Chapter 18
Chapter Eighteen
Zara
I felt sick.
Sitting in my room in Warrick’s home, I stared down at the half-finished plate of delicious food Marie had slapped together for me—but it tasted like dirt in my mouth.
I hated lying to Warrick.
I hated lying to these good people.
I hated lying to myself.
But even worse, I hated knowing that I had caused Elise’s death.
…Elise Munroe was found dead in her house.
…shot execution style.
…Five Families of the New York Italian mob.
She had warned me that this would not end well, and when she decided to nix the story, what had I done? I’d gone to the Feds myself. I’d given them everything I had, thinking I was doing my duty to humanity—only to know that I had jumped from the frying pan into the fucking furnace.
The Feds had gone crazy, shutting the clinic down, getting subpoenas for the managers—managers who had suddenly vanished—and alerting the government about the scam that had run under their noses for seven years.
Who else was going to die?
I shoved the plate to the nearby table, drew my legs up to my chin, and gripped my hair, feeling a scream bubble up inside my throat.
Her blood was on my hands.
I’d done this.
She had a family: a husband and a preteen kid. Who knew if the mob would go after them next, all because I had not listened to common sense and looked the other way?
Would they find me here? Would they come after Warrick and his good people now? Had I carried death to their doors, too?
I couldn’t breathe.
My worries were spiraling out of control, and they piled on each other.
Would I wake up to see another one of my old colleagues dead because of what I’d done? What about Andy? She was a single mom to twins. And Joseph…he had a sick grandfather in hospice care. Without him working—and alive— it spelled death for that old man.
I wished I had a bottle of vodka near me so I could swallow it all, forget the shitty day, and fall asleep—but I couldn’t.
I twisted and turned the whole night, wondering if I should leave this place and find the FBI guys. Surely, they had a cell I could sleep in but would it stop the attacks against innocent people?
The worst thing about it—I had to keep my lips sealed. I couldn’t let a word of it slip past my lips. It would make everything worse. I gave up at about four in the morning and grabbed a robe out of my bag. I put it on, went downstairs, and slipped out to the back porch only to find I was not the first.
Warrick was there, a bottle of beer in hand and an empty cup of ice cream on the table. He looked—exhausted. Pure tiredness was stamped on his face, and the lines around his mouth and eyes seemed deeper.
“Oh… I—” I paused. When he looked up, my breath lodged in my throat. “I’m sorry to intrude. It seems you were here first. I am sorry. I’ll—I’ll go.”
“Nonsense,” he said, eyes now trained into the darkness. “The balcony is large enough to accommodate both of us,” he managed.
Taking a seat, I curled into a ball, unsure of what to say or do now. Warrick, however, was not that shy. “Couldn’t sleep?”
“No,” I admitted, wrapping my arms around my knees. “I kept thinking about earlier, and I-I hate that you might not get the plant.”
He took a sip. “Is that really what is bothering you? Because I have a plan to deal with the sabotage coming from the mayor’s office. What is keeping you awake, Zara?”
My name is not Zara.
I swallowed. “There are so many things I want to tell you…but I can’t.”
He slammed the bottle down, eyes narrowing. “What the hell does that mean?”
“I-I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I-I can’t, I can’t—” My breath punched out. “I can’t tell you. I wish I could, but I can’t?—”
Warrick stared at me before he uttered a curse and hefted me into his lap. His gaze was steady and strong. “What are you running from, Zara?”
The words were stuck in my throat. “I can’t tell you.”
“Let me take a swing at it,” he said, leaning forward. “Bad job?”
I shook my head.
“Hateful family?”
Again, another shake.
He thumbed the mouth of the beer bottle. “Abusive boyfriend?”
Which would he swallow easier? That I had a violent ex or that I’d managed to infiltrate the mob, gotten someone killed, and almost got myself strangled?
“No,” I said. “I was assaulted.”
Warrick’s eyes sharpened. “Did he?—”
“Rape me? No,” I said, my hand brushing over my throat. “The man broke into my house and tried to strangle me. I managed to fight him off, but I couldn’t stay in the city anymore. The cops arranged for me to leave and come here.”
He went very still, mouth a thin line while his hand was fixed around the neck of the bottle. When he did speak, his single word had all the emotions. “ What ?”
Though it was dark, I searched his eyes as he gazed at me, seeming to realize there was no way out to escape his demand. I lowered my head, tears that I’d held back for so long erupted from my heart and poured out of my eyes.
I felt hard arms wrap around me, and I was engulfed in woodsy cologne and leather. He held me as the sobs ravaged through me, and when the emotions petered out, I simply laid my head on his shoulder.
“Jesus,” Warrick whispered. “Thank God you’re alive.”
Sinking my fingertips into his sides, I shifted to rest my head on his shoulder. “I wanted to tell you the truth, but I was told not to.”
“Are the cops going after this guy?” he asked.
I peeled away. “I think so, but the updates are slow and sporadic.”
“It’s been mere weeks since you walked into my life.” He pulled up, stroking my face. “But I don’t want to lose you. I know things are not the best right now, but I want to date you. I’ve rushed through a lot of things in my life and was made to be very sorry for it. I won’t rush us for anything or anybody, past or present. Do you understand?
“I—” Did I dare hope this could become something? “There are some things I can’t tell you yet and…won’t. Not until I know it’s the right time. I’m asking you to trust me on that.” I kept my face lowered, but he brushed tears from my cheeks.
“Okay.” I turned my gaze up to his, hope in those pure eyes.
“We won’t rush,” Warrick promised. “Whatever you need to get done, we’ll do it.”
I whispered, “My name is not Zara. It’s Zoe.”
He covered my mouth with his, and I sighed as I leaned into the kiss. He kissed me slow and deliciously, both arms braced either side of me, then pulled away as dawn started to break. “Nice to meet you, Zoe.”
Someone cleared their throat, dragging us into reality, and I didn’t want to turn, but I did anyway. Of course, it was Frankie, and his shit-eating, I-knew-it grin.
“Shut up,” Warrick warned.
“I didn’t say anything,” the cowboy smirked.
“And make sure you don’t. We really don’t need a pile of shit dumped on our head,” Warrick took his seat. “Why are you here?”
“Well, I’ve been up since that laryngitis rooster you keep around split the dawn with his nail-on-a-chalkboard crow, so I’m heading to the town to help set up for the fair,” Frankie replied, stepping on the porch.
“I needed a cup of coffee first, but you two were getting in the way. Thanks for the confirmation, though, and now all the guys owe me fifty bucks each.”
“You bet on us?”
“Worse,” Frankie laughed. “I had a running pool going since the day Zara set foot on this ranch.”
“You motherfucker,” Warrick said with no heat behind it.
“A four-hundred and fifty buck richer motherfucker,” Frankie shot a grin over his shoulder.
Snorting, I scratched my temple. “I think we should prepare too.”
“Yeah,” Warrick nodded. “We do need to go too, but remember what I said. Whatever you need, I’ll do all I can to help.”
I couldn’t dance around the elephant in the room anymore. “What happens…when I leave here?”
“We’ll cross the bridge when we get to it.”
While Warrick pulled into the fairground parking lot, I saw the flashing lights, sounds, chatter, and laughter. I knew I was going to be thrown into a new, life-changing experience. After grabbing our jackets, we headed out to the admission gate while the harvest moon hung low in the sky.
We passed through and entered…organized chaos. The carnival part of the fair was in the front, while the cattle showground and grandstands were in the back. A mixture of vivid sights, sounds, and smells combined to make an almost dizzying experience as we walked through the carnival.
Kids chased each other in front of Warrick and me over well-trampled grass, while adults, teens, and kids alike tried their hands at the countrified-themed games, knocking down empty numbered milk bottles, shooting wooden ducks, and whacking moles. I even saw a horseshoe ring toss.
A clown in the gaudiest red and yellow getup was making balloon animals for a group of kids, while teens—probably on a date—walked around, sharing big poofs of blue or pink cotton candy. I saw corndogs, kebabs with beef on them, giant soft pretzels in their hands, and buckets of popcorn.
“Hungry?” Warrick asked.
“Maybe later.”
After getting some drinks, we passed by the mechanical bull. While a tall, lanky teen clambered onto its leathery back, Warrick led me over to the large campfire with seats all around it. “Let’s look around first.”
Carnival music and the chatter of the crowd swirled around as we traipsed to the grounds, the livestock barns and buildings filled with exhibits. We saw sheep, calves, and dairy goats in corrals, big bulls, brushed dairy cows, and randy steers. The scent of dry earth mixed with the alfalfa hay, manure, and horseflesh.
Judges passed by carrying clipboards. Beyond that were the horse barns, which were not far from the grandstands and arena. I turned around and ran into someone, a tall man.
“I’m sorry—” but I froze in place.
The man’s eyes were green and gray—the same color of eyes I’d tried to claw out that fateful night. In seconds, I was thrown back to that night, the fear, the frenzy, but he turned away without a flicker of recognition.
“Zoe?” Warrick came around and handed me a large cup of sweet tea. “Is something wrong?”
“N-no,” I said, forcing my attention back to him. “I just got distracted for a moment.”
His brows lowered as he looked over to the man who was quickly disappearing into the crowd, but then back to me. “Okay, c’mon.”
I tried to enjoy the fair, the music, the laughter, the happy atmosphere—but that glimpse of the man with the same eyes as my would-be murderer rested like a brick on my chest. I couldn’t concentrate—had they found me? Had my cover been blown?
“Do you want to go on any rides tonight?” Warrick asked.
“I don’t think so,” I replied. “I did like the carousel and coasters as a kid, but growing up, I took the freefall and reverse bungee.”
His hand was on the small of my back. “You’re a daredevil at heart, eh?”
“Yes.” The wind picked up my hair and chilled my neck. “What about you?”
“You’ll have to give me some incentive to get my ass back on one of those death traps,” Warrick laughed.
“I can think of a few things,” I smiled, attempting to flirt while licking my lips.
A ragtag group of kids ran around us, and Warrick tugged me close, placed his lips on my ear, and said, “Not suitable to discuss in an amusement park with kids around, but get me somewhere alone and game on.”
Giggling, I liked how he teased me and made me feel cared for and appreciated. Regardless of his true feelings—maybe this was a fling, maybe this was a sixteen-night stand, or maybe it was more—but he made me feel loved, something I hadn’t felt in a long time. And as for Warrick, I’d never seen this side of him; he’s so playful and fun.
“I need to use the ladies’ room,” I said.
As he stayed near the stands, I went off to find the bathrooms. Thankfully, there was no long line, and I stepped inside to do my business. As I stepped out to wash my hands, another man bumped into me; he was a redhead—but Jesus, his eyes were green and gray.
“Watch where you’re going,” he huffed.
“We’ll never stop looking for you!” the man growled. “We’ll find you and we’ll kill you.”
Was that the same voice?
Was that the same timbre?
Was that the same man?
Once again, I felt an invisible hand punch the air out of my lungs. I didn’t like this. Rattled, I found my way back to Warrick as he led me to the stands. “It’s bull riding time.”
I held his hand. “Are you sure you want to watch this?”
“I’m a big boy,” he said. “I can take it.”
Could he? When a white bull started banging around in the chute, the handlers started dodging his horns and hooves—and Warrick tensed. As soon as the rider touched him, the bull seemed to have a rocket latched to its back as it leaped like a demented sonofabitch. Thirty seconds later, the gate was thrown open, and a cream-colored bull surged out with the rider on his back.
“Wait—” Warrick said, leaning in. “What the fuck? Is that Santos?”
I held my breath, stomach bunched up in a tight knot as the bull kicked his back legs up. Even with the wild ride, Santos seemed to take the body-snapping movements with ease, his thighs gripping the sides of the bull, his arm flung up, his back staying loose, his movements gracefully in sync with the animal.
It was mesmerizing, hypnotizing even. Even with the helmet on, I saw the wide smile stretched across his lips, as if riding bulls was a cakewalk for him. The crowd was going wild—cheering and stomping. Santos had to be on the bull for eight seconds; it was four so far.
“No, no, no,” Warrick leaned forward, gripping the seats in front of him, his knuckles white. “His center of balance is too far back now. He’s wobbling in his seat.”
In the next second, Santos seemed to have corrected his form—but then the bull went mad. There was a leap, a twist, a mad horn toss and the bull got on his front hooves, almost vertically—flinging Santos off his back.
“Oh, God!” I was on my feet, my hands clasped over my mouth. I shot a look to Warrick—he was pale as a sheet.
He had to be remembering his accident.
Shit.
The fellow bull riders and handlers leaped into the arena and raced to him, heedless of the danger; while a few tried to distract the bull, the handlers tried to grab Santos away. But the bull was not to be distracted and butted his rock-hard head against Santos’s back.
As Santos’s spinning body came down, the bull turned and tossed its head, landing a vicious horn right below the protection of his vest. He’d been gored. Badly. Possibly lethally.
“Fuck!” Warrick yelled.
The arena was in an uproar while Santos curled into a ball, hands and arms covering his head and neck. The bull plowed into him with enough force to scoot him across the ground.
“Oh God, oh God…” My chest felt tight as one of the bull riders tried to grab a horn and yanked. The bull turned and went after him, giving the other bull riders time to yank Santos away. I couldn't tell if the bull had stepped on him or not, but God forbid that had happened.
I looked toward Warrick, and he was not there.
I spotted his beige hat winding through the crowd as he went to Santos’s side, but I couldn’t move. My legs felt like rubber, and I knew I wanted to be there—I needed to be there—but I still couldn’t move. My feet might as well have been nailed to the floor.
Forcing myself to follow Warrick, I sidestepped out of the row so quickly that I tripped over my feet two or five times. The crowd was still thick around Santos by the time I reached the arena level, and when I broke through it, I could hear my blood pounding in my ears.
I got to the ground just as the men were loading Santos onto a stretcher. He was out cold—and I had never felt so much fear in my life.