“I’m here to make things right with Zephyr,” I explained. “I care about him.”
Two more bobbleheads joined Darby’s. Smolder and Spite, the twin cowboys, peered down at me wearing Cheshire grins.
Was the whole fucking entourage packed in that room watching me humiliate myself?
“Those sure are some pretty flowers, Mister Beckett,” Spite drawled. I assumed it was him from the ever-present ten-gallon hat.
Darby shot him a warning look. “They’re for me.”
Another growl crept up my throat. “You can have the damn flowers. Just… get me inside.”
“Why should we?” Smolder asked.
My lips pursed as I pondered. I knew the answer, buthonesty required a measure of that vulnerability I preferred not to parcel out.
Still, the thought of another day passing without making amends chafed more than the trio of jokers squinting down at me. I sighed. “I made Zephyr a promise. I’d like to keep it—if he’ll let me.”
Spite grinned and sing-songed, “Say please.”
“Please,” I muttered through clenched teeth.
They dissolved into laughter and disappeared from the window. I thought that was the end of it until a length of white fabric came tumbling down and dropped against the side of the building. A knotted bedsheet, or maybe several tied together. It was the kind of makeshift escape route you’d see in movies used by rebellious teenagers or prisoners slipping out of their cells.
The twins peeked out again, their matching green eyes wild with delight. It must have been nice, for once, to make someone else the entertainment.
“You can’t be serious.” I gestured to the ridiculous strip of cloth dangling before me.
“It ain’t so bad,” Smolder offered sympathetically while his brother gave the sheet rope a taunting tug.
“Saddle up, cowboy,” Spite teased. “Come get your man.”
I considered my expensive clothes, slick-bottomed shoes, the flowers I clutched, and the slew of other reasons I shouldnotbe scaling a wall today. I wasn’t sure I could manage it, but I knew for certain I would make an ass of myself trying.
“Hand over hand, one foot in front of the other,” Smolder coaxed. “Ozzy says it makes him feel like Spiderman.”
“Who’s Ozzy?” I asked, then shook my head. “Never mind. Can’t Zephyr just come down here?”
The country-western duo consulted each other before Darby reappeared, bent over the frame with his chin propped on his fist.
“Oh, no,” he said. “You’re gonna work for this, Becky. Actions being louder than words and all.”
The other two beamed like this was the best show they’d seen all week. It probably was.
I looked at the sheet again. Then the bouquet. Then my shoes.
My dignity was already on life support—might as well finish the job.
“Fuck me,” I muttered under my breath. Stripping off my suit jacket, I folded it over one arm, then shoved the flowers into the crook of my elbow.
The first handhold felt shaky. The second was worse. The knotted sheet twisted and stretched and tested my limited upper body strength. I was a desk demon. I pushed papers. Lately, I played card games on my computer. I definitely did not swing from ropes like some kind of urban ape-man.
Every tug strained my shirt across my back and made sweat run into places sweat shouldn’t go. My dress shoes scraped the wall, and I gritted my teeth so hard I thought they might chip.
It occurred to me that this was not unlike what Zephyr did onstage every night. If I’d lacked any respect for his skill before now, this would have changed that. He made this shit look effortless while I wriggled like a worm on a hook.
“Doing great, sweetheart,” Darby said sweetly. “VeryCirque du Désespéré.”
“Is everybody fucking French now?” I snapped between labored breaths.
