Starlight (Peaches Monroe #2)(47)
Author: Mimi Strong

“Theft!”

“Those sunglasses are worth over three hundred dollars. I know that because my no-good sister spent the money I gave her for food, buying a pair of those same ones.”

I looked over at Mitchell for some sign. He sat frozen. My purse was at his feet, but looked unopened.

Trespassing and theft.

Shitfuck.

Before I tell you what I did next, please bear in mind I was desperate, and I was scared.

Sure, we were still in America, and I was pretty sure we had rights, but I wasn’t totally sure what they were. The phrase jail wife kept flashing through my head.

I gasped. “Where’s Ricky?”

The mean security woman put both hands on her hips. “Ricky who?”

I started crying. It wasn’t difficult to pull off, because I actually was scared. Also, the hangover was making itself known by now, with its blistering brain-pain, made worse by the hot sun overhead.

“Ricky is my son. He’s five. He went over by those bushes over there to pee, and I just laid down for a minute to rest my eyes.”

“Ma’am, you brought your son with you to trespass on a Malibu property?”

I sniffed. “We’re supposed to go to Disneyland today.” I looked over her shoulder. “Ricky! Get over here!”

“You just stay right here for a minute.” She lowered her sunglasses just enough to give me the Mother of the Year Award, then she ambled off toward the bushes.

I was pretty sure she didn’t believe me, but then again, as a security guard, she’d probably seen a lot of bad life choices in action.

I didn’t take long to consider my options. I tore off the stolen sunglasses and tossed them on the lounge chair. I hustled over to Mitchell, only to find his ankles were also bound with another thick, plastic strap.

“This is insane,” he whispered. “How did we even get here?”

I unzipped my purse, grabbed my trusty nail clippers, and tried to clip through the plastic band. “Fuckshit,” I growled.

“Use the nail file,” he whispered.

“There is no file. I took this on the airplane.” I stared up at his angelic face. “I’ll have to carry you,” I said.

His eyes widened. “No.”

I shouldered in and grabbed him before he could protest too loudly. I stood up with him on my shoulder, glad for all the practice I’d had hauling Kyle around this way.

“I can’t believe I’m doing this,” I groaned as I hauled Mitchell along the pathway, toward the side of the mansion.

He wheezed, “You’re so strong. Don’t take this the wrong way, but I’m a little turned on right now.”

I slapped his butt.

We reached the side of the mansion, and Mitchell was slipping around due to all the sweat coming off of me.

“Gardening shed,” he said.

I groaned, still moving forward with him on my shoulder, albeit slower.

“Gardening tools,” he said.

“Right.” I set him down and ran over to the shed, feeling feather-light without Mitchell on my shoulder. I quickly located a pair of pruning sheers, ran back, and used them to cut Mitchell’s restraints.

The security lady had figured out my little ruse and was now yelling for us to return immediately. Yeah, right.

We hit the end of the driveway and kept running, down the adjoining road.

A vehicle pulled up behind us and followed us slowly. I peeked back to make sure it wasn’t a security vehicle, ready to dive off into some bushes if necessary. The car was black, with tinted windows.

The passenger-side window rolled down, and a male voice called out. “You folks need a ride somewhere?”

Mitchell stopped, his hands on his h*ps as he bent forward gasping. “Yes, please. You’re a lifesaver.”

I caught my reflection in the window before it finished rolling down. I looked like someone covered in sticky champagne and dust, who’d just spent the night partying and had makeup smeared down her face.

“Sure, we’d love a ride,” I said.

The window finished lowering, and I gazed into the devilishly handsome green eyes of Dalton Deangelo.

“On second thought, I’ll walk,” I said.

Mitchell was already climbing into the back, though, and I could hear the security guard woman yelling as she got closer.

“Fuck my life,” I said, and I reluctantly climbed into the front seat.

Dalton’s car was comfortable and cool—a black BMW that looked expensive, but not as flashy as I’d expected.

“Fancy meeting you here,” Dalton said, looking like a vampire who just ate a nice family.

From the back seat, Mitchell said, “Hey! You’re Dalton Deangelo. I’m a huge fan. I just want to say that Connor is the worst, and I’m Team Drake all the way. I don’t like how Connor drags all his lines out. Just. Too. Dramatic. Oh, listen to me. I’m a total rabid fanboy. Please someone, just knock me out right now or I won’t stop talking.” He paused all of two seconds. “Is it true that Drake’s backstory is based on your life? I mean, aside from the whole serial killer thing. Did you grow up in an orphanage and have to fight other boys in an underground fight club? Wait, I’m being stupid. We don’t have orphanages these days, and you’re mortal, so that can’t be true.” I heard the sound of his palm hitting his forehead. “Why do I always embarrass myself like this? Seriously, though, if I was a girl, I’d have your babies.” He let out a shocked gasp, as though he couldn’t believe the words coming out of his own mouth. “I’m so hungover! I’m not even thinking straight. Not that I ever think straight, ha ha. Holy shit, what were those pills we were taking last night? Oh, Peaches, I don’t feel very—”

Dalton interrupted, “Dude, are you going to throw up? Don’t chuck in my car.”

I turned back to see Mitchell’s face turn a sickly shade of pale. He had his lips pressed together so hard, they were white, and sweat was streaming down his face.

“You should probably pull over,” I said to Dalton.

Frowning, he pulled the car into what looked like a park, with one of those playground sets. It seemed ridiculously out of place, in the Malibu neighborhood full of giant mansions, and I wasn’t surprised to see that the only people using the park were a teen couple making out on a bench under a tree.

Mitchell opened the back door, stepped out, and commenced with the water-splashdown sound. This triggered my gag reflex, but I fought it, hard.

Mitchell sobbed, “I’ll never drink again,” in between splashes. Then, after a minute, “Huh. That’s interesting.”