16. Wrangler
16
WRANGLER
It’s an empty driveway when we arrive outside of Felix Fernando’s. The three palm trees are battered from the storm, and another bolt of lightning forks across the sky, illuminating the house a bleached-white color.
Thunder cracks, and it reverberates through my entire body.
No need to caffeinate this afternoon. I have enough adrenaline surging through me to keep me awake for the next forty-eight hours.
Bullwhip deactivates the cameras, and then we climb the gate.
Rainwater gushes over the marble driveway, running downstream away from the house. I look up at the building in front of me, the one I’m about to break into the second time this week, and feel like I’m finally doing something worthy. I’m not lining my gun up with a temple and getting ready to shoot . I’m rolling up my sleeves and preparing to fight for a girl’s freedom.
Poet slips a paper clip from his jacket and joins it with Bullwhip’s wrench. Together, they attempt to pick the door lock—a challenge.
We wouldn’t have this issue if Felix had my front door.
“ Pssssst !”
I look up and see a head pop out of the window.
Oh my god. Relief swims through me. “Zoe?”
“What the fuck are you going?” she asks.
“Picking a lock.”
“Don’t you know how to climb?” Zoe gestures us inside.
Bullwhip and Poet pocket their very feeble weapons and scurry up the wall.
Last to climb, I grip the sandstone brick and launch myself up. Soon I’m rolling onto the library carpet, muscles already done for the day.
Zoe watches us all stand. A nightgown drapes from her shoulders, falling all the way down to her ankles. In our presence, she belts the garment around her and folds her arms over her chest. She tenses her face. Even her pert little nose somehow looks sharper than normal.
“You can’t be here.”
“We want to save you, Zoe.”
“No.” She shakes her head, a few pieces of hair falling from her clip. “You don’t understand.” She turns away from us to shut the library door, and then rests her back against it. “He knows what we did in the bathroom.”
“Impossible,” says Bullwhip.
I death-glare the guy. Give her a chance to explain, man.
“Somehow, he got his hands on my panties. You know—the red ones I totally forgot about?”
“Shit.”
“You couldn’t tell that you weren’t wearing any…?”
“Other things took center stage, like you guys hiding your true identities. By that point we were outside, and it was too late to go back.” She blows out a sigh. “Anyway. Felix isn’t happy.”
“And by ‘not happy,’ you mean…?”
“If we’re caught again, he’s gonna kill my sister.”
Murder? That’s how Felix operates?
Despite the exhausted face, somehow Zoe looks more beautiful than ever. It’s the bare face, I think. Makeup complements her features, but they stand out all on their own without chemical enhancement. She looks teary, and the nightgown look suggests she doesn’t even have energy to dress herself today.
“I’m not allowed to leave.”
And she’s probably glad about that. Leaving the house requires effort. A two-hour makeover. It means she has to smile and pretend everything’s fine. Here, at least, there’s no pressure to be the best version of herself.
Even though she already is. It comes without effort. Her lashes brush softly over her emerald eyes as she blinks, and her slender hands wrap around herself.
Pushing off the wall, I step forward and fling my arms over her. Tuberose wraps around my senses, and her soft skin melts into mine. Some of us have been blessed with the best upbringings, but others haven’t, and I don’t think she knows how it feels to receive a hug from a man who actually understands.
The only person who she seems close to is her little sister, but Poet—after digging his nose into her school records back when he taught—revealed that apparently, Fiona had a bad case of depression. Nothing about her home life was stable. The man who had Paul in a headlock yesterday, threatening him with cruelty, is no father. He doesn’t know the first thing about parenting, and neither does Felix.
Paul was right. The loners in society are the rich ones, and it’s because no other source of happiness exists in their lives. Felix and Warren both have family. Neglecting those families for money makes them psychos.
Zoe pulls away. “Thanks.”
I wipe a tear from her cheek. “You’re welcome.”
“You need to go,” she says.
Bullwhip draws closer. “Is Felix here?”
“No.”
“What time will he be home?”
“Late. He’s on the strip.”
“Great,” says Poet. “You won’t mind if we search the place for evidence, then.”
Zoe frowns. “What evidence are you looking for?”
“Something,” I say, “that will sell off all shelves. Something scandalous.”
Poet strokes a hand down her arm. “Listen, sweetheart. Felix is going nowhere near your sister.”
“How can you be so sure?”
“We’ll look after her,” he assures her.
“Besides,” I add. “If we find something worthwhile and release it to the media, he’ll have too much on his plate to be dealing with her.”
Zoe drops her gaze to my chest and smooths my silver necklace through her fingertips. Fiddling with my horse pendant seems to bring up memories for her—the masquerade. She took a good look at it that night.
“What if there’s nothing?” she says, extending her gaze to all three of us. “What if he’s done no wrong and is actually a good guy?”
“Do you think he’s a good guy?” asks Bullwhip.
Zoe’s pink lips screw into a ball. “No,” she utters. “I don’t.”
“Neither do I,” says Bullwhip.
“Him threatening to kill your sister shows just what kind of person he is,” I say. “All we need is some evidence. What about the marriage contract between Felix and Warren?”
“There’s no written evidence of Felix threatening to shutdown Father’s entire business if I refused—that conversation took place in person.”
“He did what ?” Poet shakes his head. Swipes an angry hand through his gray hair.
“There is a contract, though,” says Zoe. “Which could work.” Hope lifts her brows, and the ends of her upturned lips start to curl. “Yes! Nobody knows that our marriage is contractual. Just our team. Releasing that to the public would stimulate further questions.”
“We just gotta find it,” says Bullwhip. “Where could it be, princess?”
“His office?” Zoe lifts a finger into the air and tilts it horizontal. “Across the arch. He works over there.” Excitement deflates from her cheeks as soon as she says the words. “Just…be careful. Please. This affects you too.”
Maybe it does—Felix could set fire to the clubhouse and finish us for good with his social media presence…but that isn’t as pressing as Zoe’s safety.
“I can come with you. Just give me a moment. I need to put Sammy to bed.” She opens the library door and pads out barefoot down the corridor. We all follow behind as she slips into the room and picks up the three-year-old.
The door ajar, we all peer in. For somebody who grew up with only one emotionally distant parent, Zoe mothers well.
“She died in childbirth,” whispers Poet. “Her mother.”
Bullwhip and I snap around.
“It was on the school system records. She passed during a C-section with Fiona. Baby survived but mom didn’t.”
“And it sounds like she’s still surviving now,” I say.
Bullwhip frowns. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“They’re hanging on by threads, the two of them. They need to live. Think about when you were teaching, Poet, but times it by a thousand. Life just seems to pass them by. Our job is to put destiny back into their hands.”
Poet turns back to the room to watch Zoe as she sets Sammy back into the bed. On a chair close by, she leafs through a storybook, licking the pad of her finger before turning the page. Her soft voice could put even me to sleep.
“Do you think Sammy is Felix’s?” asks Poet.
“You mean, her biological father?” I really don’t want to think about them having sex.
If they’ve ever even had it.
Sammy rests her head on the pillow, red hair fanning around her like a mane. It’s the same bright auburn color as Zoe’s, and her button nose matches her mom’s too.
The stark blue color of her eyes is peculiar, though.
It’s not impossible to birth an infant into the world with a different eye color.
But it’s rare.
Felix’s are brown, and Zoe’s shine like two raw cut bits of emerald, so for Sammy to have blue eyes…it’s strange. Especially when I’m looking into a pair of eyes colored the exact same husky-blue color as hers.
Poet stares right back at me. “What?”
“I think you know,” I whisper.
“She’s three. I know you majored in literature, but come on, switch on the math side of your brain for a second. The masquerade was a little less than four years ago.”
This makes Poet’s jaw drop.
He looks like a fish.
“Open your mouth any wider and you’ll be catching spiders,” jokes Zoe. She walks her way back over to us and continues down the corridor, Poet following stiffly behind.
“Come in,” she says, standing outside her bedroom door. When we don’t move, she chuckles. “Funny. It didn’t stop you before.”
The door widens and we all funnel inside.
Bad decision, her welcoming us into her room. It was easy before without her in it, but her presence brings tension. A lot. We’re home alone with the woman all of us lose self-control around.
“Nice bedsheets.” I point at the Eiffel Tower print.
She smiles. Collapses onto the mattress like the biggest tease ever—even though she’s not trying to seduce us. “Thanks. I’ve always wanted to go to Paris.”
Something in Poet’s jaw feathers.
“Guys…” She grits her teeth. “I’m having second thoughts about this idea. Don’t get it twisted, you’re more than capable of pulling this off, but you don’t understand. Felix’s eyes are everywhere. I’m serious. That man is the spider from Game of Thrones.”
Probably a eunuch too.
“But at least he won’t hurt Sammy, even though…”
Bullwhip frowns. “Even though what, princess?”
She shakes it off. “Ignore me. Events from today have scrambled my brain. It’s just, Fiona means too much to me. I can’t lose her.” She leans into the bedframe and brings her knees to her chest. “I’m being selfish. Yes, escaping is possible and I don’t doubt you for one second, but the stakes are too high with Fiona’s life involved. Life is what you make of it, and sometimes you gotta see the positives. Things could always be worse.”
Words of advice from the fantastic parental figure himself.
Standing ovation for Warren Warrington for inspiring his two daughters to, by the sounds of things, settle and accept what life gives you.
Zoe slips her legs under the Eiffel Tower bedsheets and slouches into the two pillows propped up behind her. Does she ever relax like this around Felix?
“Fiona is only nineteen. She lives with Father still. Employers won’t hire her because of her bad mental health records. Once, she tried to kill herself. His house is open, the kitchen connected to the living room. Father was literally sitting on the couch, back turned watching C-SPAN or some political shit, when Fiona slipped a bread knife from the drawer. She pointed it toward her stomach. Her stomach, guys. I was upstairs and got this sudden thirst for some water. It must’ve been the universe’s way of sending me down to save her or something, because I land in the kitchen and see the blade inches from her stomach. I leap forward, snatch the knife from her grasp and cut my palm in the process.”
She sticks up her right hand. A long, faded cut scores straight down the center. “Had to take myself to the emergency room after because I lost a lot of blood. Not like Father noticed. All he did was turn around. I always used to convince myself that he simply didn’t know she was depressed, but oh, he knew. He just didn’t want the emotional burden distracting him.”
“Shit, Zoe,” says Bullwhip.
“Look, it’s simply too dangerous. Fiona has always been unstable, and I’ve always been there to protect her. I lost my mom. I can’t lose my sister too.”
Poet perches on the edge of the bed. “You protect your sister?” Zoe nods. “But who protects you?”