“You put an awful lot of confidence in Miss Winters,” a voice says, a figure walking toward me out of the shadows. I spin around and see an older man making his way to me. He’s wearing a hoodie and ripped dark jeans, and he must be in his midforties.
“Well, it’s all I’ve got.”
He nods in understanding. At first glance, no warning bells go off. “I’ve been in touch with Tinker. I have all your documents ready to go.”
“That was quick.”
“We have them at my beck and call. It’s why I charge so much.”
I shrug, not needing the details. “Let me see.” He hands me two manila folders. One says Amira and the other says Atalia. Both last names. “We’re sisters?” I look up at Benny. “Amira and Atalia Maddox? Could you not go with something simple?”
Benny looks at me deadpan. “Hand the money over.”
I pull out the thick envelope and pass it to him. He takes out the cash and flicks through it. “I take it it’s all here?”
“Of course. You know we’re good for it.”
He pauses, watching us for a split second before appearing satisfied with my answer. “This didn’t happen. Have a nice life, Amira.”
I’m Amira? Of course I am. Stupid fancy name, it doesn’t suit me at all.
I walk back to the car, swinging the door open, and hand Tatum the folder that says her new name on it. “Here you go, Atalia.”
She scoffs, and then her smile drops. “Seriously?”
“Seriously.”
“Well damn. Let’s get this started.” She puts the car in first gear and we drive to the closest airport.
Not long after, we’re parking the car in the garage. We both get out and walk toward the building, me with my duffle bag and her with her own small bag.
“Where are we going?” Tatum asks, looking at me.
I squint my eyes at all the flights. Smiling, I nudge her with my elbow. “How long does it take to get a visa?”
THE VISAS WERE RATHER EASY to obtain. There’s a kiosk counter set up toward the back of the airport, and since the country we’re flying to has a direct agreement with the United States, all it took was a quick questionnaire online and done; we were accepted directly through the visa waiver system.
“I can’t believe this,” Tatum whispers. “We’re going to New Zealand? Couldn’t you choose a different country, like, I don’t know… Dubai?”
I turn to face her. “And where do you think they’ll look first, Tate?”
She sighs. “I guess so.”
“And besides,” I add, “I haven’t even heard of New Zealand. I doubt Bishop has. And also…” I look toward her ungrateful ass, “it was either this or some small town in Indonesia or Thailand.”
“Could have got cheap new tits in Thailand.”
Rolling my eyes, the voice overhead calls our flight name, and I look to Tatum, my heart beating in my chest. “Are you ready?”
She looks back at me and takes my hand. “Yeah… yeah, I am.”
Two Months Later
“I don’t know, Ta—Atalia.”
Tatum grins at me, walking around the back of the bar in her skimpy shorts and lace push-up bra that hangs out of her ripped crop top. “Well, you know you can work here.” She nods toward the stripper pole. We’ve been here for a couple of months now, and plan to stay for a couple more hopefully, but I need to find a job to keep my mind busy.
I turn back around and grin. “You know, I may not care anymore, but I won’t be sucking on any poles.” I take a sip of my drink and lean back in my chair, scanning the paper in front of me and flinging my pencil through my fingers. It’s 12:00 p.m. here, which means it’s around 8:00 p.m. the previous day back home.
Since coming here, Tatum and I have been staying in a little apartment right on the beach. We landed in Auckland thirteen hours after we boarded the plane and immediately purchased a little booklet of the country. We both agreed we wanted to be near the beach, grasping something that resembles home and keeping it close to us. So we found this small town in the middle of the north island called Mount Maunganui. I can’t pronounce it and have noticed a lot of the locals just call it The Mount.
It’s beautiful here. Sandy beaches, big waves, little shops lining the main beach where houses and coastal homes are set up opposite. The entire strip of the shoreline goes on for around ten minutes by car and eventually takes you to another small suburb called Papamoa. New Zealanders are friendly—sometimes a little too friendly—the food is fresh, and the air is like walking into a sauna for the first time. It’s lovely. But I haven’t been able to find a job since we got here. The flat we live in is a small studio apartment—nothing over the top—but it costs a fortune. It turns out this town isn’t exactly cheap to live in. Of course, trust Tatum and me to choose one of the more expensive towns in the whole of New Zealand. She found a job right away, working for cash in hand as a bartender-slash-stripper—I shit you not. I love Tatum, but I can see her slowly losing herself.
Is it happening to me too?
Whenever I try to dig inside, in search of my true feelings, I come up blank. I have none. I’ve thought once or twice about taking Tatum up on her offer and joining her as a stripper, but then I remembered I can’t dance for shit and my ass jiggles a little more than it should.
“Nice drawing,” the guy next to me interrupts my thoughts, pointing down to my piece of paper.
“Thanks,” I murmur, leaning forward and taking my drink.
“How long did it take for you to draw that?”
“Hmmm.” I swallow some of my drink and then look back at him. “About twenty minutes.”
His eyebrows pull together. “Can I take a look?”
I nod. “Yeah, sure.” I hand it to him, watching his expressions change. He has messy but well-styled light-brown hair, a five o’clock shadow, a straight pointy nose, and olive skin. His shoulders are square, much like his jaw, and he’s wearing a dark leather jacket with a plain white shirt underneath, dark jeans, leather bangles on his wrists, and heavy black biker boots. Oh, God, please don’t be a biker.
“These are fucking mint.” He grins, studying my latest drawing. I don’t know what the term “mint” means, but I take it it’s some kind of New Zealand lingo. The drawing is a pink lotus flower that’s half blossomed. There’s a bullet sitting in the middle, the petals of the flower guarding it protectively. The shading isn’t quite finished, but yeah, it’s not bad.
“Thank you,” I reply shyly.
He looks up at me. “I heard you tell your—” He looks toward Tatum on the pole. “—friend you’re looking for a job?”
“Yeah.” I nod. “We’re from America.”
“Backpacking?”
“Something like that,” I answer through a tight smile.
“Jesse.” He puts his heavily tattooed hand out.
I take it, surprised his palm is a little soft considering what he looks like. “Amira.”
“Amira?” He grins. “Sort of sexy.”
“Ha!” I laugh nervously. “Good one.” Is he flirting? I can’t tell.
His grin relaxes to a sly smirk. “Here.” He slides his card across the bar. “I own Inked, the tattoo parlor two shops down.” He points to my drawing. “I got you a job if you want it.”
“What?” I gasp in disbelief. “I haven’t tattooed anyone—ever!”
He shakes his head. “No, but I have, and do, and you draw fucking amazing. I can teach you. Or, you can just draw for me. I only do custom designs. So if you come in and sit down as I go over each client, you can draw what they say. Catch my drift?”
I swallow. “Shit.”
“Scared?” He grins at me again, a dark eyebrow quirked.
“Sort of.”
“Hey!” Tatum comes bouncing with bills stuffed under her bra. Jesus fucking Christ, this girl. She looks to Jesse and smiles, her eyes lighting up like the Fourth of July. She puts her hand out. “I’m Atalia!”
Jesse looks between us. ?
??Similar names, or…?”
“Sisters,” Tatum chirps, gripping onto the bar, jumping up, and planting her ass on top. Jesse walks over to her, picks her up from under her arms, and shakes his head.
“Don’t go sitting your little ass on tabletops in this country, girl.”
I laugh at Tate’s pouted lip.
“Okay,” I say to Jesse, and his eyes come directly back to me. “I mean,” I correct, “I don’t know if I’m what you’re really looking for, but I’m willing to give it a try. Since, you know… I was rather close to going up”—I point toward the stage—“there.”
He grins. “Yeah, come now.” He nudges his head toward the front door, and I look between it and him and then back again.
“You’re not a murderer, are you?”
“Guess you won’t know until you follow me.”
Pausing, my eyes lock onto his before I down my drink and get off the stool.
Turning to Tatum, I smile. “I’ll be back soon.”
She shrugs and then bounces back onto the stage. I follow Jesse out the door, the cool summer air hitting me across the face. He nudges his head toward the sidewalk.
“This isn’t the part where you kill me, is it?” I chuckle, shoving my hands into my jean pockets.
He laughs, throwing his head back. “This is New Zealand, babe. You’re safe.” From what I’ve seen so far, it is safe here.
We walk down the sidewalk until we come to a shop that has black paint licked over the front with red stripes going diagonally down the brick structure. Jesse pulls out his keys, unlocks the door, and then ushers me inside.
Flicking the lights on, he gestures out in front of himself.
“It’s clean!” is the first thing that comes into my brain, and me being me, of course I say it out loud.
Jesse laughs, closing the door behind himself to shut out the line of boy racers that are flooring it down the main street. “Yeah, I guess it sort of has to be.” He tilts his head and then walks forward to the dark concrete counter. It’s all rustic with a dose of modern. The floors are glass mirror tiles, and the seats are black leather with intricate designs carved into the armrests. All the booths are wide open but have the option to pull a curtain across for privacy. There’s also a private booth at the back.
“Piercings and such,” Jesse mutters, handing me a beer when he sees me looking at the booth.
“Thanks.” I take it. “So what exactly do you want from me?”
He takes a swig and then looks at me. “When clients come in, you can sit in during their consultation, get a vision of what they want, and draw it for them. Just roughly sketch it.”
“Okay, and when you don’t have clients?” I ask, watching him carefully. He has a couple of beauty marks on his face that instantly draw my attention, so I look away quickly, not wanting to get caught ogling. He’s a little more than hot. He has a rough sexiness about him. I wonder how old he is.
“You can stay at the front desk? I can pay you hourly plus give you a percentage out of the drawings you do—all cash in hand.”
I think over his question and then look toward some of the artwork that’s hanging on the walls. “I guess I’m in.”
He steps forward, pushing his hands into the front pockets of his jeans, and tilts his head. “What’s your story?”
Casually sucking in a breath, I bring the bottle to my mouth and swallow. “I don’t really have one.”
“Okay, and how long are you in NZ for?”
“Only for a couple of months. If that. So please don’t think this is a permanent thing for me. I’d hate to give you the wrong impression.”
The corner of his mouth tilts up slightly. “I’m not really into permanent.”
I run my eyes up and down his body, once again failing to hide my attraction to him, but anytime I think, Okay, I can do this. I can find a man just to have something casual with, Bishop possesses my body and my thoughts. It’s not entirely fair, considering he has probably moved on already, but it’s just not in me to do it yet. It’s too soon.
I halt him with my hand, sensing he was going to go into the dating territory. “Please don’t. Not yet.”
He grins. “I can do not yet.”
Handing him my barely touched beer, I smile at him. “I better go, but I’ll see you tomorrow?”
“Yup, 9:00 a.m.,” he agrees.
I nod, turn on my heel, and walk out the door. Figuring I’ll walk the rest of the way back to our apartment instead of calling a taxi, I eventually make my way to the main beach. Stepping down the sandy steps, I inhale the thick, salty ocean air and close my eyes, shutting out any noise but the crashing of waves and the crickets chirping within the trees. New Zealand is beautiful; there’s no doubt about that. But I miss being home in the US. I don’t know what’s happening back home. No one has found me, or no one has looked—not sure which of the two is correct.
“You okay?” Tatum comes down the steps and walks to where I’m standing. I take a seat on the sand and draw my knees up, my hair falling over my shoulders.
“Not really.”
Tate plops down beside me, her long coat wrapped tightly around her body.
“Are you wearing clothes under that?”
“What?” She bats her eyelashes innocently. “Of course I am! And also….” She pulls out a bottle of whiskey and what I’m pretty sure is a joint. “Tada!”
I shake my head and laugh. “You’re a hot mess, you know that?”
“I know,” she sighs, resting her head on my shoulder. “Be a hot mess with me?”
I swallow, looking out to the dark ocean, wondering what lies are on the other side of what seems to be an endless bank of water. “Yeah, I think I’m ready to be just that.”
The thoughts of Bishop and my dad have been eating away at me ever since I left the US. Maybe the reason why it’s not affecting Tatum so much is because she’s always high or drunk—or having sex. Although I’m not ready for the sex part—and I don’t even know why, because it’s not like Bishop and I were together—I still feel like I’m betraying him. Why the fuck should I care if I’m betraying him though? He betrayed me! He lied, cheated, manipulated, and killed someone. He’s exactly—
“Make it stop, Tate,” I whisper through fresh tears as my throat clogs. A single tear trickles over my cheek and Tatum catches it with her index finger. She then grips my chin, turning me to face her. She searches my eyes, and for a second, she seems stone-cold sober. “We will make it stop together, Mads.”
Swallowing, I nod and take the joint from her. Lighting it up, I put it between my lips and inhale deeply until my lungs catch on fire and my throat turns to stone. Blowing out the smoke, a sputter of coughs come out of me, so I snatch the whiskey from her hand while passing her the joint. After twisting the cap, I bang on my chest and then put the tip to my lips and swallow, allowing the burning of the cheap whiskey to coat my already parched throat.
Tatum falls onto her back with the joint tucked between her lips and I lay back with her, the stars swimming in the dark abyss of the sphere, a bottle of whiskey between my fingers, and my hair sprawled out over the sand.
“Do you think he ever cared, Tate?” I whisper, tilting my head and lining up the southern cross that hangs brightly in the sky.
“Bishop? No. Nate? Yes.” She coughs loudly, banging on her chest. I sit up, taking a drink until the burning turns my throat numb and my head throbs with intoxication. Tatum passes me the joint. “Sorry, Mads. I just don’t think he did. But I wouldn’t take it personally. He doesn’t give a fuck about anyone or anything.” I toke on the ganja, this time holding it in longer to intensify my buzz, and then blow it out slowly.
“Why the fuck can’t I bring myself to get laid.”
“That will come, babe. I said he didn’t care. I’m well aware that you did.”
“I’m stupid.”
“No.” Tatum shakes her head, handing me the whiskey. “No, you’re not. You’re Madison Montgomery, and you’re a fucki
ng boss-ass bitch who feels, Mads. That’s a big deal. More people should feel.”
“Felt,” I whisper, my tears now dry. “They used me as their puppet. Now I’m broken.”
“Broken but hot, and who, by the way, has found a hot tattoo artist!”
I laugh, pulling my bottom lip into my mouth. “He is a bit hot, huh?”
“A bit?” Tatum looks offended. “Honey, he will do you fine until our next stop.”
“Have you decided where we’re going next?” I slur, my eyes narrowing on her to try to focus.
“Mmmm, Milan?”
“Spain?” I ask, shocked. “What about London? Can we do Bristol?”
“Why?”
“I don’t know. Just really want to find a hot British guy.”
“To bang, or to complain to me about how you can’t bang?”
I laugh, shoving her shoulder. “Shut up. Come on.” I get up off the sand and pull Tatum with me. Only we both spin out and… I’m falling. I land on the sand with a plonk, the hard surface sure to bruise my ass.
“Fuck!” Tatum curses behind a chuckle.
I can’t help it. Undiluted laughter erupts out of me, and I clutch my belly. “Holy shit.” I shake my head, my cheeks now aching from all the smiling.
“Well that’s a laugh I haven’t heard in a while.” Tatum clutches her stomach, wiping the tears from her eyes.
“Yeah, I promise I’ll try to do it more.”
“MORNING, HOT STUFF.” TATUM WALKS into my room, a joint between her fingers.
“Morning,” I answer, pulling on some cutoff shorts and a tight tank. “Is this too much?”
“Nonsense!” Tatum hushes my insecurities, stepping forward and handing me the joint. She pushes my tits up and ruffles my hair. “This is a tattoo parlor!”
I bring the smoke to my lips and take a hit. “True!” I agree, before handing it back to her and walking out to the living room. Our apartment—or flat, as they call it here—is small. It has two bedrooms, a small living room, and a kitchenette that overlooks the main beach strip. We pay a small fortune to live here too, but it’s what Tatum wanted, and since she was the only one working at the time, I let her do it. Our savings are still healthy, thanks to Tatum working pretty much right away, but that’s the money we have to live on when we skip countries. The kitchenette is a mustard yellow, and the living room is neutral beige. It’s a beach house, and the family we rent it from also own the bar Tatum works at. It worked in our favor, and we were really lucky.