Home > Lady Luck (Colorado Mountain #3)(11)

Lady Luck (Colorado Mountain #3)(11)
Author: Kristen Ashley

She had no f**king clue.

Time to move on. So he did, out from under the awning and down the sidewalk toward the jewelry store.

“How’s Jonas?”

“Growin’ so fast, Laurie can’t keep him in clothes.”


Pause then, “Fuck, man, forgot. I got married.”

Walker stopped dead and he heard someone behind him let out a squeak and scuttle around him but he didn’t move.

“No shit?”

A definite smile in his voice before, “No shit.”

“The woman from the news,” Walker stated.


He tried to remember if he’d seen any photos of her when all that shit went down with Tate and that serial killer who had kidnapped his woman and stabbed her with the intent to rape her with that knife before he killed her which, luckily, he didn’t get around to doing. They’d reported it on television and during a variety of sports commentator shows considering Tate had a very short-lived career as a linebacker in the NFL.

He’d watched it in the joint, seen photos of Tate, none of his woman.

But it didn’t care if she was butt ugly. She wasn’t Neeta, Tate’s old bitch from high school and on and off for what seemed would last an eternity. Fortunately, it didn’t and Tate got shot of her and could talk about being married with a smile in his voice. Unfortunately, Neeta had been one of the victims of the serial killer Tate tracked down. Neeta was so much of a pain in the ass, she was the definition of a cunt, just a shade better than Misty but not by much. Still, no one deserved what went down with her.

Except, maybe, Misty. And he knew thinking that made him a dick and he didn’t f**king care.

“Told her about you,” Jackson said in his ear. “She’s already conspiring with Maggie, planning a celebration for your return.”


“Not necessary,” Walker said as he started walking again.

“Don’t fight it, Ty. When Laurie’s in the mood to be friendly, no one can stop her. And you know Maggie.”


“And, trust me, she cooks for you, you’ll wonder why you even considered fighting it,” Tate went on.

At least that was something.

He pushed open the doors and hit the plush interior of the exclusive jewelry store. The clerks looked up at him and he noticed two go pale. They were the men. The women had a different reaction.

They always did. Though they’d rethink their reaction if they knew he was an ex-con and what he was sent down for.

He didn’t care. All he cared about was it was air conditioned. Spending five years in a correctional institute in southern California he’d had enough hot to last a lifetime. It sucked it was the beginning of summer. Even his hometown of Carnal in the Colorado Mountains would get hot.

But when winter hit… heaven.

“Gotta buy a ring, Tate,” he muttered into the phone, going direct to one of the women who was smiling slow, turning fully to him, not knowing she was about to make one f**k of a commission.

“Right,” Jackson replied.

“Got a new number. This is Lexie’s phone. I’ll text it to you.”

“Right,” Jackson repeated.


“Later and Ty?” he called.


“Congratulations, brother. Be happy.”


Walker flipped the phone shut.

Chapter Three

Signing Bonus

I sat in the passenger seat of my own car, the glossy, violet and ice blue cardboard folder that carried our wedding photos and a large envelope with our marriage certificate was sitting on my thighs, a huge bouquet of roses was in my hand, the Vegas traffic was heavy, Walker was driving us back to the hotel.

We’d been married by Liberace. Not the real one, obviously, since he’d passed. A fake one. I didn’t know you could be married by Liberace. I knew Elvis would marry you, Liberace, no.

I found this hilarious, totally loved it. If I knew you could be married by Liberace, even if I was head over heels in love with the man I married and thinking I was starting a life that would last forever, I’d blow off the traditional and go for Liberace in a chapel festooned with violet, ice blue and a liberal hand with silver gilding. It was freaking awesome.

But I wondered why Ty Walker chose Liberace. I didn’t think he got a kick out of it because, as far as I could tell, he had no sense of humor… or any emotion, really. It was likely because it was the first wedding chapel we happened upon so he swung the Charger in.

When we arrived inside, the vestibule was packed. Two brides all kitted out in big dresses. One had at least two dozen friends and family around her, groom in a tux, girlfriend in a bridesmaid dress, another male in a tux – wedding party. This was planned. They’d picked Liberace specifically. Their posse had come with them, vacation and big event. The other bride and groom had about half a dozen friends around them, the bride’s gown clearly off the rack and not fitting properly and her hair was a mess as was her makeup. Her groom was wearing shorts. She’d probably donned that gown in the car. They’d been partying and were about two sheets to the wind, teetering on three. Not planned. Spontaneous but happy. Good times that may, or may not, be regretted in the morning. I couldn’t tell. Right now they seemed giddy with happiness but it could be giddy with booze. They’d wake up tomorrow and realize they’d done the one thing that could happen in Vegas that didn’t stay in Vegas. And looking at their loopy, drunken grins, I hoped they didn’t care.

Walker walked me up to the desk that had a huge display of real wedding bouquets and shelves of boxed confetti in every color behind it and also behind it was a diminutive woman with loads of dyed, dark hair ratted out into hairstyle the likes of which I’d never seen and, not to be mean or anything, I hoped I’d never see again. She also was sporting an excess of bulky rhinestones which adorned her at ears, neck, wrists and fingers and so much makeup it was unreal. It wasn’t a look I’d choose but she worked it, except the hairstyle.

“Love is in the air!” she cried when we stopped at the tall counter that was topped with glass under which were photos of happy couples, the bride and groom sandwiching a smiling-like-a-lunatic Liberace sporting an enormous, lilac-hued pompadour, these pictures intermingling with printed menus of wedding packages. “We’ve got a wait of about half an hour, a bit more. I hope that isn’t a problem,” she went on.

“Nope,” Walker replied.

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