Just My Luck by Adele Parks (best romance books of all time txt) 📗

trembling. He is more stressed and terrified than I have ever seen him before—we just don’t agree on how this should be managed. Naturally, we don’t. We agree on so little nowadays. The problem is Jake is far too used to getting his own way now. But this is not the same as going along with a choice of car or even house or school. This is a matter of life and death. Doesn’t he see we need all the help we can get? Jake asks, “Anything, Fred?” Fred reaches into his pocket and hands Jake my phone. Jake checks my phone, presumably for another message.

“We need to get her home!” I cry, frustrated. “We need help. I want you to call those security guys,” I blurt. “Someone, do something!”

“They are basically glorified bouncers. They can’t do much in a situation like this.”

“But that’s not what you said when we first employed them. You said...” I trail off. What is the point? Jake is not consistent. I know that much by now.

“Shall I put the kettle on?” offers Fred. No one answers him. “Coffee then?” Fred starts to play around with the Krups coffee machine. He doesn’t have to take our orders, knowing who drinks cappuccinos, lattes or Americanos. We all know that—and so much more—about one another. Jake places my phone in the middle of the kitchen table. I suppose he thinks I’ve accepted his commands and I suppose I have, at least for the moment. If I reach for the phone, they will only grab it from me again. They all seem so clear that not calling the police is the correct thing that I’m becoming confused, overwhelmed. Maybe they are right. Maybe we should follow the kidnappers’ instructions. I don’t know.

We pull up chairs, sit around the table and stare at the phone. Waiting for it to ring or beep. We look ridiculous in our fancy-dress costumes—Pierrot, Harlequin, a lion, a strong man, a boy pretending to be a strong man. I pull off my cap, but I don’t want to go upstairs to shower and change. What if the kidnappers call and I miss it?

Fred places the mugs of coffee on the table. I notice only the Heathcotes manage to drink theirs. Fred eats a couple of biscuits, too. Jake and I let our drinks go cold and slick. We don’t reach for a biscuit. The phone does not ring. Jennifer is the first to comment she wants to change out of her fancy dress. She asks if she can borrow something of mine. I agree but don’t go upstairs with her to dig anything out as she’s more than capable of rooting through my wardrobe. I don’t care what she purloins, not anymore. I just can’t leave my phone. She returns thirty minutes later, showered, fresh faced. Men would think she’s not wearing any makeup, but I can tell she’s applied mascara, blusher and even lip gloss. At a time like this. Unbelievable. She’s wearing a denim skirt and a clingy emerald shirt. I know both things were still in a shopping bag on my bedroom floor. I hadn’t hung them up because I bought them for Emily. I just hadn’t got around to putting them in her room. They fit and suit Jennifer. The men and Ridley also shower and change. It comes to my turn. They are all insistent that I’ll feel better if I follow their lead. I think of Emily, wearing a purple leotard and high gold boots. She doesn’t have the comfort of a shower, the relief of slipping into joggers. I refuse to change.

“You don’t need to be a martyr about this, Lexi. You are not helping her by being uncomfortable yourself,” comments Jake. I don’t respond. I hate it that he doesn’t understand me.

“How do you think they got my number?” I ask instead.

“I don’t know, Lexi—who do you give your number to?” Jake stares at me, cold and challenging.

I flush, although I don’t know why. “Just regular people,” I mutter.

“People that you help at work?” probes Jennifer.

“No, I’m careful not to do that.” Toma is the only person I’ve ever helped at the bureau and then given my number to. I don’t tell her that. It isn’t any of her business. None of this is. She shouldn’t even be here.

“Do you think this might be connected to those desperate people who broke in and stole your laptop?”

I didn’t tell her about the laptop, so I assume Jake has filled her in on that. Clearly, they are still seeing each other. That doesn’t necessarily mean they are still sleeping together, but it might. It probably does. I find I don’t care. I don’t care where my husband is shoving his dick; I can’t imagine why I thought that him sleeping with someone else was a tragedy. It doesn’t matter to me now. I just want my daughter home. I glance at Ridley. I keep forgetting he is here with us. He probably shouldn’t be. He should be in bed. Sleeping off the party excess or excitedly messaging friends about how much fun he had at the out-of-this-world party, like a normal teenager. Nothing about this is as it is supposed to be. I notice he is sobbing, silently. Tears roll down his face, leaving a snail’s trail of sadness.

I almost reach across the table and squeeze his hand—he’s just a kid—but can’t bring myself to. This boy crushed my daughter and now my daughter is gone. He is here. Normal things like decency have been wrung out of me. I almost hate him and everyone around the table for being safe and here. I would change places with her in an instant. But he is sobbing, and Emily would want me to comfort him. I make myself behave like a proper person—I lean across the table and pat his arm. However, my gesture doesn’t help. Ridley flinches, withdraws from me. “You should try to get some sleep, Ridley.