Page 1 of Bigfoot's Bride

Chapter 1

Kiki

I flip the pancake in the skillet like a pro—if I do say so myself. In general, cooking is not my forte, but pancakes are my specialty. Actually, if I'm being honest, pancakes are the only dish in my culinary repertoire.

A loud knock at the door makes me jump, and I drop the spatula.

Sheesh, it sounds like whoever it is out there is going to pound the door down.

My heart races as I tiptoe to the peephole and peek out.

Phew, I exhale slowly, willing my heart rate to return to normal. It's just my handler, not a hitman. US Deputy Marshal Johnson does not look happy.

I swing open the door. Nope, not pleased.

"I’ve been out here knocking for five minutes.”

“Yeah,” I scratch the back of my neck. “I guess I couldn’t hear it over the smoke detector.”

Johnson pushes past, grabs a chair, climbs up, and disables the blaring alarm.

"To what do I owe the pleasure of this impromptu visit? Don't tell me it's time for another riveting lecture on the dos and don'ts of witness protection.” My voice drips with a mix of wry sarcasm and saccharine sweetness as I steel myself for a pep talk from Johnson about the importance of keeping a low profile.

Deputy Marshal Johnson, a man who seems to have misplaced both his sense of humor and his personality, fixes me with a stern glare. "This is serious, Ms. Garcia. We have a strong suspicion your cover has been compromised."

And just like that,mysense of humor disappears too. Compromised? How? I've been good, adhering to every mind-numbing rule and blending in like a beige wallflower.

"There's been a sighting," Johnson continues. "A known associate of the Vega cartel has been spotted in the area. We need to move you immediately."

Again? I want to scream, to throw something, to tell Deputy Marshal Buzz Kill exactly where he can shove his sighting. But that behavior would be kinda defeatist.

As my father used to say, "Suck it up, Buttercup. Life ain't always gonna be caviar and champagne." Little did I know at the time how prophetic his words would turn out to be.

WITSEC sounds like something out of a movie, right? Trust me, the reality is far less exciting than what’s shown on the big screen. No decked-out condos, thrilling secret identities, or hot bodyguard types who look like they just stepped out of a Calvin Klein ad.

It's more like a series of crappy motel rooms, a closet full of fashion don'ts from a discount bin, and a revolving door of stone-faced US Marshals who clearly drew the short straw with babysitting duty.

I simply nod like a good beige wallflower. "I understand. Just give me a few minutes to pack my things."

In the bathroom, I stare at my reflection. Kiki Karaprtyan doesn’t stare back. Maria Garcia does, complete with her dark curly wig and oversized glasses.

Yes, you heard that right. Maria Garcia. Not only did the US Marshal Service give me the most boring name since Jane Doe, but it also rhymes—freaking rhymes!

The Marshals couldn’t have picked a better alias? But, I guess it’s part and parcel of the Witness Protection Starter Kit—right alongside the bad wig and the phony driver's license.

Who would've thought that fashionista Kiki Karaprtyan—celebrity businesswoman, socialite, and, media queen—would one day be rocking a head of dry, frizzy curls, thick, oversized glasses, and a wardrobe straight out of a 90s sitcom? If my fans could see me now, they'd probably think I lost a bet. Or my mind.

I used to be somebody. Now I'm just a nameless, faceless nobody, hopping from one seedy motel to another.

As I throw my meager toiletries into a carrying case, my mind drifts to the day that changed everything. The day I testified against Carlos Vega, the head of the Vega cartel. Everyone in my entourage told me I was crazy. My stepmom begged me not to do it. But I couldn't just stand by, could I? Not after what I'd seen.

In hindsight, maybe they were right. Maybe testifying was a mistake. Because while Carlos Vega, a cold blooded murderer, walks free on a technicality, I'm stuck in this purgatory. No true home, no genuine identity, no real life.

A pounding on the bathroom door jolts me back to the present. "Ms. Garcia! We need to go."

The next hour is a blur. Johnson ushers me into a nondescript sedan, and we peel out of the motel parking lot. I keep my head down as we wind through the city streets, myheart pounding every time we slow down or stop. Are they out there? Are they closing in?

Suddenly, Johnson curses under his breath. I risk a glance up and my blood turns to ice. A black SUV is tailing us, gaining ground fast.

---