move.

Jake slept.

The tequila bottle on the dresser snickered and wagged a judgmental finger at me. You’re so clumsy when you’re hung over.

I narrowed my eyes and shot Señor Cuervo a death glare. Who was I kidding with the Señor? José and I were on a first-name basis. Go to hell, José.

What would I say if Jake did wake up? About last night, remember that time I said never again? I really did mean it. Now. This moment. This morning. Us. It’s an aberration. It won’t happen again. Ever. He’d just smile that cat-and-canary smile of his and charm me back into bed.

Why? Why, why, why?

I knew better.

He knew better.

But my life was a screwball comedy so, of course, I’d gone to bed with the man who’d broken my heart. Twice.

I stood straighter. I was over him. Getting over him had taken more tears, bottles of tequila, and quarts of ice cream than I cared to count. But he had been out of my system. And now this.

If I snuck out without talking to him, my heart might not shatter.

All I needed was my dress.

A field sea of broken glass separated me from the black silk. If I’d felt halfway decent, I could have leapt over the shards. 

I didn’t feel an eighth of the way decent. Every muscle in my body hurt. What exactly had we done to make my calves ache?

Never mind—lalalalalala—I didn't want to know. 

If I stepped there and there and there, I could reach the dress without shredding my feet. 

One step. Two steps. Thre— 

“Son of a bi—” I clamped one hand over my mouth and hopped on my uninjured foot. Hop. Hop. Hop. Into the dresser.

Thunk.

Pain shot through my hip.

Ouch! That would leave a mark.

The tequila bottle snickered again.

Well. José and I were done. Forever. I meant it this time (unlike those other times—those other times were passing fancies). I shot him another death glare. Done. Adios. Finito. Don’t let the door hit you on the way out.

José smirked.

I planned my route to the damned dress. Just a few steps. Easy steps without a cut foot and an epic hangover. With both…

I had this. 

Step.

Step.

One. More. Step.

I leaned. I reached. I snatched the dress off the chair. 

Jake didn’t move. Thank God for small favors.

I shimmied into my dress. Shoes? Where were they?

I looked down at my feet. A pool of blood had formed beneath my toes.

No way was I jamming a bloody foot into my new Louboutins. Maybe there was a bandage in that bathroom. At least there was a towel. I limped back to all that whiteness leaving a bloody trail behind me.

The bathroom really was enormous. The glass shower enclosure was larger than most cars and the damned mirrors went on for miles. And there were towels. Lots of them. They batted their eyelashes at me—a come-hither invitation. God, I wanted a shower.

As soon as I got home, I’d stand under a piping hot stream of water until last night’s sins (even the forgotten ones) were washed away.

I crouched and poked on the flat surface of the cabinet below the sink until a door popped open. Inside, I found yet another stack of towels, washcloths, and an industrial size bottle of aspirin. Nothing else.

First things first.

Aspirin. I forged a long and valiant battle with the child-proof lid.

Victory!

I swallowed three pills, washing them down with more water from the tap. Then I grabbed a washcloth, sat on the toilet, and pressed the cloth against my foot.

It felt good to sit. Spend-the-day-there good.

If only he weren’t in the bedroom, liable to wake up at any time.

I pulled the cloth away from my foot and eyed the cut. A shard of glass glinted in the morning light.

Hell.

I gritted my teeth and pulled the sliver out of my skin. More blood. An ocean of blood. I should-have-grabbed-two-washcloths blood.

I pressed the crimson soaked cloth against the cut. Pressure. That was the ticket.

And another washcloth. That was the other ticket.

I limped back to the sink, grabbed two additional cloths, and held them against my foot until the bleeding stopped.

Then I returned to the bedroom.

The light had shifted from lavender to lemon. And, God bless him, Jake still slept. 

I spotted my handbag (a black clutch just big enough for a phone, I.D., and credit card) on the dresser next to the tequila. Where were the shoes?  I wasn’t leaving without them.

There. One near the foot of the bed, the other on the floor near his head. 

I tiptoed to the shoe at the bottom of the bed, snagged the sandal, and hung it around my wrist from its strap. Then I crept toward the remaining shoe. 

Got it! 

Jake still hadn’t moved. At all.

He was so deeply asleep I could brush one last kiss across his lips before I disappeared. He’d never know.

Stupid? Definitely. What if he woke up?

But what if I walked away without kissing him one last time? A kiss I’d actually remember.

My eyes filled with tears. I blamed the tequila-induced head-ache.

I inched back the duvet. 

Jake’s head rested on a pillow and I took a few seconds to memorize his face in repose. He was handsome in a chiseled Hollywood movie-star way. His only visible flaw, a small crescent-shaped scar on his chin. The invisible flaws were many. I rubbed my eyes. I would not cry. Would not. My eyes were blood-shot enough already.

He was more trouble than he was worth.

He was too good-looking.

He was not my type. (Liar, liar)

He’d broken my heart. Twice.

I leaned down and brushed a last kiss against his cheek. There. Done. No reason to stay. But I paused.

His cheek was clammy.

“Are you sick?” My voice was hardly louder than the hum of the air conditioner. 

He didn't move. 

Of course he didn’t. He’d slept through my shattering crystal and hopping around the bedroom like a demented kangaroo. A little thing like a whisper would hardly rouse him.

The smart thing would be to sneak out. Disappear.

But what if he needed help? 

I rested my hand against his forehead. 

His skin was damp and waxy.

What was wrong with his mouth? Was that foam?

“Jake!”

He didn’t move. Not an inch.

I poked him. “Jake!”

Nothing.

Oh my God. Oh. My. God.

I stumbled backward. My heart thudded against my chest. My lungs refused to take in air.

I collapsed into an armchair and pressed the heels of my palms against my eye sockets. One of my sandals