“Watch the edges; they’ll shred your skin to pieces.” His deep voice strains when he pulls apart the steel to ensure my skin remains unnicked.
The ruffled skirt of my corset shreds when I haphazardly fall through the hole. I’m not usually so rash, but the stranger’s confidence is making my head swim. Besides, if my dreams go up in smoke, at least I can say I didn’t go down without a fight.
After interlocking our fingers, the stranger races us toward the blackness of the night. We barely make it six steps before the frightening ricochet of a bullet freezes me. My abrupt stop only pauses the strangers’ flee for barely a second. He's smarter than me. He doesn't stay standing at the edge of a meadow field, making himself a prime target. He uses the overgrown weeds to conceal himself.
Only once the unnamed man's profile is hidden from view do I spin to face the consequences of my actions head on. My legs wobble as I struggle to stop tears from slipping down my face. I worked at Substanz as it was the only way I could continue the ruse Luca and I began years ago—the one that made my parents believe I had a scholarship.
My parents are wonderful people, but they couldn’t afford to send me to college, much less Raquel only a year later. The hoax Luca and I plotted wasn’t ideal, but it was better than seeing my family’s dairy farm divided and sold to land-hungry investors. Within hours of telling them I had a scholarship, the for sale sign was removed from a parcel of land our family farm needed to survive. Without land, we can’t grow Lucerne hay. Without feed, our cows go hungry. Hungry cows don’t produce good quality milk. My family ranch would have gone under in months, if not weeks.
I swallow the bile burning my throat when I notice who is approaching me. It is the man from the corridor in Substanz—the one Dwain hoped to play for a fool. He is standing on the other side of the fence, seemingly conflicted about whether to climb through the hole and chase me down, or use his weapon.
He must decide on the latter when he warns, “If you run, I’ll have no other option but to shoot you.” He sounds as conflicted as me, like his decisions aren’t his own. “Don’t make me do that. Come back on this side of the fence and face your choices in a respectable way. I can help you, Rae. You just need to pick the right side of the law.”
My earlier wish to see his eyes grows rampant. His pledge of assistance sounds authentic, but with the low hang of his cap sheltering his eyes, I can’t reach a sound conclusion.
“Are you arresting me for prostitution?” I bite on the inside of my cheek, annoyed at the snivel in my tone. I am stronger than this.
After a roll of my shoulders, I quote, “State laws were implemented to target offenders conducting the prohibited act of engaging in sexual conduct with another person in return for a fee. I didn’t touch you, so you have no basis for arrest.”
I expect my extensive criminal knowledge to stump him. It doesn’t—not even for a second. “Prostitution laws also target those agreeing orofferingto engage in sexual activities in return for a fee. Solicitation is as criminal as theactitself.” The way he sneers “act” leaves no doubt to his feelings on the matter.
Incapable of giving up without a fight, I retaliate, “We weren’t soliciting you. We were playing you. Dwain stupidly thought you were interested in me, so we decided to test the theory. Big mistake, apparently!”
“The only mistake you made was petitioning a federal agent for sex—”
“We didn’t know you were an agent! Duh!” The immaturity of my last word should shock me. Unfortunately, it doesn’t. I’m notorious for being childish when the odds are stacked against me. Tonight is clearly no different.
Realizing my argument isn’t getting me anywhere fast—except to jail—I switch to a tactic I haven’t used in an extremely long time. I hit him with straight up honesty. “I work at Substanz as a cabaret dancer. Nothing more. I wouldn’t have sex with you even if you paid me.”
I snap my mouth shut, praying it will hoist me out of the massive sinkhole I'm digging. I said straight up honesty, so acting like he has a dog's ass for a face is the most dishonest thing I've pretended the past three years, and I've had some doozies.
“That was a lie. I’d have sex with you even without an exchange of money.” His growl quickens my words. “But in saying that, there was never any intention for us to exchange bodily fluids. I don't do attachments. With attachments come lies, and with lies come heartache. I've had more than my fair share. I don't want any more.”
The stranger sighs. Since I can’t see his eyes, I can’t decide if it is an annoyed sigh or a frustrated one. With his weapon still honed on my chest, I’ll assume it is the latter.
When the stranger’s silence becomes too great for me to bear, I plead, “Please, I am begging you. I can’t be arrested.” The prayer in my voice is unmissable. “This won’t ruin my weekend, month or year. It will destroy my entire life.”
For the first time tonight, I seem to get through to the stranger. His voice sounds genuinely dependable when he assures, "If tonight's exchange was merely a misunderstanding, you have no reason to fear stepping back onto this side of the fence. Much to the dismay of every woman in this town, cabaret dancing is notillegal. You won’t face charges if all you did tonight was earn an honest living.”
“That’s all I was doing. I swear to you,” I pledge.
The agent steps closer to the fence, unshadowing half of his face. It adds to the sweat slicking my skin. "Then tackle the issue head-on, Rae. You don't appear the type to back down without a fight. Prove to me what I saw the instant I spotted you is true. Show me your fighting spirit."
My reluctant step forward is sliced to half its natural stride when a curt voice snaps, “Don’t.”
It is the same voice that told me to keep my head down and feet moving to avoid arrest. I thought his dart across the dew-covered ground left me high and dry. I had no clue he’d return to rescue me for the second time tonight.
“Look at him, Regan. He won’t shoot you.” He keeps his voice low, ensuring the federal agent can’t hear him. He assumes my silence is because I’m contemplating his promise—not plotting a way to evade him.
“His gun is pointed at my chest,” I murmur, certain the gray-eyed stranger isn’t seeing things clearly since he is several paces behind me.
A rustle of air hits my neck, making me imagine the stranger briskly shaking his head. “Truly look at him, Regan. His gun is to the left of your chest. His finger isn’t on the trigger. He has no intention of taking you down.”
I take a step forward. I’m not giving in. I’m merely authenticating the stranger’s assumption.
He is correct. The agent’s gun is veered just left of me, and his trigger finger is straight and un-cocked.
My pulse thrums through my body as an incalculable number of questions bombard me.Am I the cause of the indecisiveness in his tone? Is his inability to direct his weapon at me the reason he seems more reluctant now than he did when Dwain approached him? Will he let me flee without protest?
