11. Bullwhip
11
BULLWHIP
She throws open the door, heels clacking so hard against the tiled floor that they shake the very foundations of the casino.
Probably not the best idea to all funnel out one after the other, but we have no choice.
Telling her would’ve complicated things, but actually, her being pissed off might work in our favor if she never chooses to see us again.
After all, God only introduces goddesses into your life sparingly.
Before undressing her, I was convinced it was all a plan. Her seducing us in a public bathroom could’ve been step one of three. People could’ve walked in, and she could’ve bullshitted that we were assaulting her—game over for Venom Vultures.
I risked it anyway, to sink my fingers into her tight, wet pussy again. Her honeyed scent still lingers on my hands. Fuck, I could bottle that stuff up and take it home.
Now, given that she’s done a runner, I think otherwise.
“Zoe!” shouts Poet.
“Probably best not to yell her name like that, man,” says Wrangler.
We maneuver around bodies, and some turn our way. We didn’t even wash our hands—I hope they can’t smell sex.
I search the crowd for her, but she’s nowhere to be seen. Poet and Wrangler branch off to search different parts of the casino.
“What’s up, fella?” A hand flies out in front of me. One I’m about to shove past until I recognize the British accent.
Paul.
I straighten my shoulders. “How’s it going?”
“You’re looking for Zoe? Fernando’s wife? What was that all about earlier?”
I force nonchalance into my voice. “What’s that?”
“You four all hiding away down one of my empty corridors.”
I’d rather it be that than the bathroom situation.
“Oh.” I relax my expression. This I don’t entirely have to bullshit. “We couldn’t find you, but we did run into Zoe, his wife, so we asked her if she knew anything about the money.”
“Ah, you boys are as bad as Grizzly when it comes to not dropping stuff.” Paul chuckles to himself, and then pulls me aside away from the crowd of people. “If you really wanna know…” His eyes search mine. “I’m in the process of buying one of his properties. He sent Warren Warrington to me, and I handed over a portion of the money.”
“Cash?”
“Yes.”
I narrow my eyes. He’s a smart guy. Knows as well as I do that large sums of cash are only handed over if somebody doesn’t want it traced. Nobody buys property cash-in-hand.
He’s lying.
“Anyway.” He thuds me on the back. “It’s prime time. I have business to attend to.” He starts walking away from me, but then turns back around. “Word of advice. Keep away from Felix Fernando, and more importantly his wife, if you know what’s good for you.”
“You know what the media are like,” I reply. “They love to make mountains out of molehills.”
Paul bows his head more than he nods it. “Hm.”
Then he straightens out his linen shirt and leaves.
If Paul truly is buying a property from Felix, he’s not planning to live in it. Maybe it’s in his five-year plan to build another casino, an even bigger one with double the amount of hotel rooms upstairs.
Or maybe the money is for something else.
He’s paying Felix for a favor.
RING! RING!
The incoming call almost makes me jump out of my skin. I slip out my phone and take a call from Poet who requires me outside. “Now!”
I advance to the exit. It’s dark outside and bright, the flashing lights blinding me.
Even more blinding are Zoe’s emerald eyes when they land on me.
“Where did you think you were going?” I ask her.
She tenses her jaw and flashes me daggers. Unfortunately for her, she’s too beautiful to contort her features and turn them sour, but I appreciate the effort.
“When did you find out?” she asks.
“We’re right outside an Uber pick-up location,” I say. “Let’s not do this here, yeah?”
“I’ll do it wherever I want.”
Wrangler swoops in. “You want the paparazzi to snap another picture and headline all four of us again? It’s only gonna be a matter of time.”
She tenses her jaw. “Fine.”
Poet glances over his shoulder. “Where should we go? Back to the clubhouse?”
“No,” I say. “It’ll be busy this time of night. Wrangler? Your place is furthest from people.”
We divert through quiet side streets to avoid the main road, and make it back to our parked Harleys. Zoe jumps onto the back of mine, so I hand over a helmet and question my unsteady hands for the entire drive back to Wrangler’s.
The girl makes me nervous, and I hate even more that she’s wed to the only other man in this entire universe who fucking gets it. Somehow, I feel connected to Felix, like our shared history makes it feel like I know him personally. Nobody else knows how it feels to grow up as second best in a foster family, “brother” to a biological son who could do no wrong in his parents’ eyes.
It’s not my fault my own parents were addicted to drugs and couldn’t, according to child services, properly take care of me. Michael would always make comments about how my chin was too pointy and “stuck out weird.” We were in the same high school, and all the other kids caught on and started calling me “pointy.” My height was another big one. “Freak” was how Michael used to address me, even in front of his parents. They adopted me only because of the money the government paid into their bank fortnightly, I’m pretty sure. Those were my expenses, but they treated Michael to new clothes and shit instead.
Felix knows how it feels to be me, and to grow up in the foster system. Granted, our experiences were different—he landed into a family that sold drugs, while I was the forgotten freak—but we were both outcasts and, I don’t know, it just plants something inside of my heart that I can’t explain.
And now I’ve taken off his wife’s dress and fingered her to orgasm.
I’ve committed more than my fair share of crimes. Robbery. Murder—just because someone was pissing me off too much. But engaging in sexual activity with Felix’s wife is by far the worst of them all.
We pull up outside of Wrangler’s house. He lives in a small town, and by small, I mean a total population of one hundred and thirteen. It’s more of a commune, nestled away in the desert behind a giant mesa that glows orange during sunrise every morning.
Wind blows through the makeshift street. It’s a dirt track, not a road, and the buildings that surround us are all made of dark oak. Wrangler’s place could do with some TLC—it’s weathered in parts.
“Welcome in.” The door squeaks as he opens it, one of the hinges loose.
Quite the downgrade for Zoe.
“Thanks,” she says.
I’m surprised she even touches the door. It’s full of splinters.
I know what she’s thinking—outlaws earn fortunes, so why does Wrangler live on the line of deprivation?
“I send most of my earnings to my parents,” he tells her.
“Oh?” Zoe raises her brow. “That’s sweet of you.”
“Not really.” Wrangler waltzes into the joined living room and kitchen. “They provided me with the best childhood a kid could’ve asked for, out on the ranch everyday with the sun on my back. I was nineteen when a hurricane blew through the desert and took the ranch with it. That’s when I moved to Vegas, and started sending them money.” He leans against the countertop. “It’s the least I can do. They gave me the best childhood, so in exchange, I give them the best retirement.”
Tension softens in Zoe’s eyes.
“Besides. I have the blazing sun. A view of the desert from my kitchen.” He pats the wall like it’s an old friend, and Zoe winces like the thing’s about to topple down. Wrangler smiles. “What else could a man need?”
Answer: his dead girlfriend to pull a Jesus Christ and miraculously rise from the ashes.
But resurrection doesn’t exist, and that’s because human beings are meant to move on from the past.
“Alright.” Wrangler claps his hands as if to diffuse the tension. “Tea?” He sets a kettle on the stove to boil water.
“Zoe? Are you OK here?” asks Poet.
She nods her head. “For now. Felix is out of the house tonight. I guess that’s the positive of being married to a billionaire businessman—he’s always busy.”
I kick my booted feet up onto the couch and relax. A small, boxed TV sits on a coffee table on the other side of the room, so I reach for the remote and switch the thing on.
Static covers the screen, and there’s only a limited selection of channels.
“Christ, Wrangler, how long have you had this blasted thing?—?”
Felix’s face on TV cuts me off. He stands beside a smiling interviewer. The description reads: Felix Fernando details the inspiration for his latest charitable venture.
Even copywriters adore him.
“…so yeah.” Another smile. “I know how it feels to grow up as an outcast. That’s what motivated me to set up this organization. Orphaned children deserve to be educated in safe spaces, around peers who understand their struggles. I want to make a difference and create schools that are specifically designed for orphaned children. Teachers too, at this school, must also know what it’s like to grow up without their biological family. Sometimes, the adults understand even less than the kids.” He chuckles.
Wrangler fakes a yawn.
That makes Poet chuckle.
Zoe just sits there and stares blankly. When the interview finishes, she turns to us. “Tell me why you kept it a secret.”
“We thought it would be best, princess.” Wrangler takes the kettle from the stove and pours tea. “We didn’t want to complicate things for you.”
“That’s kind of you, but my life is already very fucking complicated if you haven’t already noticed.” She sinks into the couch and brings her legs up to her chest.
“Does it?” asks Poet. “Complicate things for you?”
Zoe stares at the TV and spits out, “No. Why should it?”
“What do you mean?” he asks.
“It was just sex.” She turns away from the screen. “But I would’ve appreciated you telling me the truth.”
“Sorry,” says Poet.
Wrangler walks a hot lemon tea over to her. “Here.”
“Thanks,” she mutters.
The TV plays quietly, and Zoe watches it absentmindedly, before blurting out, “I mean, does he ever care to ask about my childhood? No.”
Poet turns to observe her, sadness pooling in his eyes.
“I never wanted this,” she says.
Wrangler frowns. “What did you never want? Marriage?”
Zoe stares at the TV.
Then her eyes go wide.
“SHIT!” She sets the drink down quickly, spilling some over her arm.
“Woah!” Wrangler takes off to grab a towel. “Careful.”
Zoe shoulders him away. “Sammy! I was supposed to collect her from ballet hours ago. No.” Her eyes go wider. “Oh no. The picture, and the bathroom and the?—”
“ Woah, woah .” I leap up to steady her. “It’s OK. We’ll drive you.”
Her hands tremble. “No. Not to the ballet class. Father would’ve received a call. She’ll be at his by now or something. Oh no.” She cups her hands over her mouth to stifle a sob. “I’m in so much trouble.”
I wish I could console the poor girl and say she’s not. That everything will be fine.
But I’m no liar.