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CHAPTER ONE

TUCKER

I was not in my bed. I dragged my hands over the sheets, and yep, they were all silky and much more expensive than the starched white ones in the crap room my brother had paid for.

So…where the fuck was I?

It always took my eye a little while to adjust in the mornings. Bright light filtered through gauzy curtains, and I felt a small measure of panic because there was no way this was my room. My hand fumbled over the top of the nightstand, and thank God, my glasses were there.

I shoved them onto my face and blinked until the room began to clear as much as my eye was able to see. And it was confirmed: I was somewhere else. This was not my hotel at all.

Except no. Wait. In the corner of the room, the casino logo was etched into the mirror, just like the one I’d woken up to the other day.

I turned to my left, staring at the wide expanse of bed next to me. It was rumpled and used but empty. Turning to the right, I glanced out the slit in the curtain and was pretty damn sure I was at least six or seven stories higher than my room.

My mouth also tasted like I’d been gnawing on a dead rat all evening, and there was the faint scent of bourbon coming from my pores.

That explained a lot. I wasn’t great with alcohol on a good day. After my accident, I rarely indulged. Alcohol fucked with the medication I took to help my nerve pain, and also, sometimes the smell of it brought me back to the night of the accident, and yeah.

That was not a night I liked to relive.

I was not surprised I’d gotten blackout drunk after leaving Killian in the parking lot though. Especially after he made it very well known he hadn’t wanted me there in the first place.

The last thing I clearly remembered was the conversation Killian and I had outside, and that had not been pretty. My guts churned. They felt hollow and empty.

Jesus, I needed to get out of there. Scooting to the edge of the bed, I scanned the room for any sign of my legs, and my heart sank into the bottom of my stumps. I might not have had the best vision, but two random prosthetic legs were hard to miss, and they were nowhere to be found.

Shit. Was I still alone?

This was Vegas, for fuck’s sake. There was every chance I’d come up here with a prostitute—and Christ, if I did, I hoped he was hot. If I was going to make that kind of decision, he’d better have abs I could bounce a quarter off of.

“Hello?” I tried.

I was met with an echo, but there wasn’t another sound in the rest of the room. That was good. Maybe. Or terrible. I’d read horror stories like this too many times during insomnia-induced conspiracy deep dives on the internet.

My hand flew to my naked back, searching for new stitches where my kidneys and liver should be. Everything felt intact, and I wasn’t in a tub full of ice, so that was a plus. Now, all I had to do was find my missing legs.

Maybe that was it. Maybe this was a leg heist.

It wasn’t totally unrealistic. My prosthetics literally cost more than a ten-year mortgage on a tiny home. The only reason I could afford the fancy ones I had was because the NHL organization felt bad for me in spite of the fact that the accident had been entirely my fault, and they made a big deal about making sure my legs would always be paid for.

And, to their credit, they’d held up that part of the bargain. Was it a PR ploy to avoid scandal surrounding their latest prospect? Probably. But I was going to take whatever they were willing to give me. I worked as a peewee hockey coach, for fuck’s sake. I could barely afford my rent.

So yeah, I wouldn’t be surprised if someone wanted to steal them and sell them on the black market.

I had no idea what I was going to tell my rep, of course. How did I explain that I’d gotten shit-faced the week before my brother was going to marry my ex, went upstairs with a stranger-possibly-prostitute, and found myself robbed of my ninety-thousand-dollar limbs?

I guess the truth could work. They were probably used to me being blunt, and I was sure they’d heard weirder stories than this one.

Hopefully.

“Get it together, Tucker,” I told myself, shaking my head.

I was being irrational. I had not been robbed. They were just…lost. Or left wherever I had taken them off. But Christ, I felt like I would have remembered hand-walking or being carried up to this room. I wasn’t sure there was any amount of booze that could make me forget something like that.

I peered down and found my jacket on the floor beside the bed. Fumbling with the fabric, I snagged it by the pocket and began to search. My wallet was still in it, all my cards and cash still there. So yeah, I hadn’t been robbed, which was more progress, but still not the damn answer to my question.

Also, I realized as I went through the small pile of clothes, my pants were missing.

My boxers, my shirt, and my jacket had all made it upstairs with me, but that was it.

Maybe they took the pants with my legs? But seriously, what kind of fucking weirdo did that? I did not want to know. I needed to get out of this room before they got back and wanted to have an awkward conversation about it.

My bladder took that moment to let me know it needed to be emptied. I searched my wallet for my room key, and thank God it was still there, but my only option of getting out was scooting on my ass, walking on my hands, or crawling across the floor.

The last one would have my trainer out for my head. I’d been out of commission twice last season for ignoring pressure sores, and I thought rug burn would qualify as breaking my promise that I was going to take better care of my limbs.

I was an expert at hand-walking, so I supposed so long as I didn’t run into any kids and scare the bejeezus out of them, I could get to my room without incident.

People would stare—and it was Vegas, so it wasn’t like the hotel was empty—but hey. I’d done worse things. My one winter Paralympics ended because of my antics in public, so yeah. This was par for the course.

Sliding to the floor, I quickly did a once-around the room to make sure my legs really weren’t anywhere to be found. It was a large suite with a huge bathroom and a tub with jets, which made me a little sad that I hadn’t been able to enjoy them.

Or…had I?

Damn it! At this point, it was impossible to know what the hell had gone on the night before.

The more I tried to remember what happened after I walked into the lobby, the blacker my memory got. My head started to ache, and it was as I began sliding toward the toilet that I realized I was hungover.

Oftentimes, body aches tended to fade into the background. Not only was I an amputee with persistent nerve pain, but I was also a hockey player. Sled hockey was arguably more violent, only because we were right there on the ice, all up in each other’s shit. We had two sticks with pointy ends and long blades beneath us.

It was my kind of sport, for sure. It helped take all the edge off my aggression, but I usually left the rink looking like a sunset.

But it did make recognizing the quiet throb of a hangover that much harder.

My stomach roiled as I pulled myself up onto the toilet to unleash my bladder, and while I thought I would feel better, somehow, I felt worse. I was starting to sweat, and the more I carried my body weight on my arms, the more they began to shake.

This was not normal. I was far from out of shape. I must have really fucked myself up the night before.

Grabbing what little of my things remained with me, I slung my jacket around my neck like a scarf and put my wallet between my teeth before opening the door. I peered left to right, my heart thumping hard, but the universe was smiling on me because there wasn’t a soul in the hallway.

Now, I just had to figure out where I was and how far I had to go to get to my room. I scooted on my butt into the hall, and as the door swung shut, I looked up at the little plaque beside it and squinted up through my glasses to see the numbers.

The sign read 1506. Fuck my life. I had to go down six floors?

Fine, whatever. I could do this. If I could get to an empty elevator, I could make it without killing myself or passing out—both of which felt like a real, genuine possibility with the way this hangover was making me feel.

The only problem? Where the hell was the elevator? Rolling my shoulders back, I leaned forward on my hands and lifted my ass into the air, beginning the long arm-walk toward…well. Wherever this hallway was leading. I got about twenty feet around the corner when I finally saw the sign on the wall indicating elevators were in the opposite direction from the way I’d come.

I kind of wanted to cry. I couldn’t go back. I wasn’t going to make it. My arms were shaking, and now my stomach felt like it was trying to crawl all the way up my throat.

If I kept this up any longer, I was going to throw up on the nice, plush carpet, and I couldn’t afford the cleaning bill. Hell, I couldn’t afford this trip. I was here on my brother’s dime, and—oh God. Was this his doing?

Was this a prank?

I forced myself to breathe. There was no way Killian would be this cruel. And pranks weren’t really his style. Obviously we hadn’t gone to college together, but every time he’d come home on break, all he did was bitch about his frat brothers giving him shit because he was against hazing.

The one good personality trait he had going for him.

So yeah, no. This wasn’t him. This was me promising both Killian and Ford that I was going to get drunk and make bad decisions. Which, apparently, I had. I needed to give up though. I really wasn’t going to make it.

Just around the corner though, I spotted a little bench and moved toward it as fast as I could. I pulled myself up to sit, and right as my butt hit the seat, the door across from me banged open with a loud clang. It was the doorway to the stairwell. Definitely not an option for me right now.

I blinked, then saw a harried-looking younger man with short, wild hair rush through. He paused for a second, did a long double take at me, then hurried down the hall the way I’d come.

Rude asshole .

Whatever, I didn’t need some stranger gawking at me anyway. Pulling my jacket down, I patted the rest of the pockets and grinned in triumph when I found my phone. It was tucked into the inside pocket and still had a thirty percent charge. Shit, why hadn’t I done that before when I was still in the room?

My brain was a goddamn mess.

But it was fine. I had a way out. It took nine seconds to find the front desk number on their website, and I dialed, feeling like I was going to jump out of my skin the moment the receptionist picked up.

“Yeah, hey,” I said, my voice trembling a bit. “I’m on the fifteenth floor, and I’m having a kind of…emergency.”

“Do you need emergency services?” she asked, sounding unfazed. But hey, it was Vegas. She probably got calls like this constantly.

“No, no. Nothing like that. I was just, uh…just wondering. Do you all happen to have wheelchairs that guests can use?”

“Um…no?” she said slowly.

Of course not. “Okay. Uh…” It took my brain a second to formulate a plan B. I had no idea where my legs were, and with this hangover, there was no way I was going to make it on my own. I could ask if she had a couple of spare Chippendales. I hadn’t been to a show, but I’d seen their posters, and the dudes had muscles.

And frankly, that wouldn’t be the worst way to end this fuck-ass trip.

But I also wasn’t going to embarrass myself further. An idea struck, and it was maybe the worst one, but in reality, it was also probably the best.“What about a luggage cart that can carry the weight of a grown man?”

She was very silent for a long beat. “A…body?”

I slapped a hand over my face. “Oh my God, no. No I—” I rolled my eyes up toward the ceiling. “Look, this is super embarrassing, but I woke up in a room that wasn’t mine, and I have no memory of how I got there. I can’t walk on my own, and I don’t have my wheelchair with me, and I just need help.”

“Sir, it sounds like you might need emergency?—”

“I don’t need emergency services!” I all but shouted, then took a slow breath. “Sorry. Just…I need to get to my room, okay? My wheelchair is in there, and I can solve the case of what the fuck happened last night once I get mobile. But right now, I’m in a T-shirt and boxers, sitting in the hallway on the fifteenth floor. I swear, if someone comes up here with a luggage cart and can haul my ass back to my room, they will get the biggest tip of their lives.”

I was definitely willing to part with half my rent money if it meant someone getting me out of this. Boden would cover me. Or Ford. Hell, I’d take up a collection plate from the team if it meant getting the fuck out of there.

“Someone will be right up.”

Oh, thank God .

“I think I love you,” I blurted.

She sighed. “Have a good afternoon, sir.” The line went dead, and I flopped back to wait. Someone would be right up. Best words of the morning.

* * *

Someone did come up, but it was not right away. I was working through my fifth nausea spell in twenty minutes when a very young man pushing a cart approached me. He didn’t look strong enough to blow dandelion seeds, but I was going to give him the benefit of the doubt.

He came to a halt beside me and did a slow look from the ends of my residual limbs to the hangover sweat on my forehead. “You, uh…needed a ride?”

“Yep! Sorry for making your morning weird as fuck,” I said as he pushed the cart up next to the bench.

He laughed. “Trust me, this is nothing. Last week, we had a mascot convention.”

I dropped down onto the cart and situated myself near the pole so I could hold on. Then I realized what he said and looked back at him over my shoulder. “Wait. Like…furries?”

He choked on a laugh as he began to push me in the direction of the elevator. “Worse. These guys get drunk and piss in their costumes. And they don’t go to their rooms to change or clean up. Pushing someone around on a luggage cart is old hat.”

I sighed as I rested my head against the cart handle. It was brass and very, very cool. “Okay, I feel less bad. But I have to ask, how many people with missing limbs have you carted around?”

“As in, like, they can’t find their missing limbs, or they just don’t have one?”

“Limbs gone missing,” I confirmed, and he laughed again as he pushed me into an empty elevator car. “I’m on six,” I told him when his hand hovered by the buttons.

He hit my floor and then leaned back.

“Well, I’ve met three people like that, at least . But they were all missing arms. The kinds with the hooks.” He made scissor fingers. “So I didn’t need to push them around.”

“Bummer for them. Did they find them?”

“No clue. I was off work by the time they checked out.” The elevator opened up, and he gave me a firm push out. My room was a short stroll down the hall, and I held out my hand when I saw the familiar rose painting that meant my room was two spots away.

And then I noticed something large and dark leaning against my door.

“Oh damn. That’s new for me,” he said.

We got close enough that I could see them clearly. My legs. They were resting against the door with a bright orange Post-it stuck to the left socket. I snatched it when I could reach and held it close to my eye to read the neat block letters.

THOUGHT YOU MIGHT NEED THESE. HAD TO MAKE MY FLIGHT, SO I COULDN’T brING THEM UP. SORRY.

It wasn’t signed.

“And the mystery continues,” I said. I stuck the note to my jacket and hugged my legs to my chest. A medium-sized fortune was not down the drain today, and I wouldn’t need to call and beg and humiliate myself to the NHL organization in order to get replacements.

There was justice in the world.

Kind of.

My memory was still a fuzzy mess of nothing, and I still had no idea who this mystery person was. Or what happened. Or what we did. I had some ideas because, well, I woke up pretty much naked and in someone else’s bed, which also meant…shit. I needed to go get tested because I had no idea where I’d been or if anything had been inside me. God, I was not looking forward to the stinging dick swab.

But it would be worth it. And what mattered now was I was safe. I was back in my room with all my stuff, I had my legs, my wheelchair for the airport, and I could get the fuck out of this godforsaken city that seemed to hate me for every second I was there.

I was so ready to be home.

“Thanks for your help,” I said to the guy. I should have gotten his name. I dug into my wallet and pulled out a wad of cash that wasn’t as small as I’d expected it to be after being at the casino all night.

Assuming I was at the casino all night. A weird, foggy memory hit me. A man’s laughter? Lights on the Strip flashing by me?

Was I in a car at some point?

My head swam as I tried to dig into that bit of memory. Or was it a dream? Shaking my head, I let it all go. There was no point in pushing myself now. I needed some coffee and a car to the airport, where I planned to wheedle my way into changing my ticket so I could go the fuck home.

He tucked the cash into his pocket and waited for me to open my door before pushing me inside the room.

“Bet you’ll never forget me,” I said as I hopped off the cart and pulled up onto my messy bed.

He shrugged and smiled as he turned the cart back toward the door. “At least until the next mascot convention.”

I shot him a quick salute, and then the door shut, and he was gone.

And I was alone, with no idea what had happened in the last twelve hours and no idea how to find out.