3. Bullwhip
3
BULLWHIP
Poet looks ready to pass out.
That makes two of us.
Women like this never grace our lives, and I fear this will be like riding a roller coaster—as soon as the ride starts, all control is lost.
Wrangler points to Poet. “He used to teach you?”
“Yeah, Mr. Reeves.” Another forced smile. She likes to do a lot of them. “What are you doing out here?”
“We’ve been trying to ask you the same question, sweetheart.” Wrangler hitches an eyebrow. “Are you gonna tell us?” He deepens his concerned eyes. “Are you in trouble?”
“I don’t wanna go back yet.”
“What can we do for you, then?” I fold my arms over my chest to close myself off. I can’t get too close. She’s too beautiful, and I’m no good for her. The beige Chanel pantsuit suggests she has more money than she needs, so I have no idea what she’s doing out here.
Her feet sit diagonal in a pair of open-toed high heels that reveal pedicured feet, and a pair of golden earrings swing every time she moves her head. They twinkle in the sun.
I know real gold when I see it.
“Do you think…” Her hands fiddle with the pantsuit buttons. She has them manicured, fingernails matching pink with her toes. High maintenance. Very high maintenance. No chips ruin them, so it’s clear she doesn’t use her hands for much other than shopping.
What does she do for work?
“Would it be OK if I came in for a while?” She looks over her shoulder as if to check that the coast is clear. Upon turning back to us, she flashes a smile, this one wider than the small, forced ones she’s been shooting us.
“Of course.” I say the words quicker than a fucking dog says yes to being offered a bone. “Come inside.”
Wrangler shoots me a look. I can see why. Welcoming an upper-class hottie into our lives complicates matters, especially for lover boy Wrangler who branded himself celibate at nineteen years old after seeing his girlfriend drop dead right in front of his eyes.
Seventeen years, it’s been.
Only once has he ever broken that vow.
It was almost four years ago, at some masquerade that Meredith’s husbands invited us to. Masquerade girl was the only other woman I’ve met who paused the very hum of the earth.
Until now.
This girl sits tied for first with the other.
And it’s bad.
So bad.
The way she looks into my eyes stirs trouble. Women don’t look at me like that. Not even clubhouse whores who look at pretty much anything with a dick and heartbeat. This woman has class. The glossed-red hair could make her a model, but models don’t even have this poise.
Fuck, I gotta stop making things about us. This is about her.
I know a victim when I see one.
Winding a hand around her lower back makes me feel something, and her feminine scent whirls into my nose.
But I gotta let go. Hands that’ve been used to murder and deceive and steal shouldn’t be placed on women like her who have done no wrong in their lives.
“Step up, darling.” I usher her up onto the veranda. Her heels clack on the wooden planks. “Take it easy, I don’t want you to trip.” My hand snakes around her waist again of its own accord. It needs to find some self-restraint. “I’m sorry about the mess, too. We weren’t expecting guests.”
“In the middle of the desert, you wouldn’t be expecting any.” She takes her first step indoors, eyes surveying the pool tables and the bar over in the corner holding a two-year supply of beer that could be polished off in two days. Thankfully, the only moving thing inside the main room is the ceiling fan, and it whirls around on a low spin creating some much-needed air.
Her gaze then veers to the American flag stitched to the wall. To the taxidermy eagle in the corner that was killed by Grizzly some years ago. Its spread, black wings span from one wall of the club to the next, casting a shadow on the wooden floor. She stares at the creature for a time, her mouth parted, and I can’t tell if she’s amazed, scared, or both, to be staring at a reimagined bird of prey that looks ready to eat her alive.
“What is this place?” She turns around to face me, her face timid.
And my head scrambles. My tongue knots together, rendering me speechless.
“A clubhouse,” answers Wrangler.
“A clubhouse for what?” She directs that question toward Poet, gaze dropping once again to survey his outfit. To her, he’s Mr. Reeves, but Poet killed that dude four years ago the second he passed initiation.
Poet’s mouth opens and closes like a fish.
“Venom Vultures,” says Wrangler.
“What is that?”
Clacking heels interrupt the conversation.
One of the club whores turns a corner and bares her teeth. Tiffany is her name, and her blonde, blown-out hair sits voluminous on top of her head like a cloud. Red lingerie and stockings cling to her oily skin. She looks tanned for a woman who spends the majority of her time inside.
“Boys.” She smiles. Then her gaze shifts to the girl. This propels her forward. “Who is this doll?” The smile extends. “You’re gorgeous. Us whores have been waiting impatiently for a new girl like you to join.” An excited squeal leaves her mouth. “You’re gonna fit right in, although first you’ll need to lose a few clothes.”
The girl pinches her brows together and turns to us with a questioning look in her eye. “Whores?”
“Zoe isn’t here for… that ,” says Poet.
Zoe. A beautiful name for an even more beautiful girl. Her eyes extend to the door. She should make a run for it—that would make things easier for us.
But also, she’s in trouble.
The Venom Vultures clubhouse regularly sees excessive drinking, prostitution, and sometimes death, but an inside voice instructs me to keep her here—all of that seems better than where she came from.
Just where has she come from?
Tiffany lowers her brows. “Then what is she here for?”
I seal my lips and escort Zoe through the clubhouse, taking her out of the main room and into one of the empty bedrooms. Good thing it’s quiet, and that most riders are out bounty hunting—her presence here would raise questions. Not very pleasant ones, like how much for a night alone.
Although she doesn’t seem short of money.
“What the hell?” she says as soon as the door closes behind all four of us. “A whorehouse? I should’ve known.” Flicking away a piece of red hair, she storms back toward the door. “I changed my mind. I want to leave.”
I palm the door.
She tugs on the handle. “Let go.”
“No. You’re not safe.”
“Correct,” she spits. “I was safer on my own.”
“This isn’t a whorehouse,” says Poet. Of course he’s first to speak up. The transition from high school teacher to outlaw motorcyclist is a big one, and he probably doesn’t want the news getting back to her friends.
“Then what is it?” She steps away from the door. Takes a look at the bed.
“They’re washed, by the way. The sheets.” Wrangler gestures for her to sit. “It’s a comfy mattress, and you look like you need a sit-down.”
Weird thing to say to a girl in a room with three men twice her age.
“I’ll pass on the sit-down.”
“All due respect…” I clear my throat. “You asked to come inside.”
That softens her expression slightly. “I know, and I signed no contract about staying here against my own will. I want to leave now, thank you.”
“Are you gonna tell us why you’re all the way out here wearing Chanel and”—Poet narrows his eyes—“Louboutin heels?”
The confused look on Zoe’s face suggests that there are multiple answers. Is it the drastic wardrobe change that Poet is most curious about, or the trek out into the Nevada desert? We’re ten miles out from the city. People don’t just stroll out here for the fun of it.
“Look,” says Poet. “We can help you.”
“Help me how?” Zoe crosses her arms. “I’m not a child anymore, Mr. Reeves.”
“If you want to be addressed as an adult, stop calling me Mr. Reeves.”
“Where are you living?” I ask.
“In Vegas.”
“With…?”
Her mouth closes.
“You can trust us.”
“Unimportant.” She hitches her hands up her chest and looks away. “My living arrangements are none of your concern. Your arrangements on the other hand…”
“Are none of your concern.” Wrangler waggles his brows.
“Funny,” scoffs Zoe. Her eyes wander around the room, taking in the wooden four-post bed with the ruby-red bedsheets, the nightstand holding a wide variety of flavored lube options, and the two drawers underneath. Her furrowed brow suggests she’s questioning their contents. Handcuffs, I know, take up occupancy in one of them. A couple of the women have chained me to the bed before, but now that this girl called Zoe has stepped into my life, I might finally be able to move on from the other girl who my mind, for almost four whole years, has been unwilling to drop.
Moving on from one heart-stopping woman to another.
What am I thinking? Nothing physical can escalate with this girl.
As she swipes a strand of hair from her eyes, I notice something. Something red on the inside of her wrist looks like it shouldn’t belong there.
A scald mark.
I’ve seen my enough of them to know.
I follow the hand down to her side, where it rests daintily on her waist. Her body distracts—maybe that’s her weapon. Her hips are the focus of my attention now, and the hourglass shape of her body. Her breasts, although covered, sit pert underneath the Chanel pantsuit that I want so badly to rip off. She could be a fashion influencer or something.
But people who wear luxury clothes are supposed to be happy.
Not miserable.
I focus my attention back on her wrists. Squint. Is that a quartz Cartier watch?
That still doesn’t capture my attention as much as the burn. Part of it snakes around onto her forearm. Whoever burned her intended to do so in a place where it could be covered.
Maybe she’s supposed to wear the watch on the other wrist to conceal the?—
“Burn.” The word leaps out of my mouth.
“What?”
“The burn on your wrist.”
“There’s no mark on my wrist.” Her hand clamps quickly around it.
“Yes, there is.”
“No, there’s?—”
I lunge forward and peel her other hand away, snapping a nail in the process.
But that doesn’t seem to bother her.
I flip over her arm and survey the nasty burn mark blotched across the inside of her wrist. It’s a few days old, and doesn’t appear angry.
What does anger me, though, is the expensive-looking diamond wedding ring on her ring finger. My fingers find their way to it. Damn, the temptation to rip it off and throw it away kills me.
She’s married.
To somebody made of money by the looks of it.
The other two’s heads turn, and we all examine the piece of jewelry, hoping there’s another explanation.
Poet turns to her wrist. “Who did this to you?”
“Your husband?” asks Wrangler.
Our jaws all harden simultaneously.
“No, I?—”
“Zoe.” I sharpen my eyes and glue them to her face.
Her dark eyebrows part, and it looks like she’s about to cry.
“OK.” She straightens out her features. “But if I tell you, it stays between us.”
“Agreed.” Poet steps forward.
“First, tell me what you guys are doing out here living with whores.”
“The whores live with us, sweetheart,” says Wrangler. “And this isn’t where we live. This is a clubhouse for the Venom Vultures Motorcycle Club.”
“So, you’re bikers?” Her eyes turn distant as soon as the question leaves her mouth.
“Yep,” says Wrangler.
Her gaze turns to Poet. “What about teaching?”
“I quit a few years back.”
“But you were such a good?—”
“OK,” I interject. “Sweetheart, you’re avoiding the question again. Tell us who burned you.”
She exhales, and then takes a seat at the foot of the bed. It’s such a simple movement, but there’s so much poise to it. She moves like a swan, elegant as ever, and it makes her look respectable, but humans aren’t supposed to move like this.
She doesn’t trust us.
Her shoulders have been tense this entire time.
“Felix Fernando.”
“You’re lying.” The accusation explodes out of my mouth, winning me a death stare. “Sorry,” I add immediately.
“You know Felix Fernando?” Wrangler widens his eyes.
“Shit.” Poet closes a hand around his mouth. “It was Felix Fernando who did that to you?”
“Felix Fernando is my husband,” says Zoe. “And I’d appreciate it if you stopped saying his name. I hear it enough. Felix Fernando this, Felix Fernando that .”
I almost can’t believe this girl is married to a billionaire.
Almost.
She’s drop-dead gorgeous, and billionaires always get first pick.
Although the guy isn’t much to look at, he’s a successful entrepreneur and household name in Vegas, a man who came from nothing. You think of rags to riches , and think of him. He owns a real estate business, and three years ago he merged it with big-name casino owner Warren Warrington. Weird merger. Probably, the only reason they decided to merge was because of the alliteration.
No, it made sense for two of Vegas’ biggest businesses to collaborate and scale their money as one. Felix Fernando is the top dog, Warren his counterpart—the second-in-command guy who hides behind the scenes. He doesn’t attend red carpet events like Felix. Not like I watch them or anything. I don’t own a TV, or keep up with the media if I can help it. It’s all noise, and the reason men join the club is to get away from that noise. The only sounds that please our ears are revving Harleys and women reaching climax.
Although the latter hasn’t been doing much for me recently.
“Felix Fernando is your husband ?” Wrangler’s eyes stay wide open.
“Go on. Say it again.” Zoe rolls her eyes.
It’s a struggle to wrap my head around the fact that Felix is responsible for the burn.
For many years, the man has been my biggest inspiration. He didn’t inherit wealth. He built it from a tiny, two-bed foster family home that didn’t give two shits about him. During an interview with Jimmy Fallon around a year ago, he spoke about how his foster parents apparently owned a drug trade and illegally employed all these underage kids, some as little as twelve, to deliver drugs for cash. Felix, sitting reclined in his interview chair wearing a Merrion Supreme bespoke suit and Rolex, said he had wanted no part in it, and kept his head down in school so he could escape at the age of eighteen and move away to college. He worked two jobs apparently, and when he made his first million, sued his foster parents who now reside behind bars.
That was the only interview I watched, and it was because I caught it live at a bar once in Vegas. The TV was the center of the room. Everybody was watching. Vaguely, I remember a question being asked about his wife. Felix answered that he prefers to keep Zoe and his daughter’s lives private.
Only now it’s just coming to me.
“You have a daughter.”
“How did you know that?”
“You’re…” I avoid saying Felix’s name. “His wife. Everybody knows you have a child.”
“And everybody recognizes my face except apparently you three.”
“We prefer to keep off the grid,” says Poet.
That brings a smile to her face. “Me too,” she says. “But I don’t have much choice in the matter anymore.”
I watch Zoe. The poised way she sits up on the bed. She could lie down, slouch into the pillows and rest her back, but she chooses to rest on the mattress like it’s a seat. To be honest, it doesn’t even look like she’s resting. It’s as though somebody has woven a string through her spine, and they’re pulling it up out of her head, keeping her straight.
“Felix controls you?” Poet asks.
“He brands himself a very particular way. Everything must be designer.”
“He sounds like a loser,” Wrangler chuckles.
“Or psychotic,” Poet adds.
“He’s both,” laughs Zoe. She spreads her nails out in front of her and examines the one missing. Grimacing, she looks up at me. “He won’t be happy when he sees nine nails instead of ten.”
“We’ll get it replaced before we return you,” I tell her.
“ If we return her.” Poet shoots me a glare. “I don’t think she can go back there.”
“It can’t be that bad.”
Poet frowns. “He burned her. You saw it yourself. What’s wrong with you?”
The question I ask myself every day. What is wrong with me?
That’s the trouble—nobody understands. Not even people at the club. The only person who would understand is Felix Fernando.
Maybe he can answer that question for me.
He knows what it’s like to be the last collected student at school. To be the outsider with no friends or parents. Mine fostered me when I was young, and for fourteen very long years, they prioritized their actual, biological son, Michael, over me.
Oh, Michael. The sweet little boy who could do no wrong. You could call him a synthetic brother, but even that was a stretch. He didn’t have my back. He once invited his entire grade around to the house when his parents were away for the weekend, and then blamed it on me.
Even though I was a loner.
I think his parents saw through the lies, but for some reason they continued to blame me.
Felix lived the exact same childhood as me. He gets it.
Although I haven’t met him, his presence makes life feel less lonely. He’s the hand my younger self needed to hold on to when things got tough.
And now some strange girl is accusing him of abuse…?