Chapter 33 Cybil
Cybil
Cypress Creek, Texas
Sunday morning
There’s a terrifying moment, maybe a second or two, when you realize you’re being watched. The fight, flight, or freeze instinct
kicks in, and as I lie in bed, eyes still closed, every nerve in my body snaps to attention.
If I fight, there’ll be blood. If I run, I might not make it. If I freeze . . . well, that rarely ends well.
A weight shifts beside me on the bed, and a whisper of movement tells me I’m not alone. My heart pounds. I was supposed to
be safe here.
I crack one eye open.
Beak. Feathers. Murderous eyes.
Kentucky Fried.
My aunt and uncle’s devil rooster with the personality of Jack the Ripper.
How is he still alive?
I inhale a sharp breath as the oversized ball of feathers pecks at a loose thread on the bedspread like it’s plotting my slow
demise. The window’s open—of course it is—and with it comes the scent of honeysuckle and betrayal. Kentucky Fried didn’t just
waltz in. He had help.
And if I make it out alive, I’m going to kill them.
Keeping the covers tight around me, I wiggle my foot under the blanket just enough to nudge Kentucky Fried. He growls. Actually growls. I didn’t even know roosters could do that.
Nope. Not today, Satan.
With a battle cry worthy of a horror movie heroine, I fling the covers over the rooster’s head and leap out of bed. My foot
catches in the sheet, and I crash to the floor in a tangle of cotton and panic. I scramble for the door, arms flailing, just
as Kentucky Fried explodes from the bedding like a heat-seeking missile. I slam the door behind me and press my back to it,
chest heaving.
On the other side of the door there’s scratching. Claws. A low, judgmental cluck.
Kentucky Fried survives another day.
Ben and Rex? Maybe not.
As I pound down the stairs two at a time, the memories of the pranks Ben and Rex played on me every summer come roaring back.
But using the feathered, demented freak of nature named Kentucky Fried was extra low.
At the door, I shove my feet into Aunt Renee’s garden boots and yank a sweatshirt off a hook, pulling it over my pajamas as
I march toward the guesthouse. Crossing the yard, I find Uncle Buddy by the smoker. He tosses me the UTV keys before I can
say a word.
“They’re in the west field,” he hollers.
“Kentucky Fried’s in my room,” I say, swinging into the Gator. “If you turn him into stew, make it spicy.”
Uncle Buddy gives a sharp nod. “Light ’em up.”
Two shotgun blasts crack in the distance.
“You know I will.”
Less than five minutes and one deeply cathartic fantasy about strangling Ben and Rex with a boa made of Kentucky Fried’s feathers later, I crest the hill to the west field and spot them—Rex on the railing and Ben loading a shotgun like he’s posing for the cover of a rugged outdoorsman calendar.
Both have their backs turned and ear protection on, and I’m smart enough to know not to sneak up on them.
I hang back, cover my ears, and wait until Rex presses the release.
Two orange disks soar through the air. Ben hits the first and clips the second. When he opens the shotgun to discharge the
shells, I make my entrance by shoving Rex off the rail. He disappears into a bush with a yell.
Ben turns and I notice it. A fat lip. Oh, that is satisfying.
He flashes a smug grin that only highlights the swollen curve of his lower lip. “Morning, sunshine.”
I cock my head. “Looks like someone ran into a door.”
Ben touches his lip lightly, eyes locked on mine. “More like a right hook with trust issues.”
“Trust issues?” I scoff. “Maybe I thought you were someone else.”
Our gazes are locked in a battle—and this isn’t just banter. It’s reconnaissance. If Ben’s working for Ramirez, his presence
here after catching me at the restaurant might not be so innocent. I don’t know what Rook wanted to talk to me about last
night, but it’s possible they sent Ben to get to me instead. But if he’s FBI, that doesn’t make me safe—it makes me a liability.
I’ve lied. Snooped. Crossed enough lines that if Ben connects the wrong dots, I won’t just lose the mission. I’ll lose my
cover, my job . . . maybe worse. His expression doesn’t flinch, which tells me he’s watching me as closely as I’m watching
him—like we’re both waiting to see who’s gonna break first.
“Oh, I think you knew exactly who you were hitting,” Ben says deadpan. “You definitely hit me like someone who’s been waiting
a long time.”
For the first time I feel a twinge of guilt. Partly because I hurt him, but mostly because under all the secrets and lies
before any of this got complicated, once upon a time I wanted to give my heart to Bennett Bradley, and only hours ago, dancing
with him, I was reminded I’d do it again.
This is exactly how spies like James Bond get into trouble. Only instead of a femme fatale in heels, my version just happens to be a man with a busted lip, a shotgun in hand, and a grin that could unravel years of resolve in a single glance.
Ben smirks—his gaze landing on my uncle’s oversized Carhartt sweatshirt I’m wearing. “My sweatshirt looks good on you.”
It’s only then that I realize the warm, masculine scent—cedar and spice, familiar and comforting—is his.
I tug down the hem, flustered despite myself. The urge to peel off his sweatshirt and toss it on the ground wars with my confidence
in my bedtime attire. There’s nothing scandalous about my tank top and sleep shorts, but the sweatshirt feels like a shield
against the heat blooming in my cheeks. It’s not embarrassment—that would be easier to handle. No, this is something slower.
Sharper. That inevitable awareness that his smile still has the power to hijack my pulse.
Stay focused, Langford. You’re here to find out if Ben is a criminal or a federal agent—not give in to flirtatious feelings.
“I wouldn’t be in your stupid shirt if you hadn’t put that demon rooster in my room.”
Rex climbs back onto the platform, brushing leaves off his jeans. “It was Ben’s idea.”
Ben shrugs, loading another round. “Figured you could handle a rooster. Not like it’s the first time you’ve had something
dangerous coming at you.”
My gaze sharpens. “I don’t have any problem facing down danger, especially when I know who I’m dealing with.”
Rex freezes halfway through wiping dirt off his sleeve. “Wait, are you still talking about a rooster?”
Ben ignores Rex and stares me down. “And you know who you’re dealing with?”
“Yes, Craig, I do.”
He doesn’t flinch, but I see a flicker. Barely there, but it tells me I caught him off guard.
Rex blinks, looking between us. “Who’s Craig?”
“Oh, you didn’t know?” I keep my tone light, teasing. “Your best buddy goes by different identities these days.” I tip my head up like I’m thinking. “Thought I’d double-check which one showed up this morning. Is it Craig Miller?”
Ben’s hand pauses over the shells just long enough to confirm I’ve struck a nerve. Then he slides back into his easy swagger
like it means nothing. “Guess it depends on who’s asking.”
Rex squints. “Wait—Craig Miller? Cybil’s boyfriend from high school?” Recollection lights his eyes, and he grins. “The one
we convinced to use deer attractant as a bug spray?”
Ben’s lip quirks. “I think it was an improvement.”
I narrow my eyes. “What are you, twelve?”
“Just needed a throwaway name for some business stuff.”
“Business stuff,” I echo. “Sounds legit.”
Ben counters smoothly, “What about you? Any interesting deals lately? Work trips?” He closes the shotgun with a soft click,
his smile still in place but his voice quieter. “Russian oligarchs?”
He’s watching me now. Closely. Too closely.
Since I don’t know whose side he’s on, I can’t tell whether his question is a warning or bait. Either way, I need to tread
carefully.
“You’re not hiding anything?”
“Are you?”
“Nope,” he says, with just enough ease to make it suspicious. “Just doing my job.”
“Me too.”
Rex glances between us like he’s missed the start of a movie. “Am I missing something here? Cybil’s a secretary for some developer,
right?”
“Yep, just a secretary.” I smile, slow and sharp. “Although you can’t take people at face value these days.”
Ben steps closer, lowering his voice. “No. You really can’t.”
The way he looks at me—it’s not teasing anymore. It’s layered. Like he’s trying to decide if I’m friend or foe. And I’m doing
the exact same thing.
I look over his shoulder at the open field, grasping for clarity, for the steady ground I used to feel under my feet whenever I was here on the ranch.
But nothing feels simple anymore. There’s no good reason for Ben’s smolder to affect me the way it does.
None. And I know just how to wipe that smug look off his face.
“Though with the way you’re shooting, you might need more practice.”
“Ooh.” He rests the shotgun on his shoulder in the safety position. “That sounds like a challenge.”
“The only challenge I see is you hitting your target.”
I don’t know why I’m engaging in this. Maybe it’s exhaustion. Maybe it’s old habits. But there’s something in the way he’s
looking at me that makes it impossible for me to walk away. I want to go toe to toe with him if only to prove I can. To prove
I’m not the girl he spoke about to Rex all those years ago.
He sets his shotgun on the table, picks up another from the case, and checks the barrel like he’s done it a hundred times.
“Tell you what,” he says, sliding a glance my way. “Since you’re so curious about my job, how about a bet?”
I arch a brow. “A bet?”
Ben leans a hip against the table, all confidence. “First one to hit two clean shots gets to ask the other a question and
they have to answer it.”
“Ben—”
“Truthfully,” I add, cutting Rex off.
His grin ticks up as he hands me the shotgun. “Of course.”
Rex groans. “You two are exhausting.”
I step to the firing line. “You’re sure?”
Ben cocks his head, studying me. “Scared?”
I load two shells and snap the shotgun closed. “Guests go first.”
We shake on it—brief, electric, and laced with enough unspoken history to blow up a small building.
“Hey, Ben, you don’t have to—” Rex starts.
“Bet’s made, Rex,” I say. He throws his hands up and heads for the control panel.
Ben takes his stance and glances my way. He doesn’t look worried. Not even a little bit. He should be.
“You can still back out if you want,” he says far too smugly.
“Nope.” I pull on a pair of safety glasses and ear protection. “I like to know who’s on my team. Or . . . who’s about to shoot me in the back.”
Ben gives me a look that’s equal parts amused and assessing, like he’s playing along but also reading between every word I
say. Calculating. Wondering how much I know—and how much I’m hiding.
Rex presses the button and the machine releases the clay pigeons. Ben fires. First one—clean hit.
My turn. I track the disk, pull the trigger. It shatters.
Next round. Ben aims, fires—just a graze.
Mine explodes in midair.
Ben pulls off his ear protection, and I can’t help the smug smile stretching across my face as I eject the empty shells and
set the shotgun down with a little flair.
He eyes me, equal parts suspicious and impressed. “You hustled me.”
“Don’t hate the player,” I say with a casual shrug. “Hate your aim.”
He shakes his head, but his smile causes my heart to flutter in my chest. I immediately shut it down.
Focus.
I move closer, arms crossed, pulse skittering under the surface because this is the moment I’ve been waiting for since my
conversation with Athena last night. “Ready to answer my question?”
Ben shifts, and for a second, I think I catch something—nervousness. My mouth opens to ask the question that’s been burning
in my brain—Are you FBI?—but his phone buzzes.
He pulls it out, glances at the screen. And then immediately answers. “Gran?”
If he thinks a phone call is going to distract me from getting to the truth, he’s—
“Whoa, Gran, wait.” His voice sharpens, concerned now. “Slow down. What do you mean you’re in a dumpster?”
I freeze. My gaze slides to Rex. He shakes his head.
“What do you mean you were tailing—” Ben stops short, rubbing his temple. “Gran, where’s Bernie?”
Rex starts packing up the shotguns, still shaking his head like this isn’t new.
“Who’s he talking to?” I whisper.
“His grandmother.”
I frown. “His grandmother is in a dumpster?”
Rex shrugs. “Not as strange as it sounds.”
Ben turns, pacing now. “Gran, do not use the flare gun. Tell Bernie to stay put— Wait, what?” He presses a palm to his forehead before resignation washes over
his face. “If Bernie’s walker is stolen, I will replace it,” he says through gritted teeth. “Don’t move.” He shakes his head.
“Yes, Gran, I know you wouldn’t be calling me if you could move. Just . . . just don’t use the flare gun. I’m on my way.”
He hangs up and turns to me. “I have to go.”
I stare at him. “Your grandmother’s in a dumpster?”
“Yes,” he says on a sigh. “Can I ride back in the Gator?”
I nod, following him to the UTV. “Is she okay?”
“For now, yes.” He climbs into the passenger seat. “But the last time Gran did this, it ended in a restraining order and three
citations for public disturbance.”
“The last time?” I get into the driver’s seat and start heading back to the house. “So this is a regular thing, your grandmother
in a dumpster?”
Ben glances over with that trademark smirk. “Some grandmothers crochet—mine organizes unlicensed stakeouts.”