6. Poet
6
POET
Grizzly speaks many words to us, but the only one rolling around in my head is Zoe .
I shouldn’t have moved her hand away from my lap, and I shouldn’t have dropped her off at Felix’s dungeon. I should’ve taken a detour and rode through the desert to let her finish what she started.
Twice, she stroked my dick through my pants.
And I was full mast.
The memory alone brings me to a semi.
An elbow punches me in the side, and I find Bullwhip looking at me, a scowl painted across his face. He gestures for me to turn back to the front, whispering, “Snap out of it.”
My name on Grizzly’s tongue straightens me up. If there’s one thing more terrifying than Zoe walking back into my life, it’s the threat of being kicked out of the club for daydreaming mid-meeting.
“I need you three to ride to the strip this afternoon. Something strange happened in Paul’s casino earlier.” Grizzly returns center stage—in the middle of the stuffed eagle. It looks like he’s flying. “I need you to check in with Paul for me. Earlier this morning, I saw him hand over an envelope.”
“Who to?” asks Bullwhip.
“Not sure, but it was addressed to Felix Fernando. One of his employees must’ve come to collect it for him.”
My posture stiffens, and I see Bullwhip’s and Wrangler’s do the same. Do we say that we welcomed his dear wife in yesterday with open arms and hard dicks? Do we admit that she fell asleep in one of the private rooms, and that she teased my dick on the ride back to her mansion?
I keep my lips shut.
Bullwhip’s eyes narrow. He scowls, this one deeper than the one he flashed me before. I know what he’s thinking—could it be a setup? Yesterday Zoe pays us a visit, and today Grizzly’s loyal friend of many years hands over an envelope addressed to a man he’s never before had dealings with.
Paul and Grizzly are like two peas in a pod that keep things between themselves only.
Irritation cuts through Grizzly’s brow. Not much gets him in this state. Like Bullwhip, he’s a stoic man with very little emotion. The only time he does show emotion is around Meredith.
He can’t seem to control his features today.
And it makes sense. The guys go back years. If Paul has any trouble in the casino, he phones Grizzly who sends a fleet of us his way to eliminate any chaos. In return, Paul ensures our names stay out of as many mouths as possible so we remain under the radar.
“Did you see what was in the envelope?”
Straight-faced, Grizzly slips the thing from beneath his leather jacket. The seal has already been torn, but he smooths his hands over the paper to build audience anticipation. Most of us aren’t here, the majority already out completing other things, but the eight of us present in the room all sit forward like Grizzly’s about to reveal the most shocking information.
He dips his hand inside, and pulls out money.
There are enough dollar bills in there to fucking retire.
He fans it out in his hands, displaying buck after buck.
“Half a million.” Grizzly flattens his lips. “I counted myself. I managed to pickpocket the guy as he was heading to the casino’s exit.”
“What’s Paul handing over half a fucking million dollars to Felix for?” Wrangler frowns.
Grizzly shrugs his broad shoulders. “You three find out for me. It appears you’ve taken it upon yourself to have a day off.”
I don’t know what we were doing with our morning, really. Drinking stout and putting pool balls doesn’t hit the same as before. I missed several balls, and the beer tasted too bitter.
I swing my leather jacket around my shoulders and mount the bike. Sandwiched between the other two, I waggle my eyes at each of them.
“It’s been a while, hasn’t it?”
“Too long,” Bullwhip says. “We need to busy our minds again.”
“Conflict of interest?” Wrangler says, leaning over the handlebars to look at him. “You’re a fan of Felix Fernando, aren’t you, Bully?”
“Admirer of his work,” says Bullwhip, face unsmiling. “There’s a difference.”
He switched up pretty quick yesterday, the second Zoe dropped the news about her and Felix’s marriage.
A ring on my finger is all it is.
God, that woman’s gonna get me in trouble.
She’ll get too close and see me for what I am—boring Mr. Reeves. As much as I hate to admit it, he’s still in there. The leather and the Harley and the tanned skin covers that up, gives me bad-boy vibes, but that Shakespearean-obsessed divorcé still lives somewhere inside of me, and Zoe can’t get too close—she, like Trudy, will realize how fucking boring I am and then she’ll leave too.
And I don’t know, something about that feels worse.
She only finds me attractive because I have genes inherited from a supermodel. God rest you, Mom. That’s the issue in today’s society—appearance trumps personality, for better or for worse.
But what am I saying? Zoe’s out of bounds. She was a student. Past, present, or future, it doesn’t matter, and it makes no difference. I taught her. Professional boundaries were placed between us, and they should remain.
But the tease blurred those boundaries last night the second her hand touched my groin.
Wind builds, whistling through the expanse as we build speed. I duck behind the glass screen as sand particles spit everywhere. The leather jacket lapels flap in the breeze—the same ones Zoe wrapped her hands around last night.
It’s rare I carry passengers. The only time I do is if it’s another one of the boys when we’re limited on bikes.
I still see Zoe’s freckled face in the rearview from last night.
She’s a changed woman, but even though the rigid pantsuit material stiffened her body some, time hasn’t altered her smile.
And that relieves me.
She’s still in there.
Signposts for Vegas direct us right. We thread through lanes of traffic until we’re at the front of the lights, ready for them to turn green.
Vegas by day is an entirely different experience to Vegas at night. Casinos, without their flashing neon lights and ginormous glow-in-the-dark billboards, appear like regular buildings.
Except no building on the strip is regular, as Brander, Match, and Lifesaver discovered last year at Ursula and Hook. That place was Bratva owned, and they hoarded millions in illegal cash that almost everyone turned a blind eye to as the strippers hypnotized guests into trances.
Casinos are probably the same, but most organized crime groups keep away and avoid interference, so there’s no need for interrogation. Lucky Boy—Warren Warrington’s place—and Cash Pot Palace—Paul’s—are legit.
Warren and Felix’s merger, though, calls into question what Paul was doing handing over half a million bucks to the man who pretty much has everything.
He’s trying to merge with Cash Pot Palace too?
We hop off the bikes and stride through the main doors. Paul’s casino wows me every time I enter. It has to be the biggest on the strip, and it welcomes in some of the most prestigious guests. Adele even played a few rounds of roulette once. Hollywood A-list celebrities like Leonardo DiCaprio, Margot Robbie, and Vin Diesel have previously made appearances. One of Paul’s most likable qualities is that he doesn’t boast when notable guests visit. No photos line the wall of him photographed next to respected individuals, and that’s because Paul respects everybody the same, fame aside. The boys and I haven’t met him much, but he treats us like friends every time we enter, and seats every Venom Vulture club member in a VIP booth, free of charge, with an open bar.
So we always get shit-faced.
Not today, though. Suited dealers spin roulette wheels and dish out cards at stands. Dressed in full leather, we weave through the midday crowds looking out of place—something we’re used to.
Diamond chandeliers hang from the fake-sky ceiling above. Below, our feet walk on a red spiral carpet that Paul and his team expertly designed to keep eyes up and on the machines, not on the floor. Looking at such complicated carpet patterns, especially when intoxicated, causes nausea, so this encourages everyone to keep their eyes up and on the slot machines.
Every single fucking thing in this place is designed to distract. To squeeze as much money out of guests as possible. Paul graduated with a master’s degree in psychology, and it shows. He arranged his place into a labyrinth, and according to some recent study, his is the most difficult in Vegas to navigate. He employs the most attractive women who wear the tightest, littlest black dresses, and their pretty, red-lipstick mouths know just what to say to rope men into a game they’re probably gonna lose.
I see Bullwhip eyeing one of them.
Trust it to be the one with red hair.
“She touched my dick last night,” I murmur in Wrangler’s ear.
Bullwhip swings around, height looming over us. “Who touched your dick last night?”
“Who do you think?” Something tugs at Wrangler’s lip, like he’s taking his aggression out on Bully. “Zoe.”
“What?” Bullwhip’s eyes dart over to me. “You’re her teacher!”
“Not anymore,” laughs Wrangler.
“I don’t control her hands, Bully, jeez.”
“Fuck.” Wrangler waggles his brows. “Wish I had called shotgun now.”
“Why? To ruin your celibacy streak again?” I ask.
Bullwhip’s eyes fill with poison, and I prepare for him to spit. “Fucking hell, Poet. Wanna get us in even more trouble?”
“What’s the big deal?” Wrangler folds his arms. “They’re both consenting adults, and he doesn’t teach her anymore .”
“She’s Felix Fernando’s wife. Husband and wife. Her pretending to freak out over a spider yesterday was step one of their joint plan to, I don’t know…get closer to us.”
“That doesn’t sound like the Zoe I remember.”
“What’s this?” asks a fourth voice.
Enter Paul.
All three of us spin around, lips zipped.
“You bumped into Zoe Fernando yesterday?” Paul asks. “What did she want?”
Dick.
“Nothing.” Bullwhip straightens up. “Just directions.”
Paul nods and surveys all three of us once more. “I take it Grizzly sent you?”
“Yes.” I square my jaw. Confrontation has never been my strong suit. “He thinks you’re in trouble.”
“Because he spotted me handing over half a million dollars to Felix Fernando, right?”
“He doesn’t understand why,” says Bullwhip.
Paul is a similar age to Grizzly and looks younger, but that’s because he works under a fake sky counting cash, not bounty hunting out in the desert all day. I commend him anyway. He’s a fair man and his trusting reliance on Grizzly puts us in his good books—especially because we’re the cleaners that ride in to trash anything that makes a mess, like thieves and people trying to dig into potential money laundering scandals. I don’t know why the latter stresses Paul out so much when it’s not true, and why he rings up Grizzly asking for the club’s “immediate assistance” to eradicate investigators.
But Paul says bad press still ruins a person regardless of whether it’s fake or not.
The man chuckles. Shakes his head. “Tell boss man to pick up a hobby. He has too much time on his hands. Later, boys.” He throws up his hand and disappears through crowds of guests, leaving the three of us to eye one another.
“What do we make of that, then?” asks Wrangler. He crosses his legs at the ankles and leans against the table next to him. A pair of dark-washed denim jeans hug his large thighs. Wrangler jeans. The only fucking brand of denim he wears—hence the name. I have no idea what his former name is. “We should get out of here.”
Slacker.
“I know what to make of it.” Bullwhip narrows his eyes. “Two o’clock.”
I turn my head and there he is—Felix Fernando live and in the flesh, relaxing in one of the VIP booths surrounded by brownnosers.
“Oh, look at that. He stole our spot,” says Wrangler.
My fingers curl into fists. Son of a bitch. That’s the Venom Vultures designated hangout area in Cash Pot Palace.
Bullwhip stands and stares.
Wrangler proposes an idea. “Let’s break into his home.”
“You’re fucking kidding,” growls Bullwhip.
“No, seriously. Perfect Paul is acting up. If we want answers, we’re gonna have to pay Felix’s mansion a visit. Break in or something. It was his name on the envelope. His invoiced money.” Wrangler pushes off from the table and breaks into a walk, leaving us no choice but to follow him. “Come on, let’s go. I wanna know what’s up between Grizzly’s long-lost bestie and Fernando, don’t you?”
“There’ll be surveillance on every wall. You do realize that, don’t you?” I ask.
“That’s why we have Bully.” Wrangler pats him on the shoulders. “Don’t we, buddy?”
Bullwhip is unamused as always.
“So, let’s investigate,” Wrangler says. He turns to me. “Besides, Poet, you might get lucky again.”
I won’t be getting lucky again.
I’m not messing around with a billionaire’s wife.
None of us are.
Wrangler continues speaking, locating the exit. “We slip into the house, leaf through some documents that explain why Paul has dealings with a billionaire realtor, and get the hell out.”
“Fine.” Bully turns to me. “But no stopping to smell the roses while we’re inside.”
Oh, but roses are exactly what Zoe smells like. Tuberose, to be specific. It’s an intoxicating scent. Familiar too. I don’t know where from, but the scent kisses the air with nostalgia.
We hop back on the bikes and return to MacDonald Highlands, where palm trees decorate the roadside. Rolling up at Fernando’s palace, I notice three of them blowing in the wind, long leaves brushing the air as a gentle breeze passes.
Felix uses Axis Communications to secure the property.
A large wall towers into the sky, blocking the gated area off from the rest of the street. We use it to conceal our presence for a moment as Bullwhip, sitting sideways on his Harley, deactivates the camera system from his phone.
He inputs a long code into his phone, and then all of the green circles on his phone screen unloop to reshape into red crosses.
“It’s done.” He climbs off his bike and balances it against the wall with mine and Wrangler’s. “In and out. Very important. Felix Fernando has all the money in the world and, according to Zoe yesterday, a very large media presence. If we upset one of them, all he has to do is set up a camera and name-drop us.” His long face elongates even more. “That could be the end of Venom Vultures.”
Quite a dramatic monologue.
I joined the club for the adrenaline rush, and to experience life behind the scenes for a change. Not to walk with caution every step of the way.
As morbid as the guy can sometimes be, though, I know it’s the truth.
Fun, but not too much.
I curl my hand around the gate and lift up my body, foot planted between two black metal bars as I continue to climb. Reaching the top, I launch myself over and land with bent knees, recovering from a drop that I’d scaled to be shorter.
Loose gravel crunches underfoot until we make it onto the polished marble driveway. An arch rounds over the right side of the building, connecting it to the left. Roman style pillars stretch from roof to floor, there for decoration to give the complex some character. Felix would definitely be the type of guy to sit in bed at night studying Roman Empire technicalities.
We advance to the right side of the building and tug on the solid wood door—locked, of course.
A screen mirrors all three of our faces, and god, I look dreadful.
I shouldn’t be surprised. Sleep is the secret to looking well, and last night I caught only minutes of it—too busy wrapping a hand around my cock, pretending it was Zoe on the bike finishing me off.
And now I’m at her house.
“Great start.” Wrangler turns to Bullwhip. “Can’t you hack into it? Allow us entry?”
“It’s encrypted. And besides,” says Bullwhip, “it’s a different system that my software doesn’t recognize.”
“Your software can suck ass, then,” grunts Wrangler.
We put ourselves at risk standing here like withered lemons. We’re gonna get caught, and I’d rather not piss off Zoe and her stinking rich husband if I can help it.
But…some useful knowledge could present itself inside the house that might save her. We need to enter, and soon, before Felix leaves Cash Pot Palace and returns home.
I look up to admire the architecture. Structurally, it’s genius.
That’s when I see an opened window rolled up enough for us to dive in. I click my fingers to get the other two’s attention and mouth, “In there.”
“You think I’m Spiderman?” says Bully.
“You’re the tallest one here,” I say. “Give us a hoist.”
“If Felix catches us climbing up his wall, I don’t?—”
“Jesus, it’s only two stories high.” Wrangler rolls up his sleeves and claps his hands. “I’ll go first.” Elongating his body, he reaches to grip a sandstone brick, and heaves the rest of himself up with gritted teeth.
Two more pull-ups, and he’s done.
All in a day’s work for a rancher.
“Holy shit,” he calls, sticking his head out of the window. “It’s Zoe’s room.”
I prepare to go next, but Bullwhip shoves me off and races up the wall like Spiderman reincarnated to roll in through the window second.
I heave myself up last. It’s a challenge.
I imagine the headlines: “Former teacher resorts to climbing Zoe Fernando’s tower after the ex-student fails to let down her hair.”
The carpet cushions me as I roll in. Scrambling up, I observe the surroundings. What we broke into isn’t Zoe’s room, but a library. The ceilings rise high above us, and rows of books line the widest wall. Mr. Reeves getting the best of me, my legs drive me forward toward the books, and I scan the spines for notable titles that might reveal more of Fernando’s personality. Shakespeare collections? Those have to be Zoe’s. I pull out a limited edition copy of Macbeth with gilded page edges.
I open the play onto the folded page, and my stomach swallows my heart.
“Unsex me here, / And fill me me from the crown to the toe top-full.”
Lady Macbeth’s passage is the only underlined section on the page. I flick through. Correction—the only underlined sentence in the entire play.
“What’s got him?” I hear Bullwhip ask Wrangler.
“Something bookish.” The whisper transitions into his normal, talking voice. “We’re not here to look at books.”
I slot the play back into the gap. “You said this was Zoe’s room.”
“I white-lied but hey, didn’t you both get excited?” He flashes each of us a quick smile, and then exits the library through a grand door made of mahogany.
This brings us out into a corridor.
Silence rings loud, and we take that to mean nobody’s home.
So, curiosity taking over, I peek into the next room. It must be her daughter’s. Sammy. The walls have been painted pink blossom, and a bed stands in the center of the room holding a few tousled blankets and a—I squint my eyes—toy platypus that appears to have received a lot of love.
“We’re searching for an office,” reminds Wrangler.
I next open a door that appears to be a bathroom. Damn. Like the library, it has marble furnishing. Gold chrome taps glint in the sunlight as it streams in through the floor-to-ceiling window, and a bathtub big enough to fit an elephant sits over in the corner.
I imagine Zoe in it, bubbles caressing her soft, naked body, outlining the swell of her breasts. God, guilty as charged. I gave them a glimpse during class sometimes. She’d wear these white tank top combos with a black lace bra underneath.
That was forbidden, but what feels even more forbidden is picturing her naked now, as a celebrity and a wife, in modest clothing meant to hide every inch of her skin from male eyes.
My chest clenches when I peek into the next room.
“I found Zoe’s room.”
Both of their ears turn like sunflowers in the sun as soon as I speak the words.
“We shouldn’t look.” Bullwhip falters in his step.
“Yeah,” agrees Wrangler. “That’s a bit weird, don’t you think?”
They can protest all they want, but their legs still draw nearer until they’re in the doorway with me.
Felix prefers a polished, upscale look. This is nothing like that.
It has the Zoe I know written all over it. Pictures decorate the walls. Lots of them. Too many to count. A king-size bed sits central to the room and the bedsheets have tiny Eiffel Tower prints on them.
Breaking into Zoe’s room feels wrong. It’s an invasion of privacy, and she was my student. Dirty underwear could be strung around the place, and I’m glad it’s not—I fear I wouldn’t be able to control myself to leave them alone on the floor. Point is, she didn’t prepare for our visit. Our breaking and entering.
But we stride in anyway.
The room smells floral. Like tuberose.
Like Zoe.
The Eiffel Tower bedsheets hang off the bed. It’s unmade. She must’ve been in a rush to leave in the morning. Or maybe not. Zoe always had something unkempt about her. Not in a revolting way. It was refreshing at school seeing someone not care about their appearance every two seconds. She never owned a pocket mirror—or, maybe she did, but she never got it out in class.
Many mirrors line the walls now. A wide, rectangular one reflects our three, curious faces over in the corner, and a second full-body one stands at the other side of the room.
The dressing table mirror grabs my attention.
Handwritten in small, cursive writing on the corner of the mirror is my favorite Jane Austin quote—“ There is no charm equal to tenderness of heart.”
It brings a small smile to my face.
Of course, it’s one of the most famous Austin quotes, but the words are there, and they cut right into my soul. We never studied Austin, so she wouldn’t know it’s my favorite, but great minds think alike.
Also, it reminds me of her.
Of high school Zoe.
Of how she once was.
That free spirit.
Clearly, it’s still inside of her, otherwise she wouldn’t have remembered the quote. I take a seat in the chair and examine her makeup products. Lipsticks by Yves Saint Laurent. Dior. Elizabeth Arden cream. There are a few of those, all packaged similarly but with different ingredients, and I struggle to pronounce them all.
Polaroid photos capturing my attention, I set the products back down and stick my nose into her past. A lot of them are from high school. She wears micro tops and low-waisted skirts that expose her belly button. She smiles. Wraps her arms around her friends. She has a lot. Most of the groups in the photographs contain at least ten people, and she’s in the middle of them all every time.
One polaroid set apart from the rest catches my attention. Zoe flings her arm around the girl. She’s a little shorter, her face more youthful, but she sports the same red hair.
“ My baby sister turns fourteen!”
She likes to write captions.
And not just memories. Food too.
“Prosciutto and parmesan—two Ps to elevate a spaghetti carbonara.”
“The best gravy for sausage and mashed potatoes. Secret ingredient—Merlot wine. Suppose there’s perks to Father being in his study all day!”
I change course. Examine some photos on another side of the room.
“Amy’s eighteenth. A lot of booze, I know, but I went into Father’s wine cellar and knocked myself out! He won’t notice!”
I look up. More captions.
And the next one shakes the ground more than an earthquake.