My Ex-Boyfriend's Wedding (18 page)

Jemma skidded through the greasy residue, ripping the sleeves of her jacket. In a futile attempt to slow down her passage, she tore the tender flesh from the heels of her hands and sides of her wrists. She lay there for a few seconds, stunned that he'd actually thrown her with such force. Turning onto her side, pain shot through her body. The last thing she remembered was Dalton trotting toward her with his arm raised, and his fist smacking against the side of her head. Sparks of color painted her vision, knocking everything out of focus.

And then it all faded to black.

Pain bolted through her body as she rolled over, the move yanking her back to consciousness. She shivered and brushed a hand across the slick tiled floor beneath her as she fumbled into a sitting position. She leaned against the course brick wall. Cool, damp air swirled about, much like her head. She gently rubbed her arms, the torn palms of her hands burning against the remnants of sleeve material. Still trying to focus, she made out a dim light at the other end of the room, but tall shadows blocked her blurry view.

Panic detonated in her chest, pumping adrenaline through her as she remembered Kate's abduction.

She called out, "Kate? Are you in here? Kate?"

Jemma stood, the searing pain in her side and head begging her to stay where she was. She pushed past it, reaching for the wall at her side to steady the tilting of the room, or her head. She wasn't quite sure which was moving, but she was ready for it to quit. The smooth feel of glass beneath her fingers surprised her. She squinted to focus more, the faint lighting finally enough to reveal some of her surroundings. Rows of bottles stood behind the glass refrigerator doors.

"Wine? The bastard dumped me in his wine cellar?" She shook her head, stunned. The goose egg behind her ear throbbed in protest and the room wobbled, her stomach lurching with each wave.

"Kate?" She pushed along the perimeter of the room, propping herself against the cases lining the walls to steady herself and keep lunch from reappearing. She passed the center of the cellar. Filled wine racks built around the support pillars had been blocking a clear view of the other end. Once she made it past and found the dimly lit stairwell, she was confident she was alone in her basement prison. Jemma collapsed into a heap on the bottom step, dropped her forehead into her aching palms, and contemplated escaping her situation. The only thing that ran through her mind, though, was revenge on the man who put her there.

She turned sideways on her perch, leaning against the wrought iron hand rail, and stared up at the old, rounded top oak door. She remembered the day he'd had it installed. He had bubbled on about how it was from a castle in England and how many thousands of dollars it'd cost him to buy and have it shipped over. Jemma had feigned excitement for him at the time. But, as she scowled at it from the other side, she just wanted to cram it down his throat.

One ancient splinter at a time.

She rose slowly to her feet, patting her pockets for her phone, which she was pretty sure was in the purse she'd ditched with her shoes. It was worth a shot, but it wasn't in her pockets.

She climbed the stairs, one at a time, with a death grip on the railing. With each step, the room tilted and shook like a bad amusement park ride. Finally reaching the door, she leaned against the small alcove wall, which sort of helped with the dizziness. Banging against the old door, her battered hands and wrists protested, pain shooting down her arms.

Undeterred, she yelled, "Dalton, you asshole, let me out of here!"

She stopped the persistent pounding and listened for any noises from the house. It would be difficult to hear anything at all since the door had an airtight seal on it to maintain the temperature in the fifty-degree range for the wine. Jemma pressed her ear firmly against the door and heard nothing.

Shoulders slumped in defeat, she wanted nothing more than to travel back in time to the first time she'd met Dalton.

And run in the opposite direction.

"I really thought this was it. He would forever be out of our lives after today," she cried, her words echoing through the cavernous room. Complete disgust flowed through Jemma, and she shuddered against the cold and her repulsion for her ex. She slowly descended the staircase, pondering Kate's impending fate, feeling trapped and utterly helpless in her wine infused cage.

And paced, and paced some more. For hours. She contemplated the few choices that Dalton had left to take Kate, and decided he'd taken her to his mother's house in Kansas City. She was either drunk or high almost all of the time, so there wouldn't be any pesky questions like 'why the hell did you abduct your wife?' and all.

Checking her watch every fifteen minutes only made the time seem to pass more slowly. She checked it again. It'd been three hours since the hearing let out; surely Tony and Mike were looking for Kate by now. And her. But, the fact that no one had found her yet made her begin to
lose hope that anyone even knew the wine cellar existed. Anger and frustration mingled with the disgust. She busied herself browsing through
Dalton's prized wine collection.

She came upon a special cabinet with only four bottles. A picture of Dalton holding one of them and a newspaper article were framed and attached to the glass on the door. The headline read: "Case sells for astronomical sum at Sotheby's!"

Jemma read through the article and choked on the price. Literally. Coughing, she grabbed a bottle out of one of the open racks and popped the cork. After a few swigs, the coughing fit subsided. She figured a few more drinks would help make sure it didn't come back. She read it again and laughed so hard she snorted. He'd paid $167,500 for the wine after a bidding war with another collector. She jiggled the handle, but it was locked. Determination to gain access to those bottles steeled Jemma's resolve. If he was going to lock her down there, she was helping herself to whatever the hell she wanted. After a bit of prying, a lot of swearing, and some wedging with no results, she decided on a more direct route. Scanning the area, she spotted a few loose bricks lying against a wall. Grabbing one off the top, she stood back and threw it through the glass. Two bottles shattered on impact. Her first instinct was to panic, but that quickly passed.

"Hmm, oops." She grabbed one of the remaining bottles and read the label aloud. "1978 Montrachet Domaine de la Romanee-Conti. That even
sounds
expensive." Letting the overpriced bottle slip through her hand and crash to the floor made her entirely too happy. She picked up the final bottle and contemplated her next move. Her vision cleared, her eyes adjusted to the dim light, and she scanned the cellar again, her thoughts focused.

"Ah-ha, another locked cabinet. I need something to bust that door open with." She swung the bottle carelessly, walked toward her target, and slammed it into the door as though it were nothing more than another brick from the pile.

Browsing the contents of that cabinet, she said, "What do we have in here? Ooh, 1985 Louis Roederer Cristal Champagne. I do believe I'll have to crack this one open." With ease, she scraped the foil from the top, took off the housing, and popped the cork in the general direction of a stack of less expensive wine. When nothing fell, she walked over and shoved them all to the floor. Bottles shattered, and liquid oozed over the tiles, soothing her nerves a bit.

She tipped the bottle of Cristal and took a long, deep drink. Putting it back in front of her, she proclaimed, "Wow, this really is good." Within minutes, she finished off the champagne and searched for her next target. Tipsy and even more lightheaded, she found her mark.

"1988 Moet et Chandon Dom Pérignon. Score!" This time, she focused solely on removing the cork, swaying from the last bottle she'd consumed. "Yum! Here's to you, Dalton, rotting in hell once I get a hold of you, ya scumbag!" She held the bottle skyward in a toast, tipped it back, and guzzled.

A large belch escaped her lips. "Mikey, you would be so proud'a me righ' now."

Jemma giggled at herself and then laughed harder at the thought of laughing at herself. It made perfect sense in her drunken brain.

She reached into the Cristal stash and popped open another bottle, not because she needed more, but because she wanted to waste it. She also picked up various other bottles and popped the corks to let them spew, or launched them at the opposing wall, just for sport.

"You bastage, I'll show you a thing 'er two abou' where you should'n…" She paused to hiccup and belch again. "…stash me. I'm gonna bust up all yer stuff, dude. Okay, so I migh' drink…a li'l bit of it, too, buh only 'cus I'm thirsty. If ya didn' wan' me…" Hiccup-belch. "…to drink the good stuff, ya should'a lef' me with some wadder…oh, or some soda. I would
loooove
a soda righ' now." She paused, shaking her head as though someone else were there. "An' a burger, too."

Continuing her drunken ramble, she sat down on the steps and they shook. Her brow furled. "I'm no' that fat." Her ears perked at the sound of a door slamming—or at least she thought that's what she heard. One step at a time, she climbed to the top again, holding tightly to the railing. This time was even wobblier, but she didn't much care. She beat on the door, and then stopped to stare at her hands.

Wiggling her fingers in her own face, she emphatically announced, "Hey, I can' feel mah han's anymore." Snorting, she stumbled back one step and fell against the railing, barely escaping a fall down the flight of stairs. With one hand gripped to the banister, she used the other to beat on the door. "Hello! Dalton Ogtabulous…" She giggled again. "No, tha's nah it… Octangular? Oh, hells bells, jus' open the friggin' door and lemme kick your punk ass! I can take ya."

Jemma rested her forehead against the door just as it was pulled open. She fell into Tony's quick responding arms. Beaming up at him, she exclaimed, "Hi, baby. Wha' brings you here?"

Tony searched her face, undoubtedly trying to decide if she'd been hurt or was just drunk. Or both. Smelling her breath, he pulled her gently next to him. "Oh, thank God you're safe. I found your shoes and purse in the parking garage. Well, with you and Kate both missing, I feared the worst. Is Kate with you?"

"Nah, Duh-mass Dal'n mussa took her home wi' him."

"Jemma, we're at his home. So you are both
here
somewhere?" Tony's forehead scrunched in confusion.

She over-exaggerated her head shake and burst into giggles again. "Tha' makes tha-ree of ya appear." Jemma shoved four fingers in Tony's face.

"Jemma, I need you to focus. If Kate isn't with you, then that means Dalton has taken her somewhere. Do you know where?"

"Home, prolly."

"Jemma!" Tony held her bruised chin carefully and made her look directly at him. "Where else might he have taken Kate?"

The man was seriously harshing her buzz. With her brow knit, she murmured, "T' his
momma's
home."

"Okay, work with me here. Where might that be? Does his mom live in Springfield?"

Jemma shook her head aggressively. This time, when she stopped, she tried hard to keep her face straight but broke out laughing again, spitting in Tony's face. "Nope. She lives in a shrailer … um, s'trailer park in Kans'us Cidy."

"A trailer park in Kansas City?"

"Duh, tha's wha' I jus' said." Jemma rolled her eyes back, and everything went black again.

At least this time it was mostly self-induced.

*  *  *

She woke later, sprawled on her back. Her stomach spasmed and her head pounded. A bellowing car horn echoed in her head, which she was fairly certain would explode at any second.

"Stay in your own lane, you moron!" Mike shouted, his voice slamming into her head like a cast iron frying pan. If that didn't finish her throbbing head off, nothing would. She tried to find her happy place, but even Johnny Depp's margarita blender was too loud.

Opening one eye, she peered up into Tony's concerned face. "Where are we going?" She slowly moved into a sitting position and realized she and Tony were in the back seat of her parents' Taurus, with Mike at the wheel.

"How are you feeling?" Tony brushed a large curl behind her ear.

"Like you just scraped me off the highway." Her bare foot bumped against a small plastic bucket. Thickened liquid spilled from under the towel covering it.

"Ugh, what's that?"

"Well, that answers my question from earlier. You obviously don't remember throwing up."

Jemma dragged her swollen tongue around in her cotton-filled mouth. "Okay, now that I know I'm sitting over the top of my own vomit, answer my other question. Where are we going?"

"Kansas City," Mike and Tony announced in unison.

Parts of her intoxicated, partially incoherent ramblings came back to her. "Oh, to find Dalton's mom. Gotcha." Jemma dropped her head into her hands. Another wave of nausea rumbled through her stomach. Once it passed, she inhaled a deep breath and let it out in a slow, steady stream. "How long have I been…well, how close are we?"

Mike turned around and looked at her for a second before returning his attention to the dark road ahead. "If you need to rest, it'll be a bit before I'll need directions."

"Okay. Just stay on Highway 71 until you get to the East 85th Street exit. Get off there and go west to LeBrea Avenue. It's one of the streets off of that one. I'm not exactly positive which one, but I'm pretty sure I'll know it when I see it."

Mike craned his neck to glare at her. "Pretty sure? Kate's life may very well be hanging on your memory!"

"Well, I only went to his mom's house once, and Dalton thought it was an emergency, or it never would have happened in the first place. He's not exactly proud of where he came from, as you well know. We were up there for a weekend away, and his mom sent him a 911 text message, so we went, expecting, you know, an emergency. Boy, was he pissed when he found out she only needed more booze and knew he was in the area. I should've taken the hint then that he had a horrible temper."

Tony pulled her back into his strong embrace. "You'll recognize the area when we get there."