3. Indie
Chapter 3
Indie
T he plane ticket costs more than I’d have liked when I’m footing the bill myself. I curse my luck for getting into a position where I have to spend my hard-earned cash just to get a story, but when I pull this off, it’ll be worth it.
This early in the morning, the airport is practically empty. No one likes the red eye flight, but I wasn’t going to pay a hundred dollars extra for a little bit more sleep. I assume everyone in this airport feels the same. Most of the people look tired and worn out, but there are a few men in business suits who look like this kind of thing happens a lot. For them, it probably does. In comparison, my ripped jeans and combat boots feel underdressed, but no one gives me a second look as I hand my ticket to TSA to check before they wave me through.
I trudge along the moving walkways, looking for my gate so I can settle in to wait for boarding. The coffee shop isn’t even open yet it’s so early, so I don’t bother making any stops. I have about an hour to wait before we start boarding, which means I have time to do some research on my targets.
I’ve looked them up before. Once I got hired with Saddle & Spur, I did a little preliminary research to make sure I could at least sound a little knowledgeable and The Crimson Three come up a lot when you search the rodeo circuit. But I hadn’t looked any deeper past knowing it was a group made up of three men.
The name they go by isn’t even the one they gave themselves. It’s just what the press calls them, which, in reality, is pretty fucking cool. News headlines are notorious for giving names to serial killers and criminals. They don’t often do the same for cowboys.
I click through tabs, searching up as much information as I can about the three men. I don’t find much. Frank wasn’t lying when he said no one had managed to score an interview with them before. They just don’t do them. The only information out there is cold hard facts and nothing else.
Tripp Savage is a legacy bull rider from a ranch in Wyoming. Both his dad and his grandpa were famous bull riders. His family breeds and raises rodeo bulls. His dad is still alive from what I can find and the ranch is called Fairview Acres, a ranch that Tripp is listed on the deed as owning now. He’s thirty-two. He’s a multi-million dollar cowboy and he’s been inducted into the Rodeo Hall of Fame a few years ago. That’s the end of the information on him besides his bull riding stats.
Ramiro Mondragon is a bareback and saddle bronc rider making a name for himself at the ripe age of thirty-nine. He’s Mexican and proud of his heritage. He’s the only member of the three to talk to the media and only long enough to say if he’s happy with his rides or not. He should have already been in the Rodeo Hall of Fame from what I can see for the most bronc’s ridden in a single season, but he isn’t for some reason. He’s from the same town in Wyoming as Tripp.
Beau Rogers is the deranged rodeo clown that seems to split people down the middle when it comes to their opinions on him. He’s internet famous, whole fan groups dedicated to loving him. The man even has fan fiction written about him. If anyone has a cult following, it’s Beau Rogers. Known for the blue chalk he carries with him while he’s on the dirt and the blue hand print he leaves behind on the bulls, he’s often getting far too close for comfort. There have been close calls and plenty of injuries. Hell, last week, he apparently flipped over a bull and just narrowly missed getting a horn in the eye. Apparently, I can buy merch from his website or at any of the events he’s a part of. He’s the youngest of the group at twenty-nine.
As I click through the pictures of the three men, I can’t help but notice how ridiculously handsome they all are. It’s no wonder they have women fawning over them at every event they attend. It’s also no wonder that the press has taken a liking to them. They’re a mystery, the one story no one can crack. Why are they a group? Why do they not split up and do events separately? People love a good puzzle, and I’m going to finally be the one to solve it.
Still, not a single interview in fifteen years. Which means they actively avoid doing them. How the hell am I going to get three men to let me interview them when they clearly don’t want to be interviewed? I’m relentless, but I need more information about them if I’m going to execute a plan of attack.
Which is why I’m headed to Bismarck, North Dakota. In February. When it’s fucking cold as shit. I hate the cold. I’m hoping I can snag a ride with one of the other journalists already there between circuits, so I don’t have to keep paying for flights. I haven’t spoken to Kim or Zander much, but they should be open to me sharing a ride. We’re on the same team.
The gate agent gets up to the desk and starts announcing boarding instructions to the fifteen people sitting here waiting. I tuck my laptop away and get ready for the two-hour flight, but as I stand, my phone starts to ring. I look down at the caller ID and the words, “Red Rock Correctional Facility,” pop up from when I’d saved it.
I hit the red button and tuck my phone back into my pocket before claiming my place in line to board.