Tally catches a kiss and presses her fist to her lips. “I love you, too!”
43
TALLY
On the wayout of town, Rust briefs me on his wild action chase through the mall.
Including the tiny wig thief and the perfume lady. The arm-flailing tube man. And my personal favorite: turkey man. Though the fake YouTube channel distraction was good, too. I’m impressed he came up with anything social media and tech related by himself.
The rest of the drive passes in tense silence while I sip black coffee and eat a heart-shaped donut with pink sprinkles. It’s unbearably cute that Rust chose this one to bring me. But it would be much more romantic if the blackmailer wasn’t sitting between us.
This situation is definitely a contender for the number one most awkward situation of my life. It’s worse than the first date I went on with a sound engineer who kept calling me by his ex’s name and sobbed into his overcooked steak.
By the time we reach an old horse ranch a good hour from the suburbs, the whole truck smells like meatballs. It’s making me sick.
Rust spotted the abandoned property on our drive intoPhoenix last night. He pointed out the sun-faded ‘For Sale’ sign and commented what a shame it is to let the house and stable go to waste.
It seems like a great place to raise a family away from the noise of the city and nosy neighbors—or to conduct a thorough interrogation of the scumbag blackmailing me. If the property has been unused for this long, it’s unlikely we’ll get disturbed.
We park Yolanda behind the big ranch house so she’s not visible from the road. Rust hauls his emergency toolbox and the blackmailer’s bag to the stables while I follow with our captive at gunpoint.
We slip into the building like thieves, startling a bird from its nest in the rafters. The scent of decaying wood thickens the air and dust dances in spots of sunlight streaming through holes in the roof. Rust barricades the door with halved barrels before getting to work on an old fuse box by the entrance. He swears, fiddling with wires until he finally flips the breaker.
The overhead lights turn on, letting me get a better look at the ruins of somebody else’s livelihood.
Dull nameplates are nailed to the stall doors and mold-spotted, cracked saddles and bridles hang from hooks on the walls. Rusty horseshoes are scattered in the dirt, seeming not all that lucky.
Rust grabs a bucket from a heap of old farm tools in the corner and puts it upside down in the middle of the aisle between the stalls. “Sit,” he orders and the blackmailer does as he says.
Whistling, Rust selects a hammer from his toolbox.
“What do we need the tools for? Planning a spontaneous fixer-upper?” I ask mockingly.
“Believe me, you’re gonna want tools for this.” Rustpoints the hammer at the blackmailer. “Tell her your name, asshole. Or should I say yourpseudonym?”
The man goes pale as a ghost, lips flapping. “M-my name is G-Gideon Wolfe, but professionally I go by…” He winces. “Night Wolfe.”
It feels like somebody pulled the rug from under my feet. I stumble and Rust grabs my arm, steadying me.
“You’re the paparazzo who’s been my biggest hater since day one?” I ask.
Wolfe swallows thickly. “Y-yes. But don’t take it personally. I do that to everyone!”
I let out a screeching laugh. “Is that supposed to make me feel better?”
“Hammer?” Rust offers helpfully and I don’t miss the sadistic glint in his eyes.
The shock inside me fades and rage washes over me. My hands lock into fists, shaking at my sides.
All those times I had to grit my teeth and smile through humiliation, slander and rumors. Every time I had to watch another singer’s career get ruined by Night Wolfe’s particularly disgusting brand of tabloid journalism.
Every time, every damn time I was helpless.
But now, I’m not.
“No, I need something sharper!” I grab a long screwdriver from Rust’s toolbox.
“Please don’t hurt me!” Wolfe squeals, but I descend on him like a hurricane.
