Illusion of Luck 25

Chaucey heard a knock at the door.

She felt bad about the way she had walked out on Crow ear­lier in the evening. He had been so sweet to prepare a spe­cial meal for her. She shouldn’t have reacted that way when he said he loved her. She already knew it, but didn’t want to hear him say it out loud.

“I’m sorry.” She opened the door.

“Good.”

He stepped in. But it wasn’t Crow—it was Larry. He had a knife in his hand and she didn’t doubt he would use it.

She stepped back.

He closed the door, locked it, and hooked the safety latch. “Why did you leave? It was just about to get fun.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to lead you on. I should never have agreed to meet you.”

“But you did. And you got me all hot for you.” He unbuckled his belt. “Take your clothes off.”

“No, please…”

“I’d rather have sex with you than stab you. But it’s your call, Honey.”

“You don’t have to do this. Just leave now. I promise I won’t call the police.”

“Apparently I’m not making myself clear. You will either strip naked and get down on the floor with me right now…or you will die. Your choice.” He held out the knife, ready to use it.

She began to unbutton her blouse.

He took off his shirt and threw it on the back of the couch. “Hurry it up.”

She took off her blouse and began to cry.

“Shut up,” he whispered loudly and looked around as though he could see the neighbors through the walls.

She couldn’t stop crying, but managed to muffle the sound. She took off her high heels, then the mini skirt and the fishnet stockings. She had hooked up with a stranger she met on the internet because he seemed intelligent, well-spoken, and sexy. It had been so exciting. And so stupid. Here she was, standing in her underwear, about to be raped in her own apart­ment.

“Now we’re getting somewhere,” he said. “Keep going.”

Suddenly the locked door exploded.

Before Larry could turn around, something big and heavy collided with his back, hurling him toward the kitchen bar. It was like a monster sack of an NFL quarterback. But the floor was harder than a football field.

Larry managed to roll Crow’s body off of him. The behe­moth had apparently hit his head on something that knocked him out.

Adrenaline gushed through Larry’s bloodstream, producing an all-powerful rage. Just when he was about to enjoy doing anything and everything with Chaucey’s sexy body, this ogre had butted in. And now he would die. Larry would stab him in the gut so many times that his organs would be indistin­guisha­ble.

He would lift the knife far above his head and—. Then he realized the knife was not in his hand. Where was it? He franti­cally looked all around the room. Then he saw it—two yards to the right, on the floor.

He was about to dive for it when he saw Chaucey. She had run into the kitchen and grabbed an iron skillet. He turned to check the status of the giant, and saw that he was beginning to wake up. Larry jumped up, grabbed his shirt off the back of the couch, and ran out the door.

Chaucey heard him race down the hallway and out to the stairs. She set the skillet on the bar, rushed to Crow, and knelt down beside him. “Are you alright?”

“I think so. Got a headache though.” He looked up at her through blurry eyes. As his vision focused, he saw that she was wearing only a bra and panties. “Oh, I’m sorry.” He put his hand over his eyes.

“It’s okay.” She pulled his hand down. “I don’t mind.”

“You’re so beautiful, Chaucey.”

She was surprised how good the words made her feel—coming from him. Similar words, spoken that night by Barry Undermine, had made her feel like a prostitute. “Thanks for saving me. But how did you know I was in trouble?”

“Well, I heard you when you got home. And then I heard somebody knock. And you never have company—except me. So I snuck into the hallway and put my ear up to your door.”

She grinned. “Well, aren’t you the nosey one.”

He blushed. “Sorry about that.”

“No—I’m so glad you did.” She leaned down and kissed him on the forehead.

He was in heaven. She had never kissed him anywhere before. Her soft, smooth, warm, moist lips felt so…

“Excuse me?” They were both startled by the man’s voice.

They had forgotten her door was wide open. In fact, her door was completely destroyed.

Two men and a woman were standing in the doorway.

“Uh, sorry to bother you, but are you Chaucey Reed?”

“Yes.”

“Well, my name is Greg Tenorly, and I’m looking for Larry—I mean Barry Undermine.”

“Is he a friend of yours?” said Chaucey. She got up, grabbed an afghan from the couch and wrapped it around her­self.

“No. He abducted my fiancé.”

“Oh, no,” she said.

“What?”

“I met Barry at a motel tonight and he tried to force me to have sex.”

Crow felt an overwhelming urge to hunt down Barry and smash his skull.

“But then a woman yelled to him from the adjoining room. So he went in there—to shut her up, I think. He was definitely upset with her.”

“Then what did he do? Did you hear anything?”

“No. When he went into the other room, I took off. He was going to rape me.”

Greg was heartbroken. Had the savage already raped his Cynthia? And maybe even killed her?

Chaucey went on. “And then he followed me here. He would have raped me or killed me if Crow hadn’t come to my rescue.” She smiled at Crow.

Rebecca jumped in. “How long has he been gone?”

“Five minutes or so. He took the stairs.”

“What motel? What’s the room number?” said Rebecca.

“The Lovelong Motel. Room 109.”

“I saw it on our way in,” said Sandy.

“Thanks,” said Greg to Chaucey. “And I’m glad you’re okay.”

Crow and Chaucey heard the trio run down the hall and out to the stairs.

**********

Larry had been denied the luscious Chaucey. He had hun­gered for her body. He had longed to devour her. Had his hot streak of luck finally gone cold? Impossible, he thought. He had been lucky his whole life.

And after all, he had escaped unharmed. He should have been dead—or at least have had some broken bones. Any mere mortal would have. But he had walked away unscathed. So, no—he hadn’t lost his luck. He had just been barking up the wrong tree. Barking up the wrong she, he thought. Oh, how clever he was.

Larry parked the Jaguar, hopped out, and went into Room 110. “Hope you got a nice nap.”

“I need to go to the bathroom,” said Cynthia.

He took the cuffs off and she went into the bathroom.

“Hurry it up,” he said through the door. “We’re getting out of here—now.” He knew there was a possibility that big Chau­cey’s friend would come after him. No need to press his luck.

Cynthia walked out. “Where are we going now?”

“Oh, you’re gonna love it. It’ll bring back old memories.”

She had no idea what he was talking about, but she knew it couldn’t be good.

They got into the Jaguar and drove away.

Cynthia wondered where Larry had gone and what he had done. She hoped Chaucey was okay.

**********

“I don’t see his car,” said Rebecca.

“Maybe he parked it in back,” said Sandy.

Greg jumped out of the Bonneville and ran to Door 109 and started banging.

Sandy was close behind, banging on the door right next to Greg’s—110.

After they had made a lot of racket for thirty seconds or so, a woman wrapped in a sheet came out of 108 and started to scream at them. “Stop it, you idiots!”

They stopped and looked at her.

She walked over closer to them and spoke confidentially. “I’ve got a client in there.” She nodded at her room.

“Sorry,” said Greg. A client? Is that what they call them these days?

Greg and Sandy looked to each other for direction. But before either of them could say anything, Rebecca got out of the car and ran at Door 110. Sandy jumped out of the way. She burst the door open, and then turned on the light. Greg and Sandy followed her in.

They looked around for clues that Larry and Cynthia had been there. Nothing had been left behind.

Greg walked over the bed and bent down to smell the bed­spread.

Sandy cringed. “What are you doing, Man?”

“Cynthia was here. I can smell her perfume.” He felt the bed. “It’s still warm.”

“Well, at least we know she’s still alive,” said Rebecca.

“Yeah, but we don’t know where they went,” said Sandy.

“Let’s go back to The Woodlands,” said Rebecca. “Hopefully, he’s taking her to the apartment.”

Greg had tried not to think about how frightened Cynthia must be. Because when he did, it made him sick to his stom­ach. Cynthia was his wife. It was his job to protect her. He was a total failure as a husband.