Page 2 of Not Just a Trick Play

I resort to tapping out the rhythm to “Empire State of Mind” on my seat buckle, envisioning concrete jungles and ingredients that go into dreams.

Thunder booms outside and echoes through the cabin, sending a tremor up my spine. What the hell. A barf bag for the body, miniature bottles of liquid courage for the soul—I'm not fussed.

I’m about to hit the call button. Right then, the pilot comes on. “Ladies and gentlemen, we’re getting ready to make our final descent. Please return your seat backs to their full upright position, and store your tray tables. Make sure your seat belts are securely fastened and carry-on luggage is returned to the overhead compartments or stowed under your seats.

“Ground temperature at JFK is sixty degrees Fahrenheit. That’s sixteen degrees Celsius, about normal for October. We should have you on the ground just after midnight.”

He pauses. “And welcome to New York, the place of a million dreams—and one parking spot.”

A million and one, now. Though what my dream is exactly, I have no idea. I just hope Frank Sinatra wasn’t fibbing when he said if you can make it there, you can make it anywhere.

The plane shudders again, and I whimper.

Of course, that requires actually making it “there” in one piece.

Since I’m already buckled in, I tighten the strap, further cutting off circulation to my lower half with how tightly the nylon pinches my skin. As much as I hate being confined, it’s better than being caught off guard.

“See? Just a few more minutes,” my seatmate says.

“Yes, thank goodness. Statistically, I’m aware that flying is one of the safest modes of transportation and that chances of the plane crashing are less likely than an accident on the motorway, and that the pilots are seasoned professionals with thousands of hours of experience. But have you seen the size of those thunderclouds? They could be black holes in disguise.” I clamp my mouth shut, blinking rapidly as I realize I’m babbling.Gran would be appalled. I turn back to the woman and offer a smile. “Pardon me. I’m just jittery… What about you? Are you looking forward to New York?”

“Oh no, honey. I’m going back home to Omaha. New York’s full of crazies.”

After a nerve-racking landing,and a less-than-orderly deplaning, I’m in a yellow cab on the way to Manhattan.

My eyes can barely stay open, but because I couldn’t eat on board, my stomach growls the entire ride. Now that I’m no longer in fear for my life, I’m starving.

The customs officer at the airport confiscated the Kinder Egg Surprise I bought before departing England on account of the Brit-made versions being choking hazards, and even though I waved both my US and British passports to prove I was twenty-three, he still took it. Did he assume I was saving the toy for a snack?

My stomach growls again. At least the lady I corresponded with regarding the Airbnb hinted at a welcome gift, something she likes to leave for guests. Good hospitality is always appreciated. After living and working at Gran’s inn most of my life, I know the smallest touches can make the greatest impressions. Please god, let it be food. Though wine might be better—never too late to indulge my inner lush. Now, food and wine? Perfect.

The cab driver jerks to a stop by my home for the next fortnight, an Airbnb in a prewar structure in Murray Hill. A fairly recent war, too. It can’t be older than seventy-odd years, well-preserved with a red brick that’s more inviting than intimidating.

An orange streetlight allows me to locate the lockbox with the keys, and I wedge myself and the suitcase I filched fromGran into the cramped entryway. It’s dimly lit by a flickering fluorescent tube above a row of mailboxes in peeling green paint. I come to a dead halt in front of the aluminum tin, also known as the lift. A quick assessment confirms both my belongings and I won’t fit in this coffin on a string—not that I’m complaining.

I shuffle my aching body toward the narrow staircase to its right instead and heave in a deep breath before bumping my bag up one creaking step at a time, pausing at each tight bend to huff and puff.

One last groan, and I reach the third floor, a grotty mess.

With a quick flick of the key, the door to my flat smoothly swings open. I step through and take in the shabby chic of the combo kitchenette and living space. It’s nondescript, with a few IKEA pieces and black-and-white prints of New York landmarks on the white walls.

No snack to be seen. Should’ve known that offer was too good to be true. I fling my tan coat on the weathered settee and toe off my trainers before dashing for the loo, yawning the entire time I pull off my jumper, so I’m just in a thin tank top. I’ll find something to sleep in and shower. Tomorrow’s soon enough to poke around further.

Suitcase in tow, I trudge to the bedroom, ready to collapse. I push open the door and fumble along the adjacent wall for the light switch. I flip it up.

And scream.

Because there it is. My welcome gift. Handcuffed to the bed.

CHAPTER TWO

JAKE

“Son of a bitch!”I jerk at the shriek, yanking at my metal restraints.

In the doorway stands a woman, frozen in place. Not the crazy redhead who’d locked me up and abandoned me. This one’s more Snow White than Evil Queen with inky shoulder-length hair and pale, pale cheeks.

Her mouth opens in shock, and she stumbles back. “Oh my god. Ohmygod. Ohmygodohmygodohmygod!”

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