5. Zoe
5
ZOE
Darkness fills my eyes when I open them.
Shit.
I bolt upright and examine my surroundings. Moonlight penetrates weakly through the window behind me, outlining a lamp on the nightstand that I switch on.
I wince. Give my eyes a minute to adjust. A four-post bed comes into view, ruby-red bedsheets too. The red-and-black floral wallpaper decorating all four walls tells me exactly where I am.
And it’s the one place I hoped not to have fallen asleep in.
A motorcyclist clubhouse.
Fucking dicks should’ve woken me up.
Throwing the comforter away, I roll out of bed, buff my hair and fasten my heels. They clack against the wooden planks as I march out to give the men a piece of my mind. Except…they’re nowhere to be found. I turn a corner which opens out into another corridor. One of the whores strides toward me in heels even higher than mine, huge, naked breasts knocking together. She greets me with a smile.
One I don’t have time to return.
I go to open my mouth but realize I don’t even know their goddamn names.
Panic twists my stomach. Felix is gonna kill me, like, actually pull out a saw and cut me into pieces for dinner. He knows I’m looney for escaping in the middle of the night, but how do I excuse going missing midday with the sun up?
God, every money-hungry citizen in Vegas will turn stones trying to find me right now. Let’s just hope none of them discover this place. I’d hate to get three…not-so-innocent bikers into trouble for kidnapping me into their sex lair.
I retrace my steps back to the room they stuck me in earlier.
Was it a right turn?
Cautiously, I turn the corner.
That’s when approximately a dozen leathered men turn my way.
The tall one is easy enough to spot—he towers over the rest. The other two stand closely beside him. Mr. Reeves and the other one.
“Zoe?”
“Zoe as in Zoe Fernando?” says a member of the congregation.
“Fucking hell,” replies another. “Man, I told you it was her.”
Mr. Reeves approaches me and starts to escort me back to the bedroom.
“No. Let go. I need to go back.”
“I don’t think that’s best.”
“Please. You don’t understand.”
“No, I don’t, but what I do understand is public safety. You are not safe.”
“I am s?—”
“No.”
My pussy flutters a little, to be honest.
My cheeks always used to heat when Mr. Reeves raised his voice. Though strangely it was never me he told off, even though I chatter-boxed my way through school.
I stare into his familiar blue eyes. Age weathers them slightly now, but they still sustain that same, heart-contracting look. Biking has bulked him out. His shoulders sit broader than I remember them, and his brow arch appears higher than before.
He was always a bit brooding. But this is different.
My eyes drop to his hands. More specifically, the left.
No ring on the finger.
“You’re not married now?”
He tenses his jaw. “No. But you are.”
“Yes.”
The jaw tenses even more, like he’s grinding down on his molars.
Then, something flickers in his eyes.
“Come on.” Bullwhip interrupts our staring competition. “Let’s get her home before Felix Fernando decides to burn this place down.”
The facial tightness suggests Mr. Reeves is against the idea, but he opens his mouth and says, “OK,” anyway.
* * *
It should be illegal to wear pantsuits and heels on the back of a Harley.
The outfit bores me—Felix knows I hate beige, but he made me wear it so that it matched the oatmeal suit his tailor had dry-cleaned for him. We were supposed to be attending a lunch together at Caesar’s, but I didn’t make the lunch part.
I said I really needed to pee, to which Felix responded, “Go, quick, but don’t say pee in public ever again.”
I was having a bad day, and Felix telling me to wear an outfit that made me blend into the sand ramped up my already very pissed-off mood. As Felix’s wife, people crowd around me all day interviewing me about clothes I didn’t even pick out for myself, and it takes effort to lie out of my ass pretending to love something when I don’t. The thought of talking about clothes and makeup and Felix all day felt more emotionally draining than usual, so I fucked off into the desert after peeing.
On top of that, I really hate the cameras. You’re out in the sun all day standing around, and if it’s not eyes staring at you, it’s camera lenses.
“Look here, Zoe,” someone demands, their face covered by an unusually large camera.
“No,” argues a second. “Zoe, don’t look there. Come this way.”
No wonder I slept so soundly in a whore’s bed last night.
It’s probably because I was in the middle of the desert surrounded by three people who don’t even know who I am.
It’s refreshing. Like waking up on the first day of spring. Air here is dry, and it’s annoying because when you’re attending events, makeup artists constantly pat lotion onto your face to keep it glowy.
I clutch the lapels of Mr. Reeves’ leather jacket. It seems like a felony.
But so does riding on the back of his bike.
I’m pretty sure he used to own a Toyota back when he taught.
For some reason, when they agreed to drop me off back home, I pictured perching my ass in the back seat of a sports car, not balancing it on the back of a two-wheeled machine.
“Hold on tight,” instructs Mr. Reeves.
The engine fires up, seat exploding with vibrations that, with my legs parted, go straight to my clit. Fuck. This shouldn’t feel so good. But when you’re a sex-starved woman reliant on a vibrator, most sensations feel good between the legs if you’re desperate enough.
And desperate, I am.
But that solitaire diamond ring is the biggest cock-blocker.
And for good reason.
I wrap my hands tighter around Mr. Reeves’ impressive shoulders, and do as he instructs—hold on tight. Wind picks up and begins to whistle in my ears for a short period.
Then it turns into a scream.
I shut my eyes, trying to drown the sound out, but it matches the tone of Fiona’s cries.
She’s sixteen again, crying on the floor, head nestled between her own two skinny arms as she sobs next to a father who pretends not to hear her. He’s too busy tapping away on a laptop that lights up a stone-cold face. He doesn’t even twitch at the sound of her screams. Doesn’t even look up.
“Zoe? Are you OK?”
A gloved hand reaches back to pinch my thigh.
The screaming dwindles.
“Uh.” I choke out a reply. “Yes.”
But this doesn’t alleviate his concerned expression in the rearview mirror. Two gray eyebrows bunch together, continuing to stare.
“Look at the road,” I say.
“I’m looking at you.”
My heart misses a beat. Even in the early hours of the morning, his eyes still find a way to shine. Those stark blue eyes always used to find me during class. God, he was the hottest teacher my pubescent self had ever laid eyes on.
He still is, although he no longer calls himself a teacher. To me, he always will be.
At one point, I got too carried away. People used to think I started dressing like a slut for other boys in my grade, but Mr. Reeves’ eyes were the only ones I wanted on my body. I could never explain it. Still can’t, to be honest.
Boys my age didn’t know how to string sentences together and would say random things from the internet that they thought sounded cool. Mr. Reeves, on the other hand, spoke so eloquently, each word precise. Poetry used to roll off his tongue, and my pussy used to shudder every time he read Lady Macbeth’s line, “Unsex me here!” Anything mildly sexual in nature used to make the class chuckle.
But it used to turn me on.
I still remember the over-pronounced way he used to say sex .
His eyes briefly catching mine as he said it.
I roll back my head to admire the network of stars above. They glitter in the sky because out here, it’s dark enough to see them.
A mountain range lines the horizon too. Having lived in suburban Vegas my entire life, my eyes have only ever seen glimpses of them. Seeing the entire thing without obstruction for the first time ever silences the noise in my head. Felix’s demands. His team’s. It’s like my entire life, I’ve been holding my breath, and now I’m exhaling. Letting go.
That’s the funny thing about freedom. You don’t realize you’re stuck until the walls aren’t closed around you anymore.
I roll back my head again. Exhale again, as we increase speed even more. Wind screams in my ears, but it no longer sounds like my sister’s scream. It whistles a rhythm I’ve never heard before.
And I want to hear it again…
Except Mr. Reeves isn’t driving me into the sunset.
He’s driving me back to Mr. Money.
Wrangler pulls up alongside him, and the two share a conversation I only catch pieces of—the Harley engines roar too much.
“What do you think has gotten into him?” is the only sentence from Wrangler that my ears manage to understand.
Bullwhip, they’re talking about? The giant man with a presence more stoic than Marcus Aurelius himself?
He looks like he could eat me for lunch.
Wrangler, on the other hand, looks hungry…but resistant. I see it in his eyes. When he turns to look at me, they shine the same silver color as the full moon above us, and oh god, isn’t he gorgeous? A light peppering of stubble decorates his cheekbones, contouring them even more. I don’t know. There’s something about the gradient of stubble that pops naughty images into my mind, like how it’d feel if he rubbed his face up against my?—
“What is your address, darling?” Mr. Reeves pinches my thigh again.
“MacDonald Highlands, number?—”
“Holy shit, quite the neighborhood to live in,” yells Wrangler over the engine.
“Duh,” says Mr. Reeves. “Remember who she’s married to.”
I watch his face pale as soon as he says the words.
Wrangler shouts directions to Bullwhip up ahead, and at the intersection he swings a left. I’m unsure why the others tagged along too when only one person was required, but I’m not complaining.
Guilt should thread through me every time one of them makes my pussy pulse, but I’m too hungry to care.
The revving engines.
The thick smell of gasoline.
Their leather-gloved hands that haven’t gone anywhere near my body yet.
The last time I felt desire this strong was almost four years ago.
It’s the kind of desire you can’t fight.
So I slip my hands into Mr. Reeves’ lap.
I need something before returning home.
Something that’s gonna?—
Oh fuck.
A groan escapes Mr. Reeves’ beautiful mouth. I watch him in the rearview mirror. He opens his lips in a sort of ecstasy.
That’s when I feel something grow. Expand.
It fills my hand.
But not for long.
Soon I have to stretch my palm to accommodate its size.
Holy fuck, Mr. Reeves.
Another groan leaves his mouth. Then he’s bucking his hips and?—
“Stop, Zoe.” God, that stern voice could shatter me like porcelain. He swats my hand.
“Why?”
“You’re married.”
“A ring on my finger is all it is.”
I can’t believe what I’m saying. If those words found their way back to Felix, he’d brainwash me to think otherwise. Wire me up and electroshock my brain. Not because he wants me to love him, but because he needs to keep up his public appearance.
Felix Fernando—the winner of everything. He has the money, the house, the daughter, the wife. What doesn’t he have?
Answer: a working heart.
“God, Zoe, you can’t go saying stuff like that.”
“Why not?”
Mr. Reeves tightens his lips and concentrates on the road as we approach the city.
Turns out that question was rhetorical.
I loosen my grip on him.
We ride so fast the city becomes a blur.
And I’m glad.
Until we’re entering MacDonald Highlands and riding to a stop.
I climb off the bike, and pass my helmet back to him. Good thing the building is so set back from the road—the distance from curbside to porch should be great enough to drown out the sound of their bikes.
“Go, quickly, all of you,” I hiss.
Six eyes stare back at me with worry after taking in the house’s size.
Mr. Reeves extends his eyes past the gate. “You could get lost in there.”
The burn between my legs worsens. It’s like leaving empty-handed.
“I want to see you all again,” I say.
Mr. Reeves and his tall friend both grimace.
Wrangler just stares.
I’ll take that as a no, then…
I turn on my heel and begin to head home, approaching the gate.
“You will see us again,” says Wrangler. Delayed response. “You’re Felix Fernando’s wife. That doesn’t make you hard to find.”
This lifts a smile onto my face, but a short-lived one, because they’re leaving now.
“Thanks for the ride.”
Mr. Reeves nods.
Then they’re starting up their engines in unison and motoring away.
The sound of chirping crickets takes over. Focusing on the noise gets me to sleep if the vibrator fails, but normally, the nights I manage to drift off are the same nights that Sammy struggles.
God, I can’t believe I left her alone with him.
He suggested a nanny a while back, but why hire a stranger to bring up a child when their own mother is available?
Facial recognition unlocks the main door for me, and I slip inside, careful not to slam it. There’s very little to like about Felix, but his mansion is worth marveling over. It’s a complex with three acres of desert land, but he had builders come in six years ago when he moved in to fill the rock with unnaturally green grass. Looking at pictures, I prefer the way it was before. The grass isn’t real and never has to be cut, but I guess Sammy has a safe space to play. That’s the only positive.
It’s a sandstone-built place, three stories. Grand, arched windows ornament the front of the house. A short bridge connects one part of the house to the other, semi-circles over the driveway to take you to the business part of the house.
I don’t know why Felix built a separate building. It’s not like he has a work life balance and saves phone calls for one designated side.
My favorite part about the house is when I get to leave it.
Other than that, it’s the three palm trees swinging in the wind in front of it. Those aren’t artificial. They grew one day, and Felix was pissed because they cracked the newly laid marble driveway he’d just spent two arms and four legs on.
I tiptoe up the grand staircase and pad across the hall to my room.
Cracking open the door to Sammy’s room, I check on her. The soft rise and fall of her chest relieves me, but not for long when I remind myself that the only reason she’s asleep is because she probably exhausted herself from all of the crying.
Without my presence, she gets tearful.
Closing the door, I advance to my room, undress, and slip beneath the covers. The vibrator on the nightstand flashes from last night with a quarter charge, but I bury my head in Egyptian-cotton sheets and feel guilty because that’s what I’m supposed to feel, right? For admitting to my ex-teacher that jewelry is the only way Felix and I are tied?
Grazing my hand over Mr. Reeves’ dick? What was I thinking?
But he hardened in my grasp…
He groaned—not once, but twice.
He’s a biker now, and I should be repulsed, but I wasn’t before.
It was three hot motorcyclists all those years ago who showed me a good time. They gave me the most life-shattering orgasm of my life that paradoxically, for ten whole seconds, straightened the world again.
But it wasn’t just that. It was their generosity. Their teamwork. Holding my legs up so I didn’t have to do so myself—it felt like luxury. To be honest, any guy would treat me like that today if I gave them the chance, but that’s just because the media has given my name value.
Back then, I was nobody. Just a fresh eighteen-year-old girl chasing booze and sex to achieve cheap dopamine. Those bikers could’ve taken advantage.
But they didn’t.
They cared for me when they didn’t need to.
Respected my body even though I didn’t respect it myself.
Perhaps that’s why I feel so drawn to them today—they remind me of the past.
I’m older now, with a daughter on my arm and a ring on my finger.
I need to let it go.
But I can’t.
Tonight, something feels lighter in my belly. Disappointment usually presses on my chest after returning home from an attempted escape, but that isn’t the case today.
This time, life has exposed me to a sliver of hope, and I want to see it again.
Because when you’ve experienced life on steroids once , naturally, you’re gonna do everything in your power to live that way again.