7. Indie
Chapter 7
Indie
A nother night at the shitty motel has my hip starting to pinch when I walk. I try my best to hide it throughout the day, but spending the day on my feet and my night sleeping on the concrete slab of a mattress do me no favors. At least I’m still standing up straight right now. I pop a pain pill and get back to my job. Maybe tonight, I’ll take a trip to buy some extra pillows from the store. The least I can do is make the bed a little more comfortable. On the next circuit, maybe I’ll try and find something with a bit better mattress. Maybe. The cost may be prohibitive if I have to buy another flight.
There isn’t anything new at the rodeo events for the day. Both Ramiro and Tripp qualify unsurprisingly for the next round of their sport and barely do more than their job. Beau spends a good portion of his time on the dirt, dancing with the bulls and the horses. Hell, at one point, I watch him tackle a cowboy to get him out of harm’s way. The crowd cheers for that and I manage to snap a few pictures of it. The crowd loses their shit when he pops a blue handprint on the cowboy’s ass, much to the cowboy’s annoyance.
But as it is, there isn’t much opportunity to try and hound The Crimson Three for an interview. So, I do what all journalists do best.
I stalk them.
I know how it sounds. I probably shouldn’t be following them around like a lost puppy, but they make it so fucking easy when they end up going to a steakhouse right across the street from the fairgrounds called Joe Lee’s. The place is packed and overflowing, but when I walk in, they still have plenty of tables available. I wait until the men are seated at a table in the corner before I request to sit at a table a few spots over where I can still see them, but blend into the crowd. The buzz of the restaurant is too loud to hear what they talk about, but I try my best to read their lips from behind my menu.
Beau Rogers isn’t wearing his clown makeup here and he looks almost. . .normal. It’s strange to see his face so clean. I can finally see how chiseled his jaw is and how nice his face is in general. All three men have their hats hanging on the hooks against the wall, as if this place was designed for cowboys. Tripp is the most conventionally attractive of the three, but his perpetual frown detracts from his attractiveness, and yet also somehow adds to it. He doesn’t look around the restaurant. He just stares into the pint glass the waitress brings and sets on the table. Ramiro talks to the two of them, his gentle scruff and black hair defining him as tall, dark, and handsome. He glances my way, and I jerk the menu up to cover my face, hoping he doesn’t notice me.
The waitress comes over and asks me what I’d like to drink. She’s sweating and looks exhausted, so I know I’ll leave her a good tip. She’s probably been on her feet all day.
“What can I get ya, darlin’?” she asks, her notepad ready.
“Sweet tea, please,” I tell her. “Extra ice.”
“You got it.”
She turns to go grab the drink and I sigh, letting down my menu. I nearly shit myself to find Ramiro Mondragon somehow sitting on the opposite side of the table from me. I jerk against the table, making everything on top of it rattle and the tables around us look over curiously at the sound.
“What the fuck?” I grunt, setting down my menu. “Was that necessary?”
“You stalkin’ us, camera girl?” he asks, his eyes hard despite the pleasant smile on his lips.
I scowl at him. “First off, I’m a journalist, not a photographer.” His expression eases just a little. “Second, can’t a girl get some food?”
He tilts his head. “Kind of a coincidence you came to the same restaurant we did.”
“Yeah. What a coincidence I came to the one restaurant across from the fairgrounds like everyone else,” I mock before rolling my eyes. “If you didn’t want to share the space with the press, you should have gone somewhere further away.”
The low chuckle he lets out makes something inside me sit up at attention. I’ve never been into older men, not before, but fuck if Ramiro Mondragon doesn’t have something else going for him that I clearly like.
“ Rayos! ” he says, shaking his head, but his smile is still tight. “You’re right. It was silly of me to think this was purposeful.”
I grin. “Exactly. Very silly of you.” I point to the menu. “But since you’re here, any recommendations for what I should order?”
He narrows his eyes on me, and I know he didn’t buy my bullshit. That’s okay. I’m not afraid of them running away. They have to be in the same place for the next four days.
Ramiro leans forward on his elbows and meets my eyes. “I suggest you stop trying to get this story, Indie.”
I raise my brows and lean forward myself. “See, I can’t do that.”
“And why is that?” he asks.
“I’m tired of writing the fashion column. It’s a waste of my talents. If I get this story, I get to write something else.”
“Fashion columns don’t sound so bad,” he shrugs.
“Let me tell you, writing them is nowhere near as fun as it sounds,” I counter, watching his own eyes.
Ramiro has a very nice face, one that should be in movies rather than at a rodeo. The man was made for the big screen. More so, he was made to play the hero. Every bit of his persona is tailored to be gentlemanly and poised.
Which makes me think it’s just a front.
He tilts his head at me, and the slow smile that curls his lips feels more like a challenge than a smile. “Suit yourself, periodista .” He stands and leans over the table, getting in my space. I don’t move, letting him far too close to be professional. Our eyes stay locked as he taps the menu beneath my hand. “Try the chicken fried steak. It’s great here.”
“Noted,” I breathe. I’m proud I keep my expression neutral, but damn if my voice doesn’t bely just how effected I am by his closeness. It pisses me off when he smirks and straightens before rejoining his table.
Smooth motherfucker.
The waitress returns and plops the sweet tea on the table. “What’ll you have, darlin’?”
“The chicken fried steak,” I grumble, handing her the menu. “Thanks.”