ARABELLA SAVES THE DAY
Iwalked into the gym at a quarter past nine, took my high-heeled cork sandals off—I really liked this pair, they had little blue flowers on them—and crossed the floor.
Gyms were not my favorite places. Something about walls of mirrors and rows of equipment made me feel like I was on display, and I avoided them whenever it was possible. I liked working out—it helped with the stress, and I’ve had a lot of stress lately—but I preferred doing it where nobody could see me and run away screaming.
Although, as gyms went, this one wasn’t too bad. It was large, with a heavy-duty rubberized floor, light and bright, no mirrors, and it was empty except for two people, which was a huge plus.
They stood by one of those heavy, cylindrical punching bags that were designed to take both kicks and punches. The bag hung suspended on a chain from a metal track in the ceiling, and the track ran almost all the way to the back of the gym.
Interesting.
The first person, a muscled guy in his late thirties, carefully pushed the bag forward and stepped to the side. He was a big dude, tall with broad shoulders, a wide chest, and biceps that stretched the sleeves of his black short-sleeved compression tee.His hair looked rough, and he probably knew that but just didn’t care. This was the kind of guy who’d rather buzz his own hair off with clippers knowing he would probably miss a spot than sit down for twenty minutes and politely make small talk with a barber.
Ray Braddock. Professional Tough Guy and All-Around Badass.
He kind of reminded me of those high school wrestling coaches who were always super serious and focused and were, like, way too intense at times, but also were helpful, professional, and quietly patient. Until you pissed them off. And then he would be screaming in your face while you just stood there, terrified, watching the blood vessel pop in his forehead and counting the seconds until it was over.
I wasn’t here for Ray. I was here to save the other person by the punching bag from the consequences of her actions.
She was seventeen years old, I’d say about four inches taller than me, and dressed in loose red Nike shorts and a basic black sports bra. Tia Madero was built like body fat was afraid of her. All muscle, with visible stomach abs and biceps that had angles and strong, muscular legs. Her dark hair was pulled back into a high ponytail. A few strands had managed to escape, though, and were stuck to her sweaty forehead.
Ray saw me.
The look on his face quickly became the opposite of friendly. Which was weird and, lowkey, a tiny bit concerning, since I didn’t look like much of a threat right now. I had chosen my outfit and my style very carefully. Seventeen-year-olds were quick to judge, and I had to get Tia to cooperate. I had to aim for a slightly older sister vibe here: old enough to be taken seriously, young enough to confide in, and fashionable enough not to be dismissed outright. Tia’s Insta told me she knew how to apply make-up. She rarely bothered, but when she did it, itlooked good enough to pass for being professionally done. I had to measure up.
I had settled on a sleeveless, plaid Burberry dress. My hair, curled and twisted back into a loose bun at the base of my neck, threaded the line between sophisticated and pretty. I paired both with a soft face: taupe eyeshadow, brown mascara, and light blush. My tinted lip-gloss was a nice, very agreeable shade of warm pastel pink. Though apparently less agreeable than I’d thought, since Ray was mad-dogging me across the gym right now.
Ray was Tia’s bodyguard. In reality, he mostly got paid to bodyguard everybody elsefromTia and not so much the other way around. Poor Tia. I’d gotten this case in the middle of the night, and I’d looked at a lot of her pics before going to bed. Most of them had Ray in them, looming behind her with his arms crossed, like a disapproving shadow wearing orthopedic sneakers. Talk about a vibe killer.
Since he was security for House Madero, he’d likely read the files they had on my family. We’d clashed with the Madero clan a few times, so it made sense for the Maderos to keep tabs on House Baylor. My personal records were sealed, which probably made his eye twitch. An unknown threat was always worse. But the fact that I’d walked into this gym on the Madero compound meant that someone with a lot of authority had signed off on it.
It’d been Tia’s stepmother. I’d specifically approached her, because if I had gone to Tia’s father, Dave Madero would’ve started the apocalypse.
Our stares connected. Ray locked his jaw.
I gave him a bright smile.I’m not here to make trouble. Honest.
Tia saw me, deliberately looked away, and kicked the bag. The heavy bag shot across the gym, sliding on the iron track witha metallic whoosh all the way to the other side of the gym and dangled there.
Nice.
Tia stretched her neck, side to side, her dark ponytail bopping, and nodded. Ray hesitated for a moment. She gave him a look, and he trotted after the bag. Tia turned her back toward me and launched a series of air punches.
She didn’t ask why I was here. She had expected someone to show up and ask questions, though. I was on the right track. Now I had to convince her to talk to me.
On paper, I was only three years older than Tia, but the real gap between us was a lot wider. She was a high school junior, and I had already graduated. I was an adult, almost old enough to buy a drink, and she was still a minor. I’d been working for my family’s business for years and made my own money, and she still collected an allowance. Most importantly, I participated in House warfare. The Maderos were a violent House. They knew exactly how ugly it could get, and they sheltered Tia from it.
Getting back into the high-school mindset was a struggle. When I was seventeen, other seventeen-year-olds in my life were either angsty or angry. Tia was definitely angry. If I tried to reason with her, she would tell me to fuck off. She was ignoring me right now, so I had to engage her first, and since all I had to work with was anger, I was forced to go with that.
“Hi!” I stuck out my hand. “My name is Arabella Baylor. My brother-in-law fought with your father.”
She ignored me.
“And my older sister put your Uncle Frank into the ER,” I continued.
She looked at my hand, more specifically at my French-tip nails, snorted, and turned away.
Le sigh.I planned to follow up with, “My other sister’s fiancé choked your Uncle Frank with a plastic bag,” but her face toldme I would have to stab a bit deeper. If I gave her a target for all that rage, she would start talking.
