5. Indie
Chapter 5
Indie
T he end of the event comes fast, and it becomes a completely different atmosphere within the arena. Once the crowds find their drunken way out, the crew jump into gear, the contestants collect their prize money and leave, and the press readies to do the same. From the schedule I’d pulled up, the next circuit the Crimson Three is registered for is in Jackson, Mississippi, a damn near twenty-hour drive from here. I either catch a ride with someone already going that direction or I’m going to have to pay for another flight.
I look around for Kim and Zander and finally find them out at the parking lot leaning against Zander’s black Suburban. Zander is smoking a cigarette while Kim scrolls through her phone, both of them bundled up tight against the cold. They don’t notice me until I stop right in front of them, and even then, they barely spare me any attention.
“Hey, guys,” I say, trying to keep my tone chipper. “Frank said you’d be working the same circuit as I am. Would you mind if I ride with you to the next stop?”
Kim’s eyes flick up from her phone. Like many of the other women journalists, she has no problem fitting in. Dressed in bedazzled bootcut jeans and a plaid button-down shirt that’s unbuttoned enough to show her abundant cleavage, Kim looks every inch the cowgirl. She’s not wearing her hat right now, so her blonde, perfectly curled hair hangs around her shoulders. Her lipstick is even perfectly mauve, her makeup expertly done. I’ve never seen someone so well put together that they blend in and stand out at the exact same time.
“And why would you think we’d be the ones to give you a ride?” she asks as she stares at me with pretty blue eyes.
My smile tenses, but I keep it firmly in place. “We’re going to the same circuit, aren’t we?”
“And?” Zander asks, flicking his cigarette butt away.
I realize what’s happening immediately. I’m no stranger to the mean girl energy or the standoffish behavior of people who are supposed to be on your team, but I haven’t encountered it since being overseas. It makes sense for a sergeant to be that way toward a journalist. It doesn’t really make sense for the rodeo circuit.
“Come on, guys,” I say, sucking up my pride. “We’re on the same team here.”
Kim straightens and steps closer, her stupid rhinestone boots shining in the low light. She gets in my face, and this close, I can see her makeup isn’t quite as perfect as I thought. Her lip line is shaky, her right eyeliner doesn’t match the left, and she hadn’t blended her foundation properly.
“We’re not on the same team,” she hisses through her teeth. “Find someone else to ride with, Stringer .”
I don’t show any emotion to the nickname. It’s a common term for freelance reporters who report from war zones, and while it doesn’t always come with negative connotations, the way Kim says it makes it feel like the most distasteful thing I could be. It doesn’t bother me though. I’ve been called much worse before. A beach bottle blonde wannabe cowgirl can’t hurt my feelings if she wanted to.
I smile at her, showing more teeth than necessary. “If you’re jealous of my assignment, just say that.”
Kim laughs so loud, I know it’s fake. “Me? Jealous of you?” She narrows her eyes. “We’ve all tried to get the story you’re going after, and just like the rest of us, you’re going to fail.” She tips up her chin. “You’re not even a blip on our radar, Stringer .”
I watch her walk around the suburban and climb into the passenger seat. Zander, to his credit, doesn’t say anything rude, but he also doesn’t step in. He shoots me a look before he climbs into the driver seat. I watch as they drive off, leaving me standing in a busy parking lot.
“Fucking babies,” I grumble to myself before turning to search among those still left.
After a few minutes, I realize I have a problem. Group after group refuse to give me a ride, many of them barely letting me get the question out. I stick out in my clothes, barely looking like I belong with this crowd at all, and everyone treats me like it. After asking those in the parking lot and getting the same answer over and over again, I give up.
Riding with these strangers would have probably been a drag anyways. Sucking it up, I arrange a taxi and manage to get to the airport just in time for the final flight out. I have to run to the gate, but I make it just in time to board. Everyone else will have to drive through the night to get to Mississippi on time. At least I’ll make it there with enough time to get a motel room.
The longer I have to stew on the events of the last few hours, the more pissed off I get. Kim and Zander are supposed to be on my side. We work for the same magazine. And yet here they are, as petty as a couple of children. This is why I went overseas to be a war correspondent. People over there don’t have the option to start drama because we’re worried about getting shot or a bomb dropping on us. This shit ain’t nothing. But someone like Kim would never understand that. You’d never catch that woman in the middle of a war.
As I sit on the plane, I shift in my seat, my hip twinging. It’s a constant reminder of the problem that chases me no matter where I go, a source of pain that doctors have no answer for. I’ve been given every line from calling it an anxious tick to being told I need to limit my stress, but the damn chronic pain doesn’t go away. I stretch out my legs to ease the bite of pain and the growing twinge down to my toes, but it only gets worse in the cramped airline seat. Thankfully, it’s not a long flight, but by the time we land, my hip is screaming at me. Fucking traitorous body. You’re supposed to be on my side. I’m too young to hurt this bad.
I hobble off the plane and grab a rideshare out in the direction of the fairgrounds the Dixie National Rodeo will take place at. I find the cheapest motel I can, a seedy little thing that feels more like a place to do a drug deal than a place to sleep and rent a room. Unfortunately, when I see the room itself, I grimace and realize I should have paid for somewhere nicer. It’s outdated, which isn’t a problem on its own, but the old bloodstain on the once beige carpet is. The comforter on the bed looks like it’s from the eighties and the threat of bedbugs is very real. I pull the sheets back just enough to check, relieved to find it’s at least clean that way, but I pull them back on and resolve to sleep on top of them. The mattress is as hard as a rock, but I’ve slept on shattered rubble before, so this is hardly that bad. My hip, however, doesn’t agree.
I get a few shitty hours of sleep before my alarm on my phone goes off and I’m forced to drag myself out of bed again.
“Fuck,” I groan as I make myself somewhat presentable. I don’t bother fitting in again. Who fucking cares what I look like?
Only after I grab a coffee from a decent little mom-and-pop-shop do I head out to the fairgrounds for the start of the Dixie National Rodeo, a week-long event.
Hooray for me.