How to tame a City Slicker (HOW TO TAME #1)

BEAU

The great goat accident

Dallas, Texas

Well, I walk into the room / Passin' out hundred-dollar bills / And it kills and it thrills like the horns on my Silverado grill - Big I was very good with my hands.

But Z’s warning was ringing in my ears. Federal agents. Wire fraud. Prison.

"I would love to," I said, flashing the smile that had gotten me out of more speeding tickets than I could count. "But I have to go... check on the soufflés."

She blinked, confused. "We’re having soufflés?"

"Yes. It’s a surprise. Go wait by the champagne fountain. Don’t move."

I kissed her cheek and bolted toward the kitchen before she could grab my belt again.

The kitchen was a war zone. Someone had tried to make toast in the industrial oven and set off a smoke alarm that no one could hear over the music. A guy in neon suspenders was trying to pitch a business idea to a houseplant.

"Mr. Sterling!" Neon Suspenders lunged at me. "One minute! It’s called SexyHandle?! It’s an algorithm that guarantees viral content! It’s going to be huge!"

"I love it," I lied, dodging a waiter. "Email my people."

"I have a contract right here! Just a napkin! Sign it and you get 10% equity for fifty grand!"

He shoved a cocktail napkin and a Sharpie in my face. I looked at the napkin. I looked at the service elevator. I looked at the kitchen doors swinging open behind me.

I scribbled my signature. "Done. Take it. Goodbye."

I hit the service elevator button just as the music outside cut out. A voice boomed over a megaphone: "THIS IS THE FBI. REMAIN WHERE YOU ARE."

I dove into the elevator and hit B.

The doors slid shut just as the screams started.

***

The alley was dark, smelling of dumpsters and rain. Z’s black sedan was idling at the curb, looking like a getaway car in a noir film.

I stumbled out of the service entrance, gasping for air. I was missing a shoe. I didn't remember losing it, but my left foot was wet and cold on the pavement.

Z rolled down the window. He didn't look angry. He looked resigned. Like a man who had accepted his fate as the shepherd of an idiot.

"Get in," he said.

I climbed into the backseat. "So. That went well."

Z didn't answer. He just pulled into traffic, merging smoothly onto the highway.

"Where are we going?" I asked, picking a piece of confetti out of my hair. "My place is a crime scene."

"We’re going to your father’s."

My stomach dropped harder than the bass had. "Z. No. Please. Take me to a hotel. Take me to a motel. Take me to a dumpster behind a Denny’s. Do not take me to Richard Sterling."

"He knows, Beau. He knew before I did. Who do you think called me?"

Oh god.

We drove in silence. I watched the Dallas skyline blur past, the lights mocking me. I checked my pockets. No phone. I must have dropped it in the kitchen when I signed the napkin for SexyHandle?.

Great. I was shoeless, phoneless, and about to be murdered by my father.

We pulled up to the Sterling Estate gates. They opened automatically, revealing the long, winding driveway that led to the house I’d grown up in. Every light was on.

My father hated wasting electricity. If the lights were on at 3:00 AM, it wasn't because he was throwing a party. It was because he was conducting a tribunal.

Z stopped the car at the front steps. "I’m not coming in," he said quietly. "I can’t watch this."

"Thanks for the support."

"I like my job, Beau. Good luck."

I stepped out of the car. My one sock squelched on the marble steps.

The front door opened before I reached it, and there he was: Richard Sterling III, CEO of Sterling Industries, professional hard-ass, and the man whose disappointment could cut through steel.

"Father," I said, trying for casual and landing somewhere near "guilty as charged." "Funny seeing you up. Insomnia? I've got a guy who can—"

"Inside. Now."

Oh, we were using the CEO voice. The one that made shareholders piss themselves and stock prices tumble.

I followed him in, my bare feet leaving prints on the marble floor. The house was exactly as I remembered from childhood—cold, expensive, perfect. Like a museum where people occasionally slept.

"Sit."

I sat.

He didn't. He stood there, hands clasped behind his back, studying me like I was a particularly disappointing quarterly report.

"Do you have any idea," he said, voice deadly calm, "what I've spent the last three hours doing?"

"Sleeping?"

Wrong answer. His jaw tightened.

"I've been on the phone with lawyers, publicists, and several very unhappy business partners, trying to explain why my son—my only son, my heir—was photographed at a party where a federal fugitive was arrested, a goat was found swimming in a pool wearing stolen jewelry—yes, stolen, the diamonds were reported missing last week—and you apparently signed a napkin agreeing to invest a hundred thousand dollars in something called SexyHandle?. "

Oh god. The napkin. I'd forgotten about the fucking napkin… I knew it would come back to bite me in the ass.

"It’s a tech startup. Diversifying the portfolio."

"It’s a scam run by a man named 'Slippery Steve.' You are twenty-four years old. You have an Ivy League education that I paid for. And you are, without a doubt, the single greatest liability to this family’s legacy."

"In my defense—"

"There is no defense!" For the first time in my life, I heard my father raise his voice at me.

"You are twenty-four years old, Beau. Twenty-four.

And you have accomplished exactly… Nothing except becoming a punch line.

Do you understand that? You're not even a good scandal anymore. You're just... pathetic."

The word hit like a slap. Pathetic.

"Every party you throw, every headline you make, every idiotic decision you broadcast to the world—it's not charming anymore. It's not even interesting. It's just sad. You're sad."

I wanted to argue. To defend myself. To point out that being the family distraction was literally my job, that keeping people focused on my antics meant they weren't looking at whatever shady corporate shit Sterling Industries was up to.

But I couldn't. Because he was right.

When had I become this person? When had the parties stopped being fun and started being... empty? When had I stopped being the entertaining screw-up and started being just the screw-up?

He slammed his hand on the hallway table. The vase rattled. "I am done. Do you hear me? I am finished paying for your mistakes."

"What does that mean?"

"It means I’m freezing your accounts. The trust. The credit cards. The allowance."

"You can't do that. How am I supposed to live?"

"You’re going to work."

I laughed. "Work? At the company? Dad, you fired me from the mailroom when I was nineteen because I reorganized the filing system by 'vibes'."

"You're going to Jameson Ranch," he said pulling me out of spiralling.

I blinked. "I'm sorry, what?"

"A ranch in Oklahoma. You leave in the morning."

"You're sending me to a ranch? Like, with cows and shit? Actual shit?" I stood up, anger cutting through the champagne fog. "You can't be serious."

"I've never been more serious in my life. You'll spend the summer there. And if you come back the same, don't come back at all."

"This is insane! I'm an adult! Is this Dr Phil?

"Dexter Jameson. You remember him?"

"Pops? Yeah, of course. From when I was a kid."

"He needs help on his ranch. He broke his knee last year, he’s recovering, and he’s short-staffed. I spoke to him tonight. You leave in the morning."

"A ranch," I repeated. "You want me... Beau Sterling... to go work on a ranch."

"Yes. Manual labor. Early mornings. Dirt. And if you leave? If you quit? If you get fired? You are cut off forever. No inheritance. No safety net. Nothing. And I’ll also cut your discretionary funding for those charities you like to pretend you care about."

Low blow. I actually did care about my charities. They were the only thing I did that wasn't complete garbage.

"Why?" The word came out smaller than I intended. "Why are you doing this?"

For a moment, just a moment, something softened in his expression.

"Because I've watched you self-destruct for six years, and I'm done.

Because your mother cries every time your name trends on Twitter.

Because you're capable of more than this, and I'm tired of watching you waste it.

" He picked up an envelope from the side table.

"Dexter's expecting you. Harrison will drive you there at seven AM. "

“Let's see how long you last without the Sterling name protecting you."

We stared at each other, and I realized with startling clarity that he wasn't bluffing. For the first time in my life, I'd pushed too far.

"A ranch," I said quietly. "With chickens?"

"Lots of chickens."

"You know I'm terrified of chickens."

"I know."

He looked at me, and for the first time, I didn't see the anger. I saw exhaustion.

"I can't defend you anymore, Beau. You have to grow up. And you clearly aren't going to do it here."

"But... my stuff. My life."

"Harrison has already packed a bag for you. It’s in the car."

"Wait. Now? I’m leaving now?"

"Harrison is waiting."

My father turned his back on me. "Goodbye, Beau."

***

I didn't sleep. How could I? I spent the entire night packing—overpacking, probably—and spiraling through every possible scenario of how this summer could go wrong. Z had convinced my father to let me at least sleep the night away since I was quite drunk and thank god he agreed. It was also an excuse for me to actually bring more than one bag— Because what the hell was I supposed to do with ONE bag? Like let’s be serious.

At 6:55 AM, Harrison pulled up in the town car, and I loaded my three suitcases, garment bag, and toiletry case into the trunk while my father watched from the doorway.

"See you in September," I said, trying for casual. "I'll come back a changed man. Probably know how to milk a cow or whatever."

"Beau." My father's voice stopped me at the car door. "I mean it. Come back different, or don't come back."

I got in the car without answering.

The drive to Oklahoma took six hours. Six hours of watching Dallas disappear in the rearview mirror, replaced by increasingly rural landscape. Six hours to wonder what the hell I'd gotten myself into.

Six hours to remember Jameson Ranch, and the girl I used to know there.

Winnie.

God, I hadn't thought about her in years. Winnie Jameson—Pops' granddaughter, my childhood summer companion, the girl who'd taught me how to catch fireflies and laugh at myself. We'd spent every summer together from ages eight to twelve, until her grandmother died and my family stopped visiting.

I wondered if she even remembered me. I wondered if she'd heard about the person I'd become and hated me, if she didn’t already.

I wondered if a summer on a ranch could actually change anything, or if I was exactly as pathetic as my father thought.

The sign appeared around 2 PM: JAMESON RANCH in faded letters that had seen better years.

"This is it?" I asked Harrison.

"This is it, Mr. Sterling."

I stared at the dirt road, the wooden fence that needed repairs, the house in the distance that looked exactly like every Western movie ever made.

"Fuck," I whispered.

"Indeed, sir."

As we drove up to the house, I could see a figure on the porch—tall, broad-shouldered, with a white beard that caught the sunlight.

Pops.

He looked older than I remembered, but his smile was exactly the same as he waved at the car.

And then, because the universe has a sick sense of humor, a rooster ran across the driveway and I flinched so hard I hit my head on the car roof.

Harrison didn't even try to hide his laugh.

"Welcome to Oklahoma, Mr. Sterling."

Yeah. This was going to be a long fucking summer.