8. Wrangler
8
WRANGLER
Paul is nowhere to be found. I grit my teeth. Not good.
Poet has a good point about us being kicked out. Grizzly’s paying me to slurp stout and lose games of pool. Action needs to be taken before he decides I’ve grown useless, because my parents still rely on the cash that Prez slaps into my palm once a month.
We finish this investigation, stay clear of Zoe, and go back to how things were before—peaceful.
Sheila was the only woman for me. Is. It was disrespectful enough, sticking my dick inside of another woman once. I can’t do it again. That’s no way to pay your respects to a dead body that, when alive, made you feel invincible.
My eyes catch a glimpse of something red and black. Two stark colors, but they complement one another beautifully.
Red and black.
And then all black.
It’s Zoe winning a staring competition with Bullwhip.
Just what I need right now—distracting.
I pause for a moment.
One word with her won’t hurt. One more look into her eyes. It’s human nature to be drawn toward beauty.
“Zoe. Bullwhip.” I stride on over. “Hope you’re not up to mischief.”
“What’s your name?” Zoe’s green eyes sharpen when she turns to look at me.
It makes me second-guess revealing my name.
“Uh.”
“Wrangler,” Bullwhip answers for me.
Her eyes scroll up and down my body. “You didn’t get the leather pants memo? Maybe you could borrow a pair from one of the others since the three of you always seem glued to one another’s sides.”
I cut my eyes to Bullwhip and he gives a subtle shake of his head.
At least he kept the masquerade out of his mouth.
“Did you find what you were looking for?” Zoe folds her arms over her chest.
“What?”
“In my house.”
My heart skips a beat. I neutralize my features and buy more time with the classic “Sorry? What?”
“How did you do it?” Curiosity fills her eyes, like she wants step-by-step instructions.
“Honey,” says Bullwhip, “you must be mistaken. We didn’t?—”
She releases the clutch wedged under her armpit and pops the button, taking out an iPhone—newest version, of course—to show us video footage. I expect a recording of us mounting her gate or something. Not a close-up of all three of our dashing faces staring into the facial recognition cam, exposing our identities.
Zoe laughs. “It’s like dumb and dumber.”
The video continues playing until I decide to rock-climb up the house.
“You should consider ninjutsu instead of motorcycling,” chuckles Zoe, face turning my way. “You have a talent for climbing up walls. Not very agile, though, are you?”
“I’m a rancher by trade.”
“That would explain the country accent.”
I close my mouth before I vomit out my entire life story.
You never know who could use it to your advantage.
“So, one”—Zoe holds up a finger—“you broke into my property, and two”—a second finger—“you lied about it. That’s not very honorable of you.” She drops the hand. “Are you gonna tell me what you were doing there?”
“We were worried about you and…also worried about Felix.”
Zoe frowns. “Felix? Why?”
“Paul, the owner of this casino, was caught handing over money to Felix.”
“Oh,” says Zoe. “I have no idea what they have going on.”
“We are concerned about you, though,” says Poet.
Zoe straightens her lips. She’s a tough cookie with an expertise in body language. Her eyes remain consistent with mine even though they want to drop and look elsewhere. I see the unsteadiness in them. The flash of anxiety.
“Felix keeps his cards very close to his chest. I have no idea what he’s doing with Paul.”
“Bullwhip deactivated the cameras,” I say. “How did you know we broke in?”
“Felix has a camera installed into the facial recognition screen. Lucky for you, I deleted the footage before he saw it, so you’re welcome. Your asses are saved.”
“Thank you.” Bullwhip bows his head like he’s standing before a queen.
Head-to-toe in luxury and with the most jaw-dropping face, that’s exactly what she is.
Zoe softens her voice to a whisper. “You need to be careful. Felix doesn’t take intruders lightly.”
Footsteps crescendo behind her, and she whips around and pins back her shoulders at the approach of a strange suited man that Bullwhip notes in a whisper as being Warren Warrington—her father.
“What are you doing down here?” A pair of green eyes turn to us. That’s where she gets them from, although Zoe’s are much kinder and more welcoming. Her father looks like he’s about to spit poison at us. “And who might you two be?’
“Nobody, sir.” God, it’s been a while since I addressed someone so formally.
“Oiled up in leather at a casino?”
I wish Bullwhip could conceal his emotions better. He always displays them on his face, and right now, hatred seems to be the most prominent feeling. “We were just stopping by to greet a friend.”
“You know them, Zoe?”
“Briefly,” she lies. “We have mutual friends.”
“Hmph,” says the man. He death-glares us again, and his eyes narrow so much that they look more like slits in his face.
“It’s fine, Father. Leave it.”
But Bullwhip doesn’t. “We were just asking Zoe if she knew anything about Felix.”
“What do you want to know about Felix?”
“Nothing,” I butt in before Bullwhip has another chance to expose our intentions even more. “He’s just…a big fan.” I elbow him in the side, and that motivates Bully to force a wide, bracing smile Warren’s way. “We’ll be on our way now.”
“Yes,” says Warren. Another glare. “You know, if there’s one thing more suspicious than money in the wrong hands, it’s outlaw bikers.” He turns his back. “Oh, and, Zoe? Plans have changed. You’ll have to collect Sammy from ballet now. I’m too busy.”
Weird guy.
If there’s one thing more suspicious than Felix Fernando, it’s his crusty business partner Warren Warrington.
“Somebody get that man a shot.”
I turn around and see Poet.
“Save the best till last, is it?” Zoe widens the circle and lets Poet in.
God, I’ve never seen the man look so fucking smitten before. I’d wager his ex-wife didn’t even turn his cheeks this red.
He looks happy.
Too happy.
When you’re happy, you tend to speak more.
I nudge his side to grab his attention, and then shake my head in warning for him to not tell all about four years ago. I practically see the sentence form on his lips.
“Anything?” asks Bullwhip.
Poet shakes his head.
Where the fuck is Paul, and why is he handing over money to Felix?
He’s supposed to be on our side, not some billionaire freak’s. It’s worse too, now that Zoe has fed us information. The burn mark on her wrist tells us all we need to know that he’s up to no good. He clipped her wings. Dampened her spirits. Flashes of it surface now and again, so it relieves me that the old Zoe still exists somewhere inside…
But that’s not good enough.
I know what it’s like to lose your sense of self. Ranching was mine. I recovered a few pieces of my soul riding for Venom Vultures, and went back to feeling semi OK after Sheila’s death. I didn’t have Sheila to wake up to in the morning, but I still had beautiful sunrises and vast open plains on my doorstep.
And I’m OK with that.
My life has already reached its prime.
But Zoe hasn’t experienced hers yet.
Of course, I don’t know her life story, but I wager the closest she got was before Felix. She was so carefree during the masquerade party, not concerned about anything except having fun. There was so much life in her, so it must’ve taken a goddamn master manipulator to drain it all out of her.
Operation free Zoe from the shackles of Felix Fernando.
“Holy shit!” yells a voice. “Patrick.” A woman clicks her fingers. “Get over here.”
Confused, we all turn out of the circle to observe the commotion.
Guests gather around, simultaneously raising phones as they photograph the scene. I don’t know why. There’s not exactly much to report other than Zoe conversing with three men.
Shit. That’ll be the headline.
Patrick points this camera-looking contraption our way and snaps an image. The bright flash lasers into my eyes, and we all squint. All except Zoe—she’s probably used to random, glaring lights from paparazzi crew that don’t know the definition of personal space.
“What the fuck?” Bullwhip opens his gloved hands. “What are you doing?”
The crowd stare too deeply into phone and camera screens to have even heard Bullwhip’s question, chatting among themselves.
“This one looks good.”
“No, they’re standing closer together in this one.”
It’s the third comment between the two paparazzi members that pales Zoe’s face. She turns whiter than a fucking ghost, and darts toward the exit.
“Email this to the writer. It’s gonna sell like crazy.”