Chapter Eighteen - Lucky
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
“Well?” I drawl, purposefully hanging on to my “e” vowel much longer than necessary as I step out of the changing room. “How do I look?”
Becca glares from where she’s sitting in a straight-backed wooden chair, her arms crossed. Tony has his camera on me, but he swivels it around to catch her reaction.
“Like a rodeo clown,” she deadpans without missing a beat.
“Oh, don’t be like that, darlin,’” I thicken my accent. “You’re just jealous of my fringe.” I run my hands down the side of the leather chaps I’m wearing over a pair of jeans which only makes Becca snort.
“Yes, Lucky DeLucca.” She rolls her eyes. “That’s exactly what it is. And don’t call me darlin’.”
I flash her a grin and reach up and touch the tip of my tan cowboy hat. “Whatever you say, suga’ bean.”
Tony readjusts the lens of his camera as Becca lifts an eyebrow.
Her cherry red lips press into a line, and it looks like she’s about two seconds away from punching me in the face.
But the corner of her mouth twitches as soon as the camera pans away, and I know she’s trying hard not to crack up.
It’s the first day of Operation I Hate You, and so far, everything is going according to plan.
It’s Challenge Day. We arrived in Arizona an hour ago, and it’s the perfect opportunity to reclaim the top spot in the competition—all we have to do is convince everyone we can’t stand each other.
Becca stands up, giving me a full-body view of her outfit, and I swallow hard. Like me, she was given a bundle of clothes to change into for the challenge, and the sight of her in a tight pair of jeans and a cropped plaid shirt nearly knocks me over.
She’s tied the ends of the shirt into a knot on one side and there’s a sliver of creamy skin just above the waistline of her jeans that is driving me absolutely wild.
When she plops the obligatory cowboy hat on her head, I have the strongest urge to grab her by the belt loops and pull her in close. She looks so damn cute, especially with the way her nose is scrunched up.
But that’s not part of the plan.
You hate her, remember? I tell myself. Right now, you hate her. Yet, the voice inside my head isn’t at all convincing. It’s a good thing the camera can’t hear it.
I clear my throat. “Well, we best get along now, little doggy.”
Becca rolls her eyes again. “Are you going to talk like that all day?” she asks, reaching for the doorknob.
“When in Rome, baby.”
But as we step outside and into the already blazing heat of the day, it definitely isn’t elegant Italian architecture we’re seeing.
Tombstone, Arizona—which is apparently known as the town too tough to die—looks exactly like a movie set for an old-time western.
The main drag isn’t asphalt or concrete, it’s packed dirt, and the storefronts all have weathered signs printed with old-fashioned, block typography.
We’re standing just outside of the Tombstone visitor center, but down the street sits the Historama, the Crystal Palace Saloon, and the Bird Cage Theatre and Museum.
Street actors wearing western and cowboy-themed clothing are walking down the sidewalks, interacting with visitors, and giving tours. There’s even an old guy sitting underneath one of the storefront awnings strumming a guitar and singing, “Oh my darling, Clementine.”
Clementine. I chuckle to myself and file the name away for later. It’s a great contender for our car. Becca will probably hate it, but I think I can wear her down.
A stagecoach rolls by, drawn by two brown horses, and I jump back a little, bumping right into her.
“Easy there, cowboy,” she says with a frown, but her hand lands on my arm, steadying me. My pulse jumps under her fingertips.
I step away, bending low at the waist and lifting my hat. “My apologies, ma’am.”
“Seriously. You’re going to have to stop that.” Becca pushes past me and steps out on the street, heading for the spot where the rest of the finalists are waiting.
I bust out laughing at the sight of Ziven all dolled up in cowboy gear. “Dude,” I say, slapping my palm against him. “You look—”
“Amazing?” He grins. “I know, I know. I’m one sexy beast.”
“I was going to say you look like a cartoon character, but sexy beast works, too.”
Ziven throws a playful punch, but I roll out of the way. It doesn’t seem like any of the weirdness from Roswell has followed us here to Tombstone. At least not yet.
“So, how are things going with . . .” He nods his head in Becca’s direction. “Seeing as you’re in last place and all, I just wondered.” Of course, he has to rub it in my face.
“It’s fine.” I shrug, fully aware that Tony is standing behind me capturing our conversation. “Becca is . . . well, she’s . . . she’s a real peach.” I purposefully grit my teeth on the last part, and Ziven nods his head knowingly.
“Better you than me.” He claps me on the shoulder and laughs.
I laugh, too, knowing I’m doing exactly what Becca and I agreed upon—playing up our whole fake hating scheme for the cameras—but there’s still a thread that yanks on my insides.
“What do you think they’re gonna make us do today?” Ziven scans the street front, stepping back when another stagecoach rolls by. “I just hope it doesn’t have anything to do with horses. I hate horses.”
“Well, in that case, my vote is for horses.”
“Dude, you’re such an ass.”
“It’s the Lucky DeLucca way.” I flash my biggest grin. “But whatever it is, Becca and I are going to—”
“Going to what?” Ziven breaks in with a smirk of his own. “Win the challenge? I doubt that, DeLucca.”
“We won the last challenge,” I counter, shoving my hands in the front pockets of my jeans.
“Yeah, and you’re still in last place.” Ziven throws back, his eyes flashing with amusement. “If anyone is taking home that 100 grand, it’s me and Evie. You might as well head back home to Alabama.”
Ziven loves a good game of trash talk, so I play along. “Nah, I don’t think I’ll start packing yet.”
I eye Becca, standing next to Iris. She looks over her shoulder and catches my eye for a split second. It’s quick enough that I don’t think the camera caught it, but the look she gives me is so warm, it makes my entire body tingle.
“Finalists!” One of the starlight officials waves a clipboard in the air to get our attention. “We’re ready to head to the next challenge. If you’ll just follow me.”
In any other town, I imagine the sight of all of us, decked out in our cowboy gear, walking down the street with a bunch of cameramen following us would cause a stir, but in Tombstone, we’re hardly the most interesting thing here.
Becca ends up next to me walking behind the rest of the group.
“Hey,” I whisper, knocking my shoulder into hers.
“Hey,” she whispers back, giving me a half smile. I don’t say anything else, don’t want to risk it, but oh god, that smile.
“Wait here,” the Starlight official tells us, stopping outside a plain, tan building. It’s not much to look at, but there’s a bright red sign posted next to the big wooden door.
“The O.K. Corral,” Becca says, reading the big white letters and the smaller sign printed underneath it. “Gunfight site.” She looks at me. “Gunfight? That sounds serious.”
“Well, it was in 1881. Just ask Wyatt Earp.”
“You know about this stuff?”
I shrug. “A little. I like history.”
Becca’s eyes narrow for half a second, and she looks like she wants to say something else, but the massive wooden door swings open, and Dozer saunters towards us.
He’s sans his usual suit, swapping it out with dark pants and a long black coat that matches his hat.
A fluffy, fake handlebar mustache is glued to his face.
“Finalists,” he booms, and I snicker at the way his mustache flaps with every word. “Welcome to Tombstone, Arizona and the O.K. Corral. Before we get to your challenge, we have a demonstration for you.”
He waves us inside, where we’re led past a replica of a blacksmith shop showcasing tools from the 1880s and the stables where a display of buggies, saddles, and other bits of equipment are displayed.
Beyond that is a staging area where a small wooden set has been built in front of an open dirt area.
There’s stadium seating underneath a canvas awning, and that’s where we’re directed to sit.
Becca settles in beside me, her thigh pressing against mine.
It’s just the slightest contact, but it’s all I can think about.
Every time she touches me, I don’t want her to stop.
I only halfway notice when an actor dressed as Doc Holliday comes out from the set, welcoming us to the O.K.
Corral. I’m still thinking about it as he goes over some safety rules and encourages us, the audience, to participate.
And I’m definitely still thinking about it when a group of actors emerge and begin acting out the infamous conflict.
“Well,” one of the actors booms, his voice carrying all the way to our seats. “Doc Holliday.”
“Wyatt Earp, after all this time,” another actor retorts, his hands cupping his silver belt buckle. “How are you, old friend?”
Becca leans forward, resting her chin on her hands, her eyes focused on the scene playing out in front of us. The dialogue is cheesy, and the acting isn’t much better, but it’s adorable how into it she is.
“You’ve been looking for a fight, and now you have it!” The actor playing Wyatt Earp yells.
When the actors begin shooting at each other, the fake guns they’re using pop loudly. Becca jumps, her left hand reaching to grip my knee. I know it’s more of an instinctual reaction, but it about sends my heart into my feet.
“Holly G,” I murmur. When she looks at me and realizes that she’s holding on to me, she yanks her hand back like it’s on fire, stealing a glance at Tony and his ever-present camera. Luckily, everyone is watching the reenactment, and I don’t think anyone saw.
My knee feels like it’s on fire though, the electricity from her touch burning through the fabric of my jeans.
I know I’m supposed to be pretending that we can’t stand each other, but damn . . . she isn’t making it easy.