Halfway up, my left foot slipped, and I dangled for a heart-stopping moment.
Spite whooped.
Smolder leaned out and called, “Almost there!”
“I hate all of you,” I gasped.
“You’re doing this for love!” Darby cheered.
“I’m doing this for closure,” I retorted.
“Naw,” Spite corrected. “You’re doing this forass.”
They were still cackling when I reached the windowsill and hauled myself up, red-faced and out of breath, knees scraping the brick. I scrambled over the ledge, then tumbled headfirst onto the bedroom floor, nearly crushing the flowers in my collapse.
The three of them waited until I’d regained myself enough to stand before they broke into applause like I’d landed a perfect ten.
The room in which I’d landed was long and narrow, like a section of a hall. For furnishings, it had a bunk bed and a pair of dressers plus a metal rack stuffed with hanging garments. Pegs on the wall held enough cowboy hats to rival a retail display, and the area beneath the lower bunk was cluttered with at least a dozen pairs of boots.
Beyond the clothing and accessories, the space was utilitarian. The sheets and blankets were sterile white and gray, and there were no tchotchkes or trinkets to be found. Even the window I’d clambered in through lacked basic blinds or a curtain.
It was bare. Like a cage. A cell. Zephyr’s room had been the same.
Zoo animals had more enrichment in their habitats than this.
Wavering, I passed the flowers to Darby, who lifted them to his nose for a sniff.
“You okay?” Smolder’s soft expression contrasted with his brother’s bratty smirk.
“Ain’t gonna have a coronary, are ya?” Spite pulled off his hat and fanned it toward me, blowing cool air across my sweaty face.
“Knock it off,” I wheezed, shooing him away until he, his brother, and Darby retreated to form a semicircle before me.
Darby stood flanked by the twins who looked downright subdued in pearl snap shirts and jeans. They were covered, at least, wearing more than assless chaps and bolo ties. In such close proximity, I couldn’t ignore how damn young they were. As much as it grated to have been made into a spectacle for their amusement, it bothered me more to realize that Maslow had collected souls so fresh.
Maybe it was the time I’d spent thinking about Zephyr’s human life, but I couldn’t help but wonder what each of them had lost. What had been cut short? College, careers, first apartments, first loves? Had any of them made it to thirty? Looking at the twins, at Darby, and considering Zephyr, I doubted it.
To have been robbed of so much only to end up here, served half naked under stage lights, pressed into someone else’s fantasy… that was its own kind of tragedy.
Darby clutched the bouquet to his chest like a shield. His stormy glare rose above the cheerful spray of pink and yellow blooms in an almost comical contradiction.
“Listen, Becky,” he began. “Mazzy may think he owns us, but let me make something clear: the dolls are my babies, and I don’t let anybody fuck with them.”
He saw the same thing I did—their youth, their fragility.And he wanted to protect that, even though he was no less young or vulnerable himself. I ached a little at the thought of watching this wannabe princess stand up to Maslow and inevitably lose, burgeoning with conviction and promises he probably couldn’t keep. I knew the feeling.
Spite scoffed and scuffed his boot against the floor. “I ain’t no goddamn baby.”
“Can it, Colt,” Darby snapped at him. “It’s the sentiment.”
Colt. I pinpointed the twin with the Stetson crowning his head. His real name may have been accidentally given, but I intentionally committed it to memory.
“I understand,” I told Darby, who didn’t blink before firing back.
“You hurt Zephyr.”
“I know,” I said.
“You don’t deserve him.”
