7. Bullwhip
7
BULLWHIP
“The night three hunky, hot bikers took care of me.”
I read it again.
And again.
“You don’t wanna see the picture.” Poet covers it with his hands.
“Yes, I do.”
“Prepare yourself.”
“I’m already fucking prepared.” I rip his palm away from the polaroid and examine it.
It’s Zoe and a friend.
In masquerade masks.
Teagan is the one in the long black maxi dress, hair twirled back into a clip, and Zoe wears the distressed denim…
“It can’t be.” Wrangler beats me to it. “It’s not her.”
“No,” I agree. “She didn’t tell us her name.”
“That’s because we refused to tell her ours.”
Time slows to a standstill. I back away from the polaroid on the wall. Comb a hand through my hair. It’s impossible. The girl we hooked up with from the masquerade isn’t Felix Fernando’s wife for one simple reason—they wouldn’t be a good match. The girl from three years ago gave no fucks about dress codes and updone hair. Yes, her hair was red and yes, her eyes were an incredible color of green, but according to Google, there are six to eight million redheads in North America. That’s a lot.
Plus, Zoe might not even have green eyes. Those might just be the colored contacts she chooses to wear.
“It’s not,” argues Wrangler again.
Poet rips the polaroid off the wall and examines it closer. “The night three hunky, hot bikers took care of me.” He looks up, eyes switching between the two of us. “How many people there wore denim jeans, hm?” He flicks the polaroid with an agitated finger. “ One .”
I steal the image from Poet and survey it myself. If this is really her, a lot has changed. That girl wouldn’t go anywhere near a person like Felix Fernando, and he’d stay clear of her too. He’s a man who prides himself on respect and public image, and Zoe, at that masquerade, couldn’t have cared less about formalities and appearance.
It’s what made her the most beautiful one there.
What is God playing at, throwing the same green-eyed angel in my path? Twice ?
Fuck, she did something spectacular to me three years ago, but maybe it was only spectacular because I knew I’d never see her again. Women like her cross paths with men like me very rarely, so we shouldn’t be in her house right now, let alone her bedroom , in case she returns home and we interact with her again.
“We’re all in shit.” Wrangler scratches his head.
“Do you think she knows?” I turn around to say. “Do you think she recognizes us?”
Wrangler shakes his head. “She didn’t say anything, did she?”
Poet bites his lip. “Maybe she wanted to, but felt too ashamed.”
“Ashamed?” Wrangler frowns. “Why would she be?—?”
“Because she had her legs wide open for us,” I say. “Invited all three of us into her?—”
“Alright!” Poet squints his eyes like he’s trying to eradicate the image. I’m not sure why. He should hold on to it. It’s all he’s getting—we can’t go there again.
She was perfect, and I still remember the tight, pink shell of her pussy oozing out all of our cum. The way she sang for us. The starving way she made me feel as soon as we got into the room, like nothing else mattered. Sure, I fuck other women, but it’s only because Mother Nature gives me the urge. Women don’t do sex like her. I felt primal with her, and my cock still remembers the sensation of her walls closing in around me, bringing me into the tightest hug.
And then there were her breasts. Oh, they were so well-rounded, and pebbled hard in the center of each were two pink nipples that matched the shade of her petals.
“We need to go,” I say. “Stick the polaroid back on the wall, and let’s get out of here.”
“No,” says Poet. “We should wait.”
“Wait?! Why? So we can go round two? Is that what you want? For Wrangler to break his celibacy streak again?”
“She’s in danger.” Poet’s jaw hardens. “There was a burn on her wrist, Bully. You saw it yourself. We have to help her. I don’t think she’s safe here.”
“She’s older now, and she has a husband.”
“Yeah,” argues Poet. “A husband who?—”
“And a daughter! You wanna fuck up a little girl’s life?”
Wrangler’s sigh interrupts mine and Poet’s heated debate. “Bullwhip’s right.”
“Of course, man. I’m always right.”
“What?” Poet says. “You wanna just turn a blind eye? We still have digging to do for Paul.”
“Yes, exactly, so let’s get out of here and do what we came to do before?—”
A thud downstairs silences us.
I hold my breath. Listen in.
Someone’s home.
Simultaneously, we all stride to the opened window and stick out our heads to make sure the coast is clear. A car sits midway down the drive, but both driver and passenger sides are unoccupied.
As tallest, I climb down first to help the other two down.
Then we tiptoe across the lawn.
A twig snaps.
I swing around. Now’s not a good time to be caught breaking in by Felix Fernando, especially since we’re all in shell shock about masquerade girl and Zoe being the same person.
My shoulders relax.
It was just a bird.
Climbing over the gate exposes us big time, so I get a move on and jump down. It’s only when we’re back on our bikes hitting the road that I reactivate the security cameras.
We drive three abreast down quiet neighborhood roads away from Vegas. It’s as though we’ve all subconsciously made the decision to clear our heads with some fresh air.
“Now what?” I ask.
“The casino again?” says Wrangler.
“If we couldn’t budge Paul earlier, he’s not gonna budge now,” I say. “He’s a tough guy. We don’t wanna aggravate the man.”
“Six thirty PM,” says Poet, eyes dropping to his dashboard. “I bet he has a few whiskeys in him since this morning. Might be worth another crack.”
“Ah.” I sniff a laugh. “You’ve perked up now that certain dots have been connected.”
“I’m just saying,” says Poet. “All Grizzly ever sees us doing is slobbing about drinking stout. He’s kicked people out before for not pulling their weight.”
“True,” says Wrangler. “I don’t like the idea of being banished.”
And neither do I. But we’re not dealing with underground syndicate leaders and shadows here. We’re dealing with a Vegas celebrity who has the entire city at his side.
U-turning, we head toward the city.
Of course masquerade girl and Zoe are the same. I should’ve recognized her the minute I saved her from that spider. Her piercing green eyes make it so obvious, but what doesn’t is the style change.
It leads me to believe something peculiar happened between the two of them.
Something out of her control.
That doesn’t make Felix a bad person though, does it?
Reentering the casino, we separate to find Paul. The place is busier now. Suited figures and women in expensive dresses swarm everywhere, and lines of people wait their turn to gamble. Cash Pot Palace has always been this way. Always sees the most guests on the strip. Half a million dollars is nothing to Paul, but the sum of money in that envelope is not why we’re here.
It’s motive.
Grizzly’s just offended that Paul’s going to somebody that’s not him.
And what’s the big deal? It’s petty and not worth the energy. I’d prefer to sink my teeth into something more physical. Something more like bloodshed that requires a whip.
I’ve always been on attack. I prefer quick missions that can be solved in a day. Wake up. Inflict harm. Done and dusted. A quick kill turns the world the right way around again, and stops my brain from thinking. Venom Vultures is supposed to be a place where you don’t think, but that’s all I’ve been doing today—musing like fucking Poet.
And a headache starts to press against my temple from it all.
I take one more step.
Then, my ears pick up something valuable.
“Warren Warrington,” calls a man.
I take a step back and observe. Wearing all black makes you stand out in the crowd, especially when you’re the tallest in the room, so I take a seat in a plush chair nearby and concentrate on the voices.
The two suited men shake hands.
I’m unsure who the second guy is—probably a client—but the one on the left is Felix’s business partner. The one he merged with some years ago. It’s the first time I’ve ever seen his face. He’s around Felix’s age, potentially even older. Fine lines cut around his face in all directions. He wears a suit. One of the best ones here, actually. Tailoring isn’t one of my expertises, but I know a good suit when I see one.
And a bad guy too.
I narrow my eyes and study him through gaps in the line of people waiting to bet money on a game of roulette. Some nodding is exchanged. Seems like mediocre business.
Until a Louboutin heel joins the scene. The crowds of people cover everything but a quarter of the woman’s body. A long skirt brushes around her ankles, and ten pink painted toenails press into the bottom of heeled shoes.
“Hey.” My ear catches wind of their conversation again as the line shortens.
“What are you doing here?”
“I just wanted to see how things were going.”
I don’t catch the next part, but the stubborn curl of Warren’s lip as he speaks to… Zoe suggests that he’s not here to chat.
How do Zoe and Warren know each other?
And what’s Warren doing in Cash Pot Palace when he and Felix have their own casino to run? What’s he here for? Inspiration? To examine what his competitor is doing better?
Cash Pot Palace and Lucky Boy see very similar revenues each year.
So why does he straighten his jaw and look around the casino like that ?
A semicircle of people start to form around Zoe as guests recognize her. Chatter grows and two camera flashes cause her to wince, illuminating her gorgeous face.
She wears her hair up today, swirled back into a silver-gemmed clip that shines in the diamond-chandelier lighting. Glitter has been dappled in the two inner corners of her eyes, and it makes those green eyes look even more dangerous. A wide smile breaks out on her face, and she looks like the happiest woman on earth. Of course, it’s fake, if what she told us yesterday about Felix is true.
Either she’s a good liar. Or she lied to us.
Hm.
What else is she being dishonest about?
Did Felix really scald her wrist, or was that all part of the plan?
Mayb she’s trying to gain our sympathy for some reason. Why, I have no idea.
But if twenty years in Venom Vultures teaches you one thing, it’s that the truth always comes out. Could be the next day, a month, or a decade. Secrets are always uncovered.
Zoe raises a hand to the people around her, then goes to hug Warren. Her heels redirect away from the commotion, and she begins to walk away.
I shoot up and chase after her.
“Hey!” It’s easy to keep my eye on her when I’m a whole foot taller than everybody else in the room. “Zoe? Hey!”
She pauses, and turns her slender shoulders around to meet my eyes. They widen.
Do I smile? Keep my lips shut and keep staring? Wave? Fuck. All train of thought disappears in the presence of a girl leagues above me.
I decide to raise my hand and wave a stiff hello.
That’s when Zoe gestures over to the back wall.
I follow her, and the main room bends away, leading to a quieter one where I can actually hear myself think. Now, away from the noise, I finally hear my heartbeat, and it thumps thick in my throat. Being chased by coyotes keeps it steady. Murder keeps it steady. The only thing it seems to react to is her.
She raised my pulse the night of the masquerade without even saying anything.
And she’s doing it now.
God, to time-travel back a few years and relive the sex all over again.
Jealousy crunches my stomach. I envy three-years-ago me. He got to palm Zoe’s beautiful breasts and plunge his dick into her tight, inviting pussy. Our eyes joined for second as we fucked, and it shifted my spirit.
I feel it cracking again now as I stare into her wide-open eyes. They glow green in the soft purple light that shines in from the main room. Her chest, heaving up and down, fills out the dress. A modest neckline hides her cleavage, but that’s OK. I’ve seen her naked.
I’m winning.
For now…
“What’s wrong?” Concern wedges between her two dark, arched brows.
“Nothing.”
“You look like you’ve seen a ghost.” She tilts her head and goes on examining me.
I clench my jaw to prevent my mouth from opening before I spill everything about the masquerade. She knows me, but only from yesterday—she looks at me like I’m a stranger.
Dunno why it hasn’t clicked.
It’s not like I’m a boring Joe that skips people’s notice.
Zoe cranes her neck out into the main room, eyes leaving mine for a second.
“How do you know Warren?” I ask her.
“He’s my father.”
“Warren is your?—?”
“Shhh. Keep your voice down, will you?”
“Why? What’s so secret about that?”
“Nothing,” she says. “It’s just…you’re here speaking to me and the press have eyes.”
I sniff a laugh. “What does that mean?”
“It means I’m done with the paps for today.”
I fold my arms over my chest to prohibit them from touching her. Not inappropriately, of course. I just want to rub my hands up and down her bare arms. Goose bumps pepper the surface of her skin. She’s cold, and it’s no wonder—the air conditioning in this place is always cranked up to the iciest setting.
“What are you doing here?” I ask.
Zoe purses her lips and keeps her eyes on me. She wears a cold expression. One that has nothing to do with air conditioning. “I could’ve asked you the same thing earlier, when you broke into my property.”