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“You seem like a cream and sugar kind of girl.”
“What’s that?” she asks, pointing to the manilla folder rolled up in my back pocket.
“The Cattle menu.”
I pull it out and place it on the table in front of her. She flattens it with her palms and opens it. The Cattle are listed based on jumpsuit color, and it even lists their crimes.
“What is this for?”
“We need to pick who we want to drag behind our horses.”
Her eyes land on a circled mugshot in the pink category. Paul J., a fifty-three-year-old pedo from North Carolina. He murders his small victims, and I can’t wait to murder him.
Kindra flips the pages and drags her finger along the paper until she finds a red she likes. She taps her finger on George S., a thirty-two-year-old with multiple rape charges against adult victims. One of which was an incapacitated adult. Good choice.
“I’ll call up to the mansion and let Jim know,” I say. “He’ll send down our chosen targets.”
“I still can’t believe I’m doing this.”
Once she’s had a few sips of coffee, she rises from the couch and goes to the bathroom to dress, carefully tiptoeing past the bed in her room. I stay in the living room.
I’m surprised when she emerges only fifteen minutes later. Like a butterfly, she’s managed one hell of a metamorphosis.
She tamed her hair into a high ponytail and traded her baggy t-shirt and sleep shorts for a snug green blouse and a pair ofjeans. Her ass looks good enough to eat, though I withhold the compliment. The fewer reminders about last night’s meal, the better.
We exit the villa, and Kindra yawns beside me as we walk toward the beach.
“Were you up late?” I ask.
“Cat showed up, and then Itriedto get some me time in so I could fall asleep, but she heard me and interrupted that. So no, I didn’t sleep well.”
“Brave move to use that toy with her there. Did you hear how it rattled an entire 747?”
She swipes her hand across her face. “Ialmostforgot about that. Thanks.”
“I’m sure the priest is kept up at night thinking about it.”
She socks my bicep. And I deserve it.
We step onto the beach and follow hoofprints to the ocean. A chill nip hides within the breeze, and it seems to have kept other retreat participants from going on today’s ride. They’ve probably opted for one of the many indoor activities.
The stable master holds a rein in each hand. One attaches to a stunning black Percheron gelding I rode a couple of times last year. I walk over and stroke his big head, and he nickers softly in shared recognition. Kindra’s horse is a stout white mare. She must be new this year.
“What’s her name?” I ask.
“Sophia.”
“Is she a safe ride? The lady here isn’t familiar with?—”
Kindra stomps her way over to me. “Bold of you to assume I’ve never ridden.”
“She isn’t Fynn, but she’s a good mare,” the man says.
I turn toward Kindra. “Please take Fynn.”
“I’m fine with Sophia.”
“Fynn is a safer ride.”
