🌁 chapter two: where the wild west lives and dies [let me be your ghost]

"I can resist everything except temptation."

"I can resist everything except temptation."

-Oscar Wilde

The knocking woke me even when the morning sun didn’t.

No one knocks at my door—because my front door doesn’t exist. Not on a map, not on a government record. I built this cabin at the heart of unmarked land that I bought with what the FBI paid me to be undercover as their ghostwriter—their informant. But because my home exists nowhere, I know exactly who is at my door.

I pushed myself off the tatami mat I had laid out at the top level of my loft. I bought the mat and ditched my mattress after a trip to Kyoto where I stayed in a traditional Japanese home. I liked how sleeping on the bamboo mat made me feel—like I was maybe one with the earth, part of it, perhaps. Grounded instead of spinning out of control like the rest of my life. Or maybe it’s because, deep down, maybe a part of me didn’t think I deserved the comfort of a mattress. But that trip to Japan was so far in the past. Before my life ended. The FBI wouldn’t let me out of their sight now, even as they fed me new identities and passports they made sure I stayed under their thumb. I had different names and photos and drivers licenses I’ve stashed in drawers like hidden treasures. I’m allowed to live other people’s lives—just not my own.

Not yet.

The knocking grew louder on the steel door below, and I groaned. “I’m coming!” I yelled, crawling on all fours for the ladder that leads down to the second level, knocking some empty beer cans down in the process by accident.

I may sleep on a tatami mat, but I’m definitely no monk.

My black hair was slung up in a messy bun and I wore an oversized Yale t-shirt and flared black sweatpants that fit like a glove but have seen better days. I vaguely remembered wearing them when I used to take dance classes at school—again, in a life that was once my own. I can’t remember the last time I’ve done something for fun beyond drinking myself into slumber.

My feet landed on the cement floor, and I squinted in the bright light of the desert morning. I had this home built out of an old mining hut, and it was a single room with floor-to-ceiling windows that show the desert in all of its splendor across my acreage, my Jeep parked outside. On the ground floor I had a single writing desk with my grandfather’s typewriter—a bright yellow thing with keys that make the most delicious clickety-clack sounds across the paper—and my laptop with my leather laptop bag hanging on a metal hook by the door. The front door was industrial steel, slightly misshapen in a wabi-sabi kind of way with large deadbolts. A small kitchenette and bathroom stood opposite the big windows and my writing desk, with a farmhouse sink and small rectangular windows so I could watch the hares run from predators as I grilled my morning bacon. The circle of life unfolding all around my small home.

A perfect place to be a recluse in-between jobs.

As I pulled open my front door, I’m face-to-face with Matthew once more. He holds up two cups of coffee stamped with the fancy logo of a nearby roaster he knew I liked. “I brought you some morning juice.”

“I didn’t order delivery. Goodbye,” I started to close the door, but Matthew stuck his foot out, stopping it.

“And I’ve got your ticket to freedom. Let me in and let’s talk.”

I frowned but opened the door wide enough for him to walk inside. “As much as I love writing books for the FBI, I’d appreciate you sticking to your end of the bargain.”

Matthew sat down at my small dining table—just a steel round table and two chairs, fit for a cafe in Europe instead of a real dining table. “I think you might want to see this.” Matthew set down the coffees and tossed a file on the table.

I sat down, wary, and opened the file. I started to read, and sucked in air as I realized what I was reading. I looked back up. “Is this real?”

Matthew nodded, running a hand through his boyish hair that was getting too long. “I had the director sign it personally. I told him what happened yesterday and the courage you showed in getting the information we needed to arrest Wolf. He agreed that this next book will be your last, and to ensure that the money you leave with after this job is enough to set you up for whatever life you could dream of. And as long as you get satisfactory evidence this time, we won’t hold you to the outcome of the trial.”

Relief washed over me, followed by annoyance. “You couldn’t just call the last one good enough? I’ve done three books.”

Matthew withdrew another file from his briefcase. “I would, but you’ve got one last thing you can do to help your country, Lola Whitman.”

My heart sunk, and I knew exactly what was going to be in that file. I just knew.

“Open it,” he said, his eyes shining.

I opened the file and saw exactly the man I had been expecting grinning from photos ripped from magazines and surveillance footage. Ezekiel Crane. Photos of him with actresses, socialites, on red carpets at the Cannes Film Festival. All of the colors of him as a globetrotting playboy, now thrust into the spotlight for a different reason following the death of his father.

I snapped the file shut, shoving it back across the table. “I won’t do it.”

Matthew’s gaze hardened. “He’s harmless, Lola. He’s just a wayward party boy who is now cosplaying CEO of his father’s tech company.”

“Harmless?” I scoffed. “He seemed very aware of what he was doing when he approached me yesterday. I don’t appreciate you giving out my phone number, you know—I just recently got that burner and I’m sick of changing all of my passwords—”

Matthew nearly spit out his coffee. “He what?”

I froze. “You didn’t know?”

“Ezekiel Crane approached you? Why did you tell me?”

“I thought—I thought you knew—”

“My office was trying to get a hold of me all day yesterday with his call but I was too caught up on the Wolf opp with you. But if you found you—on his own…” Matthew grinned. “This is better than we could have even hoped for.”

“What does the Bureau want with him if you think he’s just some airheaded son of a dead tech billionaire?”

“We have a few government contracts with his company—”

“Not that you spy on Americans or anything,” I cut in.

Matthew shook his head. “Obviously that’s illegal.”

“Obviously,” I said, rolling my eyes. “You can be real with me, Matthew. It’s clearly not in my interest to write a hit piece on the FBI at this stage,” I said, my voice dripping with sarcasm.

“It’s just that we don’t think the way that Eze has started running the company is completely above board. There’s something not right about it and we’ve been trying to find a way in for months since he took control after his father’s heart attack. And if he approached you directly, it means his mind is made up on working with you,” Matthew said, his eyes gleaming. I could practically see him dreaming up his future promotion at the Bureau.

“Well it’s too bad I turned him down,” I said nonchalantly, reaching across the table to grab a coffee and take a sip, relishing the hot liquid as it tumbled down my throat.

“You did not,” Matthew said, his eyes wide.

“I did. Because I’m not writing his book. Give me someone else.”

Matthew’s eyes narrowed. “That’s the thing. The director’s offer of honoring your freedom after this case—it’s contingent on you giving us enough to work with on Eze.”

I felt a lump grow in my throat. “You promised—”

Matthew slammed the table, jostling the coffee and spilling a few drops as he stood. “We’re the government, Lola! You think we have to honor our promises when you get to walk away scot free from what you did all those years ago because of our deal? You have to do what you’re told or all of this ends badly for you! Don’t you understand that?”

My breath caught. “I… I just…” I felt like a little girl being scolded by her father. Rage and shame shook the bars of my proverbial cage, and I couldn’t figure out how to organize what I was feeling into words.

Matthew must have seen what his anger did to me, and he sat back down, masking his irritation and putting on his handler-voice. “I’m sorry. I know you’ve been through a lot in the past twenty-four hours. I know you want all of this to be over. How about you take the day and think about it? Get back to me tomorrow morning. We can talk then. Sound good?”

I just nodded, trying to close the dam on the emotions that threatened to burst out of me, my eyes vacant. I barely noticed as Matthew picked up his briefcase and left, closing my front door behind him as he drove away in his shiny black escalade.

In the silence, I felt the world closing around me, and I slid off the chair to the cold cement floor. I placed the side of my face on the cool ground. A tear slipped down my cheek and I wondered if freedom would taste like I had hoped if the road there was paved with cold compromises in service of my captors.

***

The Roadrunner Bar was a little sticky and the air a little stale, but there was a dartboard and I needed the practice—and didn’t mind some extra cash. With an IPA by my side, I took the tiny projectiles and started tossing them at the board.

I had spent the day picking at some leftovers in my fridge, staring out at the desert life outside my window as the sun passed overhead. I had avoided drinking for a majority of the day by instead focusing on counting the birds that flew by. I liked counting birds. Especially pigeons, which were in short supply in Arizona. I liked the conspiracy that pigeons weren’t real, that they were flying cameras created by the government to spy on its citizens. After all, have you ever seen a baby pigeon? The thought made me smile even though I was of no higher stature than the pigeons. I was just rented eyes and ears, but didn’t even have the ability to fly away.

Eventually, I had found myself able to put on clothes—an all-black ensemble of a tank top, jeans, and inky cowboy boots, which I had bought upon my forced relocation to Arizona to fit in with locals, who I found out mostly wore Uggs or converse, but I kept the boots anyways. I found myself presentable enough and managed to run a brush through my dark hair before stepping out into the 90-degree late afternoon, keys in hand to head out to the Roadrunner, my usual haunt.

I cradled a dart between my thumb and index finger. Through the dust particles lit by the setting sun, I could feel a set of eyes on me. With deadly precision, I threw the dart, hitting the bullseye.

I heard a whistle. “What a shot, miss. Looks like you could use a challenger.” I looked up to see Tabur, standing there with a smile and two shots accompanied with two limes.

“I don’t know, I might just take all your money,” I said with a grin, accepting the tequila he handed me. We clinked glasses, taking bites of our limes before tossing back the shots.

“I may not look it, but I’m a strong competitor,” he said as he set down the empty glass, barely affected by the alcohol.

“Oh yeah? How much do you bench?”

He looked me up and down with a smile and a cock of his head. “How much do you weigh?”

I rolled my eyes at his attempt to flirt, only to be interrupted by—

“Bets, taking your best bets! Race is in twenty!” the bartender yelled.

“They’re still running the Dirtway?” I asked Tabur. “Didn’t the Sheriff shut it down?”

Tabur looked at me. “You been away a little too long from home, girl?”

“Not long enough to bet on this race, boy.” I took out a roll of twenties from my worn canvas bag that had seen many a bar and bookstore. “$100 says you lose everything on a lemon again.”

“Make it $200. I see too much city girl in you these days.”

My eyes flickered back to him in surprise. “What makes you think I’ve been in the city?”

“The way you move.”

“Oh?”

“You’re always impatient, looking for a distraction or somethin’. Which, I could help you with—”

“I’m not looking,” I said, and noticed his face fall imperceptibly, but I valued my friendship with Tabur too much to lead him on.

“So what are you looking for?” Tabur asked, and I felt the false bravado drop from his voice like a curtain. It felt like I wasn’t looking at the grown man before me anymore, but the kid from my hometown.

“I’m looking for what I’ve always been. My next story.”

“What a pretty little distraction.”

Tabur picked up a dart and threw it at the board, and it landed next to mine, nestled in the red of the bullseye. I wondered why at that moment I felt a pang of homesickness.

***

The Dirtway was our wild west equivalent of a scene out of The Fast and the Furious. Out back behind the cowboy bar was a stretch of desert with a flattened dirt track—a mix of dirt and paved roads with a variety of obstacles and barrels of fire lighting up the course to keep things interesting.

Battered muscle cars and souped-up Mad Max-inspired go-carts revved their engines in anticipation as a small crowd of ruffians started to form in the haze of the dirt and dust. These people spent every last dime fixing up their race cars—but you could still spot duct-tape bumpers and cheap repairs. Paychecks didn’t stretch far here, but the races were just as vicious as any I’d seen in other street races, and I’d seen a few. Women traded tube tops for cowboy boots and jean shorts, an eager audience scoping out which men were betting the most on their chosen car to win.

Tabur and I made our way to the edge of the track as the last of the cars started to roll up to the starting line—and that’s when I saw him.

Eze. The setting sun caught the glint of his half-smile and tousled his jet-black hair as he walked over in an expensive-looking t-shirt and tailored pants, a stark contrast to the salt-of-the-earth bikers and flannel-wearing desert dwellers despite him clearly trying to dress down.

He approached, but passed me, handing a thick envelope stuffed with bills to the bar owner. “$10,000 on the Mustang,” he said, nodding toward a bright yellow car with glowing rims.

I laughed at him. “That driver never wins. Charitable of you to make such a generous donation to The Roadrunner.”

Eze turned to me, his expression unruffled. “What driver did you bet on?”

“Dirty Dave. He fears nothing but the depths of hell and wins every time,” I said with full confidence. Eze was on my turf, after all.

“If you’re so sure, let’s bet more than just money,” he said.

“What did you have in mind?” I asked.

“I win, you take on my book. You win, I walk away.”

I hesitated, feeling Tabur’s eyes on me.

What a nice distraction.

“So?” Eze said. “Afraid you can’t pick a winner?”

He knew how to stoke the competitive edge in me, and I felt the anger bubble up in me. “Deal,” I said.

Eze held out his hand and I took it. We shook, his firm grip and piercing green eyes softened only by the quirk of a smile.

“I look forward to working with you.”

Before I could say anything, Eze whispered something to the bar owner and then disappeared into the billowing clouds of dirt as the roaring engines revved up a dust storm.

Tabur and I pulled out bandanas, covering our noses and mouths as the crowd peeled back from the starting line, bracing for the race to begin.

“That was Ezekiel Crane,” Tabur said, his eyes wide. “He was at the bookstore today… what’s going on, Lola?”

“He wants what he can’t have,” I replied. My casual response hid the sharp increase in my heart rate.

As the dust settled and two women with makeshift checkered flags—simply different colored napkins from the Roadrunner stitched together—approached the starting line, I saw Eze shake hands with the driver of the yellow Mustang, take his helmet and keys, and…

…get into the car himself.

Eze was going to race.

“He didn’t just—” Tabur started.

“He did,” I said in disbelief.

The flags went up, and the bar owner called out, “Ready…”

Dirty Dave rolled down his window, making lewd gestures at the other drivers who smashed their horns and screamed back at him. At the far end of the starting line, Eze’s eyes slid towards mine. He winked at me, and I felt my face go hot.

“Steady…” The hodgepodge lineup of cars—from Hummers to crazy Burning Man vehicles with custom upgrades to match custom dents on their fenders—roared impatiently.

“GO!” The bar owner pulled out a gun and fired at the sky with a crack! as the women lowered the flags and the cars sped across the makeshift dirt racetrack.

The crowd turned away as the dust kicked up and the headlights blazed in the inferno of desert soil. Headlights like bloody specters in the early evening.

The group of cars sped around the first hairpin turn of the Dirtway—one skidding out into circles, losing control—

—but the yellow Mustang decelerated in time, drifting around the corner—

—neck and neck with Dirty Dave—

—the two speeding down the desert, weaving between cacti on the homemade course—

—toward the last turn, the onlookers screaming and hollering—

—just as the yellow Mustang gently bumped Dirty Dave’s car—

—which sent him spinning into endless donuts as Eze cut ahead—

—the crowd took in a collective gasp as Eze made it back down the straightaway, headed for the finish line.

The yellow Mustang crossed the line and the crowd broke into excited hysterics, swarming the vehicle as Eze stepped out and locked eyes with me, a boyish grin on his face.

But the sound of another car speeding up broke apart the crowd as Dirty Dave started accelerating behind them—straight at Eze.

The crowd jumped out of the way, and a SMASH of metal on metal as the yellow Mustang was flung across the dirt, barely missing Eze, who had shoved members of the crowd out of harm’s way.

Silence fell as the other losing cars crept up and the onlookers watched Dirty Dave kick out his now-busted door… and raised a revolver at Eze.

“You cheat!” he yelled. “You think you can come out here an’ pull shit like that? Go home, pretty boy.”

“I expected more of you, Dirty Dave,” Eze taunted, unfazed at the barrel of a gun he was staring down. “But with your chosen name I guess I should have known you weren’t good enough to win fair and square.”

The bystanders spread out, a reverence of old traditions of the West as the two men squared off, Eze defenseless in the face of Dave’s revolver.

“Fuck you!” Dave roared, his hand shaking as he cocked the gun.

“Why don’t you drop your weapon and fight like a man?” Eze said, calm as ever.

“Who is this guy?” Tabur whispered.

“I don’t know,” I whispered back, trying to square the circle that was billionaire playboy and casual racecar driver Ezekiel Crane. Who was he to walk into my desert and be more of a cowboy than the locals, even without a weapon?

The bar owner pushed through the crowd, brandishing his own firearm that had been only ceremonial at the start of the race.

“Dave, drop your fuckin’ pea shooter and admit you lost, fair and square,” he said, casually pointing the gun at him. “I have your parole officer on speed dial and I ain’t afraid to bring Diane into this.”

Dave narrowed his eyes, but lowered his gun. He spit into the soil, cursing under his breath. Some men feared nothing more than the wrath of their own wives.

The bar owner nodded, re-holstered his gun, and wiped dirt off his jeans before turning to Eze. He tossed him a burlap sack of cash. “You won, fair and square, man.”

Eze shrugged and turned to the owner of the car, handing him the bag of winnings. “Thanks for letting me borrow your ride.”

Sirens cut through the night air, and the crowd dispersed like wild animals taking cover before a storm.

Eze caught my gaze once more.

Who was this man?

***

I slid into the booth of a late-night diner as police lights reflected off the windows, speeding past toward a race that had already been won by the man sitting across from me.

I shielded myself from his gaze with the supersized laminated menu. When the waitress came over brandishing her stainless steel coffeepot, I looked up.

“Black coffee and biscuits, please,” I said as the waitress filled up the cups in front of us with acidic smelling coffee.

Eze’s eyebrows rose at me. “Coffee at this time of night?”

“Is there a better time?” I challenged, handing my menu to the waitress.

“Anything for you, sir?” the waitress asked, but he just shook his head. As she left, he turned his attention back to me, resting his folded hands on the plastic table in front of us as his piercing gaze studied me. “Are you going to honor your side of the bet?”

“Seems hardly fair considering I was missing a key part of your resume as a racecar driver.”

Eze shrugged. “Everyone has hobbies in Silicon Valley.”

“Hiking and hotpot wasn’t thrilling enough for you?”

“I’m not from the Bay Area. Not really.”

I rolled my eyes. “Right, you’re European. Part Italian, right? Your American accent fooled me.”

“I have taste. And I appreciate art. And I read books that have nothing to do with science fiction or productivity. That’s a dead giveaway I’m not really of the tech scene, is it not?”

My eyes moved over his olive skin, his sun-threaded hair. He did look like he saw too much sun to be a slave to a computer terminal. I raised my hands. “So I don’t know anything about you.”

“You will soon.” Eze reached into his pocket, pulling out a small piece of paper and a pen, and slid them across the table to me. “So, Lola Whitman—what’s your number?”

“I told you—”

“Whatever it is, I’ll pay it. I want your help, and I think you’ll find my story… compelling, to say the least. I’m on a timeline, so we’ll need to move fast. You’ll be back to your life before you know it.”

“Why me?”

“Because I know you’ll get what I’m trying to do, Lola.”

“What exactly are you trying to do?”

Eze looked out the window, a faraway look in his eyes. Then he turned back to me, and I caught something I hadn’t seen before in his expression—a rare vulnerability that made me sit up slightly straighter. “People write memoirs to chronicle something. An achievement, a lesson, a hardship overcome. I’m not really interested in all that. I don’t need my ego to be stroked—there are other people I could hire for that. I could tell you that I’m trying to leave a legacy, but that’s not it, either.”

I frowned. “Okay. So why, then?”

“I’m trying to solve something,” Eze said, picking his words with care, rotating his coffee cup in small circles with his long fingertips, the steam twisting up from his cup. “You’ve written memoirs for people who are important, but they aren’t at the global table. Not in the way that I am. But I won’t survive the pack of wolves I’m running with if I don’t get my story straight. I need you, Lola. I need your help.” He took a breath and leveled the full power of his gaze at me.
“So. What do you say?”

I looked at him, considering. There were a lot of layers to this—more than I’d admit, even to myself.

Finally, I pressed pen to paper scribbled down my number. When I was done, I folded it and slid it back across the table, watching him.

He took the paper and unfolded it. I watched his expression bloom into surprise.

He looked up at me. “Is this a fucking joke?”

I grinned, feeling satisfied that I had rattled him. “I used to tell jokes. Then I turned twelve,” I said, taking a sip of my coffee. I nodded at the paper. “This is serious business.”

Eze’s surprise melted into a mischievous half-smile. “I like how you play, Lola.” He tucked the paper into his jacket pocket, then pulled out a small envelope and slid it across the table to me. “Your plane leaves in an hour. We start work tomorrow, and the book needs to be done in three months. Have your agent send over the paperwork and I’ll get everything signed and sent back to you before you touch down in SFO. Deal?”

“Deal,” I said, surprising myself with the confidence in my voice.

Eze nodded and dropped a few hundreds on the table just as the waitress returned with my biscuits. She looked confused as she watched him saunter out the door.

I held up my mug. “Can I get another one to go?” I handed her Eze’s cash, and she took them in surprise and nodded. “Thanks. I’m going to need it.”

Let the games begin.