4. Wrangler
4
WRANGLER
The “what is wrong with you” question lingers in the air like a bad smell. Probably not the best question for Poet to ask, considering Bullwhip does have a lot wrong with him.
He’s the Venom Vultures member who takes it too far sometimes.
In my opinion, he cracks that whip too much. Staring into an enemy’s eyes for too long is all it takes. Two weeks ago, we rode into the city and he slipped the whip because he, “didn’t like the look of the guy.”
He doesn’t like the look of Zoe now.
Which is strange.
Before Felix Fernando’s honorary mention, Bullwhip had glued his eyes to this girl like he had stumbled upon treasure.
Zoe shakes her head and tenses her shoulders. They’re even more rigid than before. “I need to get back.”
“What’s the hurry?” Poet folds his arms over his chest and tilts his head, staring at her. He’s been doing this ever since we found her outside panicking over that goddamn wolf spider.
Bless the creature for deciding to crawl its eight legs up her skin.
It introduced us to heaven.
Which none of us are worthy of seeing.
But still…
Fate drops parcels in front of you for a reason.
Still seated on the bed, Zoe looks up at her former teacher. “I should get back.”
“Did you run away?” I ask.
Her eyes veer over to mine. Passing out is on the cards if she keeps staring at me. Eyes like hers are no joke. They spell out danger in capital letters.
The same danger that ruined my streak four years ago.
It was a masquerade, and a mistake, and it in no way shape or form honored Sheila, my love who tragically lost her life seventeen years ago. She was stirring in her grave the night of the masquerade, and I knew it was wrong, but I dunno, my body took over and I came inside another woman.
It felt so bad.
But so good.
And it’s happening again.
Clubhouse whores provide no entertainment for me. Sure, they’re attractive women with appealing faces and things in all the right places, but their presence makes me feel empty, so it’s easy to resist temptation.
My dick twitches at the sight of Zoe.
The same way it twitched for the other woman all those years ago.
That ended in tragedy. Three days locked up in my room, and a lifetime of regret.
It can’t fucking happen again.
But one eyelash flutter hardens my balls.
“Zoe,” presses Poet, “did you run away?”
She stares at him for a moment. I almost see the lump form in his throat as he tries to contain himself. What sort of teacher-student relationship did they have?
Definitely a non-physical one.
But now a butcher knife couldn’t even cut the tension between them.
“Yeah,” she says. “I did, but it’s never successful, and I don’t know why I still do it.” Her eyes narrow, like she’s searching for a reason. “That’s my problem. I don’t think . I just do. I even left Sammy at the house.”
“Sammy?”
“My little girl. I normally include her in my escape plans, but it was too obvious. If it gets late and Sammy’s not home—must mean I’ve snuck out again. I’m always caught, and it’s because wherever I go, there are people. All it takes is one person. One person to recognize me. To ask, ‘What are you doing out here so late?’ as they phone the police to report me.”
Zoe rolls her eyes. “Felix pays people generously if they find me. He says I sleepwalk, and I get lost, run away in an attempt to escape my nightmares. Honestly, it’s complete bullshit, but he says he’s taking care of it, and is in contact with doctors to see if my sertraline dose needs increasing. I don’t even fucking take sertraline. I don’t sleepwalk. Trust me, it’s all a conscious decision. Thing is, people don’t question anything that ever comes out of that man’s mouth. Instead of asking themselves why I’m having nightmares and running away, they’re peeling their eyes extra wide at night just in case they win a thousand bucks.”
I raise my eyebrow. Talk about a monologue.
“Shit. Sorry.” She shakes her head. “I’m talking too much.”
“Talking is good,” says Poet.
Bullwhip and I both know that talking is the number one cause of death.
Zoe half smiles at Poet. Then she exhales. Rubs her head. “Look, I just thought if I could get out in the morning, and without Sammy, I’d have a chance of escaping successfully. But there is no successful escape, especially not out in the desert, and especially not without Sammy.” Another head rub. “I need to go back. You guys could get into trouble.”
“We’re always in trouble, darlin’. That’s why we base ourselves out here.” I sniff a laugh. Continue looking at her. Red hair parts around her face so perfectly.
But that’s not the only thing that’s red.
Her eyes fill with the color too.
“Lay down, gorgeous.” I flash a smile at her. “You’ve trekked ten miles out into the desert. You need a rest.”
Instead of obeying my command, she tilts her head and says, “Nice accent.”
Boy, if I had a shot of whiskey every time somebody said that.
Her saying it feels different, though.
The oral equivalent of eating cake.
“He’s right, Zoe. You need to sleep,” Poet says.
One look into Poet’s eyes has her kicking off the six-inch heels and shuffling further up the bed. Her head hits the pillow, and Poet and I untuck the comforter and bring it around her as Bullwhip, poker-faced, watches.
“I can’t believe I’m being tucked into a whore’s bed,” she murmurs.
Sun streams in through the window, bronzing her face and shimmering the diamond ring on her finger. That thing needs to hurry up and set beneath the horizon before I’m ripping the jewel from Zoe’s finger and tossing it out into the desert for the coyotes.
Feelings boil in my stomach. Many feelings. Too many to count.
I knew Venom Vultures wasn’t gonna be simple and stress free, but it’s times like these when I wish I was back at the ranch. The sun was worse there and burned your skin if you stayed out in it too long, but times were simpler, and life had this uncomplicated feeling to it.
From dusk till dawn, I was outside herding cattle. Riding horses out into the desert searching for new cattle to make our family even richer.
Even though the Tyler name already stank of money.
If it wasn’t for the hurricane that spun to our side of the desert and wiped out everything, I’d still be there. Life would still consist of rooster alarm clocks and family dinners, carefree days riding through the desert, and iced lemon tea to finish off the day. Instead, guilt laces my days. If the hurricane hadn’t happened, I would never have had to see Sheila die right in front of my eyes.
I can still see the blood oozing out of her temple, spilling onto the sand. The grains curdled into balls, and they remained there for a few days until rainfall washed it all away. She lies under the sand now, three miles north of here, and she was my only chance at love.
Sometimes, I wonder why I’m still riding for Venom Vultures. I was scouted, and apparently that’s very rare. To escape the devastating aftermath that no rain seemed to wash away post hurricane, I vacationed in Vegas for a few days to distract my mind from the fact that the wind had toppled my horse’s shelter and subsequently killed my girlfriend.
My family had fallen into a depression, so to make myself feel better, I lined up to enter some gentlemen’s club on the strip that apparently had the, “best women with the best tits.” Decent girls were the only things, pre hurricane, that we had been short of on the ranch, so my eyes craved something sweet. It was the place where I had first met Sheila, where I immediately knew I had to do everything in my power to get her out of the club and into my arms.
Anyway, I was about to enter the club when a hand palms my chest. “Sorry. No boots.”
They were fucking expensive boots too. Lucchese, one-hundred-percent leather.
I question the man, and he repeats himself.
That’s when I decide to floor him.
I had so much built-up anger. My home had just been destroyed and I had no fucking clue what my future held, but taking out a good-for-nothing security guard who weighed twice as much as me felt good.
That’s when Grizzly approached me and said I’d be a good fit for his club.
Expensive bikes had never been my thing, but hearing the wind whistle through my ears early in the morning was something , even if the ride revved instead of neighed.
Paychecks were handsome too, and I sent big wads of it back home to my family who started to use the money to rebuild.
A house is all they own now, not a ranch, and my parents have retired in it together on the same stretch of land that used to be home to all the cattle that either lost their lives or ran away post hurricane.
To be honest, the only reason I ride for Venom Vultures is to send my parents money, and to ensure they have comfortable living. It’s the least I can do for what they gave me—the best childhood a man could’ve asked for.
Riding for the club has been OK.
Until now.
Until Miss Princess Diana herself made a dramatic entrance into our lives.
Her eyes close softly, dark lashes fluttering gently in sleep. Her chest rises and falls, and red hair splays around her shoulders like lava. This woman has what all the club whores lack—fire in her heart.
And it’s gonna make everything go up in flames.