Page 3 of Accidentally Kidnapping the Cowboy

“Look mister, if you don’t wake up right now, I’m going to have to call 911, and then I’m going to have to hightail it out of here and you’ll be on your own with the cops and the paramedics and what not. So you better not have any warrants or anything, because the only way to get out of trouble in this town is to be in love.”

I must be dreaming, because that makes no fucking sense.

Sweet, concerned breath brushes my cheek. “I’m not going to let you die on me.”

“Not gonna die,” I groan. “I’ve almost named our children, angel, but you keep waking me up.”

“Yeah, that’s what you’re supposed to do with people with head injuries.”

“I think that’s old science.” I reach for the nearest warm thing and pull it on top of me.

“Hey!” The warm thing squirms and smacks my chest. “Don’t touch me!”

“Wasn’t that my line?”

She gasps. “You remember?”

Not really. Not much.

And then sleep tugs me under again.

It’s solidly daytime when I wake again, maybe even the afternoon. And this time, I’m alone in the motel room. I have a faint recollection of the girl curled up against my side, huffing something likefine, if you insist, you big weirdo.

My head still hurts, but when I sit up, the room doesn’t spin. It’s still ugly as fuck, though.

Across the room, my flannel shirt is hanging on the back of a chair. I’m still wearing my jeans and a t-shirt, but my wallet and phone are both missing.

Fuck.

I must have imagined the angel worrying about me and threatening to call an ambulance if I didn’t wake up. Turns out, she used my being passed out as an opportunity to rob me.

Some angels are fucking demons.

I pick up the phone, but who the fuck do I call? The cops in who-the-fuck-knows-where-I-am? The thought of waiting for someone to come take my statement sounds exhausting right now. Do I want to lay charges against a manic pixie girl with misguided rescue energy just because she stole a credit card I’m about to have my brother pause for me? A phone that was due for replacement, anyway?

What if she kidnaps people on the regular?

Seems unlikely. She’s got terrible protocols. Who leaves a kidnapping victim alone in a hotel room with a working phone?

She’s probably a down-on-her-luck person who saw an opportunity, that’s all. As long as I can get out of here ASAP, I’ll give her some grace.

I dial the ranch instead, but I get an automated message that it’s a long distance call and I’ll need to put it through the front desk. I’m about to smash the 0 button to do just that when the room door opens.

The demon girl returns.

I drop the phone into its cradle and pivot, all my aching muscles on high alert, because she still looks like an angel, all wide-eyed innocence and concern.

“Oh!” she says breathlessly. “You’re awake.”

Her voice is sweet as wildflower honey in the spring. A trap.

I hold out my hand. “Give me back my phone and wallet.”

Flushing, she fishes my wallet out of her backpack and tosses it to me.

“And my phone?”

“I don’t have your phone.” She pulls out two cans of cold brew coffee and a six-pack of glazed donuts before she clocks that I don’t fucking believe her. “I swear on my life, I don’t. Maybe it fell out in the truck?”

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