Rise: Populations Crumble, Book 2 by Gandy, A. (animal farm read .TXT) 📗

I push my windswept hair back from my face. “How is leaving going to help? Going to another resort is only going to draw the media attention there, and the guards.”

“That’s why we can’t go to another resort. We’ve got to get out of the system. Otherwise, we’re sitting ducks to be snatched ourselves.”

His words echo the fears I’ve been holding onto ever since they dragged Josephine away. “What’s the alternative? If we leave, we’ll be putting a target on our backs.” I point out.

“Leave the escape plans to me,” Atlas says, “I’ve got an idea how we might be able to pull it off in a way that we’re not incriminated for escaping, but I’ll have to call in a few favors. The question is, how do we get the proof?” he says cryptically.

“I actually had an idea about the proof. Glitch is still around, right Patrick?” I ask.

He nods. “He’s just laying low in the next town over, why?”

“Well, you guys found the security camera setup in that facility. What if Glitch could hack into it, record the women in there? Once we had video proof, maybe even video of whoever is guarding and caring for them, we would have something to use to show your father, or whoever needs to see it to stop it,” I suggest.

Atlas is the first to respond. “It could work. Do you think Glitch could hack it? We have no idea what network the footage is on, or what kind of security protocol they’re typically running inside.”

“All we can do is ask. I’m sure he’s up for the challenge.”

✽✽✽

Later that evening, a brisk knock sounds on our guest room door. We’d been snuggling on the couch, watching an action movie Patrick picked this time. He gets up, taking his warm shoulder with him, and answers the door.

A tanned, leggy brunette in a pink dress that barely hits her mid-thigh is on the other side. Her brunette hair is pulled tightly back into a French twist, not a strand out of place. “Hello, I’m Brooke,” she says, taking Patrick in from head to toe.

I bristle at her blatant perusal of my husband and stand from the couch. A second later, I remember that I'm wearing the dreaded bow-covered pajamas and pull at the hem in regret at their wrinkled state. Them being less wrinkled won’t make them any less embarrassing to be seen in. Ugh. I’d considered getting rid of them, but my first kiss with Patrick happened in these pajamas. They’re with me for life, now.

“Hello, Brooke, can I help you?” he says politely. To his credit, his eyes don’t stray to the impressive display of tanned legs. I can barely look away, myself; she’s nearly a foot taller than me.

She gives him a flirtatious smile that makes me want to bite my own tongue off. “Yes, I’m here to see about your wardrobe for tomorrow’s interview. Well, both of your wardrobes,” Brooke amends, once she finally notices me standing behind Patrick. “Your mother sent me.”

“Ahh. Well, come on in, I guess.” Patrick looks over his shoulder and shoots me an apologetic grimace.

“Delightful.” She turns and pulls a rack I hadn’t noticed crammed full of clothes in behind her. “Wow, not much room to maneuver in here,” she observes as Patrick barely manages to scrape the door shut behind the rack. “You’d think being royalty would get you a bit more space.”

“We’re not royalty yet,” I remind her. “The coronation is still a month away.”

She waves a hand at me in dismissal. “Details, minor details. For all intents and purposes, you’re royal. Not very tall, but royal.” She scrunches her nose as she scrutinizes me.

How rude can you be? I think angrily. But I keep it to myself, my mom’s voice echoing in my ears so many times over the years to “be kind, or be quiet.” I thought that advice would get easier as I aged, but boy, was I wrong.

Brooke claps twice, snapping me away from my thoughts of my mom.  “Okay, now that I’ve seen you both, it’s time to get down to business. Patrick, they want you in a suit. Sadie, they want you in a dress. I’ve got a variety of cuts here, but a few of these are going to be long . . . unless you’re comfortable in a pair of high heels?” She rummages in the bottom basket of the rolling rack and comes up with a pair of white platform stilettos at least four inches high.

“Uh, not so much. I usually wear tennis shoes or cowboy boots.”

Her hand flies to her chest, and from the look on her face you’d think I kicked her dog. “Well”—she sniffs —“that will be the first thing we work on. A princess, even by marriage, can’t very well go around in cowboy boots.” She spins back to the rack and starts tossing clothes onto our bed, so she misses the angry glare I direct at Patrick.

Sorry he mouths at me.

“Patrick, you’re up first. Be a dear and go pop these on so I can see how they fit.” She hands him a hanger with a blue suit, and a honeyed smile.

He walks slowly to the bathroom, and gives me one last apologetic look before he shuts the door, leaving me alone with Brooke-the-fashion-Amazonian. Her focus narrows on me as soon as the door clicks shut behind him, and I barely stop myself from taking an involuntary step back.

What is it about overly-coiffed women that always makes me uncomfortable?

She shoves a white gown towards me. “Try this on first. It will probably be too long, but hopefully not by as much as the others.

I accept the dress, but look around awkwardly and realize there’s nowhere to change. She rolls her eyes at my hesitation. “Go on, I’ll turn around. Although I must tell you, I’ve seen it all before.”

True to her word, she spins and faces the bathroom door, arms crossed