Page 106 of Savage Daddies

We collide, and I wrap my numb arms around her. I grip her matted hair and hold on to her for dear life, letting the shaking run its course.

“Oh my god, Fiona, I’m so sorry.”

“Shhhh.” Her palm clamps over my mouth. “Don’t say a word. Felix only just left.”

So it definitely was him.

I stroke a hand through her hair. “Fuck, what did he do to you?”

A cut gashes her cheek, one deep enough to gross me out. Blood oozes slowly out of it, but the dried blood all over her face and neck suggests she’s lost a lot.

Her eyes lull closed, and her pale lips part to suck in another breath of air. Her hands attempt to clutch onto my now bloodstained tank top, but there’s not quite enough strength in her fingers for her to grip.

“We need to get her to the hospital.” I turn to the bikers. “Now.”

Bullwhip kneels beside us and presses two hands to the inside of her neck. “She’s fine, just slightly out of it.” Two cautious eyes find mine. “Taking her to the hospital is risky. We should clean this Felix mess up ourselves without authorities getting involved.”

“What? Don’t you think?—?”

“No, Zoe,” says Wrangler. “I’m telling you. We need to keep beneath the surface with this one. He’s in with the FBI.”

“What do you mean?”

Poet steps up. “Officers at the station told all of us to stay away from Felix Fernando. It was a warning, like, I don’t know…a backwards way of saying it’s impossible for us to win.” Poet stuffs bloody hands in his pockets. “My guess is that they sussed Felix out, but he paid for their silence or something.”

“He’s silenced the fucking FBI?!”

“Yeah,” Bullwhip nods. “That’s exactly what he’s done. He told me himself.”

“What do you mean?”

“When you’re a powerful member of society, losing is something you never have to worry about—you have money and dirt to blackmail people with.” Bullwhip straightens his posture and looks down at Fiona and me. “We keep this between us five. That’s it.”

“And that’s how we take him down,” Wrangler adds.

Their optimism is nice, but winning against Felix seems like a losing battle.

I wet my finger and attempt to rub away some of the dried blood from Fiona’s face. She looks terrible. She was born with blue eyes, apparently took after our mom—I dunno, I was too young when she passed in childbirth to remember. Apparently, according to my math teacher who used to attend the same psychology lectures as her, Mom used to sport the bluest eyes—Australian-summer-ocean kind of blue. She always said Fiona was the spitting image.

The only time I can remember Fiona’s eyes being blue was when the two of us were discussing her dream of going to college. Now they’re gray, but the gray is duller than I remember.

She needs life breathed into her.

It’s not about divorcing Felix to satisfy my sex life anymore. This is about Fiona. She’s the one still cooped up in Father’s house without a driver’s license—because he prohibits her from driving. Father doesn’t even let her get a job. He says she doesn’t need one, and that she should be thankful. But back when we used to live together, I saw the way she used to watch those true crime documentaries on the laptop, like she wanted in on the investigation.

This is about Fiona and her future.

And Sammy’s too. If we don’t act soon, we risk her growing up with an oppressive childhood too, as Felix accumulates evenmorepower.

“Taking him down is the only way.” I smooth a static piece of hair behind Fiona’s ear. “We do it on Friday.”

“Friday is your wine tasting event with Felix.”

“Exactly.”

* * *

Pretendingto give a shit about expensive winewasmy idea of hell until a plan of action spiced it up a little. I recline in my seat as the makeup team works their magic. Tonight, the makeup look is a brown smoky eye, dramatic cheekbone contouring and a dark red lip to match the ruby dress Felix and his team dry-cleaned for me yesterday.

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