Turns out, getting kidnapped comes with the territory of the family business. But it fucked me up not knowing where she was, if she was okay.
Luckily, my parents tagged us when we were infants. Seems I’m not weird, it’s just a common practice in our family.
Even Alexei tagged Eli. He slipped a tracker into him when they first got together. He thinks I don't know about it but please. I've got the info too. Just in case.
Connor was the easiest to tag. And my aunt gave me Alexei’s info, same way he has mine.
Zach, on the other hand, was a bit of a challenge. He’ll kill me if he knew I'd tagged him after our little play session. But what Zach doesn't know won't hurt him.
Or me.
Hopefully.
Beckett's gaze lands on me, then softens, and I feel a flicker of . . . something. Respect, maybe? Appreciation? I'm not sure, but I kind of like it.
“Good practice today, you two,” he says, then continues on his way, and I let out a deep breath. But he suddenly stops, then bends to pick something off the floor. “What—”
My lucky card.
I lunge forward and snatch the burnt Ace of Spades from his hand, our fingers briefly touching, sending electrical bolts shooting across my skin. “It’s mine.”
He looks down at the card and smirks. All hockey players are superstitious, and some of us have good luck charms.
Jackson sags forward when Beckett leaves, his hands resting on the countertop, his cocky facade slipping for just a moment.
“You okay?” I keep my voice low as I tuck the card into my wallet.
He nods, not quite meeting my eyes. “Yeah, yeah. I'm fine. Just . . . You know.”
“Let's get out of here.”
We collect our shit and walk out of the rink together, but then go our separate ways. He heads to our room over in Young Hall and I make my way to the back lot where my ugly black minivan is parked to start my nightly routine and then pick up some ice cream.
No one knows about this car. It's my little secret, my escape when I need to get away from the pressure of being Viktor Novotny, hockey and chemistry prodigy, and resident troublemaker.
Okay, that’s bullshit.
The minivan is my stalkermobile, the one no one would ever suspect I drive. The Chrysler Pacifica also blends into Rosewood Bay, a favorite amongst the nannies and au pairs. But it’s common enough that it doesn’t stand out on those occasions outside of our incorporated village either.
And it has ample enough room for when we need to transport a body or two. Like Coach Buckland’s.
I slide into the driver's seat, turn the key in the ignition, then pull out of the lot, heading in the direction of Beckett's apartment.
Not sure if he thought I’d head home after our little encounter at the harbor a few days ago. But if I’m anything, it’s patient. Well, mostly patient. And he wasn’t very stealthy, only waited twenty minutes before heading back home.
Turns out he lives in one of the apartments above the coffee shop and, fortunately for me, not one that faces the water.
The drive is relatively short. Who wants to live far from work anyway? I park a few streets over from Beckett's place, not wanting to risk being caught if my coach happens to look out the window.
After grabbing my psycho nun mask and binoculars, I hop out of the minivan, and make my way toward the building across from Beckett's. It's the perfect vantage point.
I slip around to the back toward the rusty old fire escape, then take the stairs two at a time, my heart pounding with a heady mixture of adrenaline and anticipation. There's just something about the rush of doing something I know I shouldn't. It's like a drug, and I'm a hopeless addict.
Once my mask is in place, I pull the hood of my sweatshirt up, blending into the darkness as I creep to the edge of the roof, my eyes already scanning the windows of the building across the street.
This isn't my first rodeo. I've done this little song and dance about three times already. It’s how I know Beckett Harper spends most of his time reading or playing sudoku before bed. And that he never goes out.
Boring.
