12. Indie
Chapter 12
Indie
S ometime early morning, we stop to fill up the truck and I get my first realization of just how big a mistake I’ve made. I’d assumed that filling up a diesel truck wasn’t a big deal, that it was similar to a Suburban.
I was so fucking wrong.
As I watch the numbers tick closer and closer to three hundred dollars, I try my best not to let my panic show. Apparently, paying for gas in a Chevy dually is not fucking cheaper than an airline ticket. For fuck’s sake.
Sixty gallons of diesel. Fucking sixty.
I keep my face neutral as I wait for the tank to fill, the three men around me watching carefully. The corner of Tripp’s lips curls up, his amusement evident on his smug fucking face as we wait for the pump to click. It’s the first time I’ve seen a semblance of a smile on him and fuck me, does it piss me right the fuck off. I don’t say anything though. That would just give him the satisfaction he seeks. So, I watch the numbers ticking up, hit three hundred, and then tick over.
I’ll just have to stay at a shittier motel in Tucson. My hips are going to hate me, but it is what it is.
I take the receipt and shove it in my pocket once Ramiro finishes.
“Good. That way you get reimbursed for it with your magazine,” he says with a nod. “Smart move.”
I don’t have the heart or the patience to explain just how shitty the magazine is for leaving me with this. They won’t reimburse me for anything. And if I don’t get the story, all this money will have been wasted. I have some information about the three, my own observations, but I need the interview. Frank won’t accept it without an interview.
Beau goes inside and loads up on snacks, but I don’t bother. I’m in money saving mode now, and I don’t want to blow what I have on regular snacks. I’ll save it for cheap meals. Taco Bell is always a lifesaver. Instead, I lean against the truck and scroll through my phone, making sure I haven’t missed any insane news.
My phone rings as I stand there and my thumb hovers over the screen. The words, “Prescott Correctional Center” flash across the screen and I stare at them.
“You gonna get that?” Tripp asks.
I hadn’t even realized he was beside me, so I jump and nearly drop my phone. Luckily, I don’t. I quickly hit the red button and shove my phone in my back pocket.
“Wrong number,” I offer as explanation before climbing inside with Bilbo.
To his credit, he doesn’t respond to my obvious lie. I get the feeling Tripp Savage doesn’t care one way or the other what anyone does in this life as long as it doesn’t inconvenience him.
He climbs into the driver’s seat and sits quietly, his hands on the wheel. At first, it’s fine while we wait for the other two. He doesn’t start the truck, I assume to save gas when this behemoth costs as much as it does. So, we literally sit in silence.
The tapping starts after a minute. It’s his finger on the steering wheel at first, a slow gentle tap that draws my attention. It turns into his hand sliding along the steering wheel. He straightens in his seat, and I see his eyes dart to the center console where a silver flask sits. He hasn’t touched it since we’ve been in the truck, but I watch him stare at the flask longingly, tilting my head to study him better. I say nothing. I make no noise. I just watch.
The front passenger door opens, and it breaks the tension in the air.
“What did you two grouches talk about while we were loading up on snacks?” Ramiro prods as he climbs inside, a grin on his face.
I think that’s the moment Tripp realizes he wasn’t alone in the truck, that I’d witnessed his longing. His eyes flick up to the mirror and meet mine, and I’m reminded again just how pretty they are. Right now though, there’s something swirling there, a dare. Say something. Ask. I dare you.
“Nothing,” I say, leaning back in my seat. “Pretty sure Tripp was just busy wishing I didn’t exist.”
“Yeah, he does that,” Ramiro nods and claps Tripp on the shoulder. “Let’s go. We’ve still got another ten hours to go.”
Beau climbs into the backseat again, a large bag in his hand filled to the brim with snacks. “I wasn’t sure what you liked,” he says as he dumps it all out on the seat between us. He peels open a beef jerky stick and hands it to Bilbo who takes it with a happy wag of his tail. “So I got one of everything. Salty, sweet, savory, I got it all.”
My brows shoot up. “You didn’t have to get me anything.”
Beau presses his hand against his chest and looks shocked. “Of course I had to get my girl something! How could I not?”
“Not your girl,” I say, pointing at him.
“Yet,” he corrects me with a wiggle of his eyebrows. “My goal is to have you halfway in love with me by Tucson.” He picks up a candy bar. “And I’m going to do it with chocolate.”
I snort, and it’s arguably the least lady-like sound I could have made. It only makes Beau smile wider, his smooth face pleased at my reaction. “You think you could make me fall in love just like that?”
“I could make it faster,” he says, leaning in. “But you’d have to take your clothes off for that.”
I can’t stop the laugh that tumbles out. Beau Rogers is over the top, but I’d expect nothing else from a rodeo clown, so I take the damn chocolate. Why not?
“Thank you,” I say, tearing it open. “Let’s see if you can make me fall in love then. With my clothes on.”
“I enjoy a challenge,” he purrs.
An hour later, Beau is asleep again, crashing after tossing back a too large energy drink that gave him a sugar high. He’d literally passed out after propositioning me again. Hell, I’m not even mad about it. Beau Rogers is an attractive man who could damn near have any woman he wanted. It’s a high fucking compliment for him to be so into me. If I wasn’t so concerned with being professional, I might have taken him up on the offer.
Hell, I still might if I don’t get this interview. Make it worth it at least.
“Sorry about him,” Ramiro says from the front seat. “He means well.”
“Don’t be sorry,” I answer, waving away his words. “He’s nothing if not entertaining.”
Ramiro nods. “So, what made you decide to follow the rodeo circuits? You don’t really seem the kind.”
I shrug. “Didn’t have much choice really. A job’s a job.”
“Not much choice?” he asks, turning in his seat to look at me. “You lackin’ experience?”
“On the contrary, I have plenty of experience but. . . it’s a long story.”
“We’ve got time,” he says, pointing to the open road.
“Sorry. I should have said I just don’t like talking about it,” I reply, meeting his eyes. “But yeah. Working for a rodeo magazine isn’t exactly the dream.”
“So what is the dream?” he asks.
Tripp sits quietly, his eyes on the road, listening to us talk but never adding anything to the conversation. I feel like that’s his MO. He’s a silent watcher, but I get the feeling he doesn’t exactly want to be. It feels more like armor.
“To write stories that matter,” I answer honestly.
“Every story matters to somebody,” Ramiro points out.
“But I want them to matter to me,” I say. “For a long time, that was reporting on the wars around the world. I realized pretty quickly though that the wars only mattered to me because I gave humanity too much credit. I thought I could make people see what was happening and they’d stop it. Instead, they just started more wars.” I shrug. “Now, I’d rather do stories that don’t require me to get shot at.”
Tripp’s eyes flick to me in the mirror, but I don’t pay him any mind. I also don’t point out that his eyes glance at the silver flask every so often. Not my business as long as he doesn’t drink from it while driving.
Ramiro grins at me. “Got any cool battle scars?”
I tilt my head. “Yeah.” But I don’t elaborate, and he picks up what I’m putting down. “So, since we’re sharing stories and all that,” I begin. “Why don’t you guys do interviews?”
Ramiro glances at Tripp. “We prefer our privacy.”
“Privacy is one thing, but the both of you have been on the rodeo circuit for damn near twenty years including your youth sports. Absolute privacy is a choice at this point, but a single interview wouldn’t shatter that,” I point out.
“Interviews mean questions,” Tripp says. “Questions mean people digging into our lives.”
I raise my brows. “If you think people aren’t already digging into your lives?—”
“Yeah, but we don’t make it easier for them,” Ramiro interrupts. “Better this way.”
“In my experience, people who don’t do interviews have got something to hide,” I reply. He stares at me. “You got bodies buried somewhere?”
The corner of his eyes crinkle. “Maybe we do.” He leans closer. “And maybe we just like our privacy.”
“I call bullshit,” I tease. “But whatever you have to tell yourself. Just know, I’m going to keep asking for that interview.”
“As long as you understand we’ll keep saying no,” he teases back, clearly amused. “We’re hardly as interesting as a war.”
I raise my brows. “I don’t know about that.”
Because these three men are definitely interesting all on their own. Just being near them is a bit of an adrenaline rush. I can see why women throw themselves at them.
Bilbo shuffles closer to me and I rest my hand on his head. “By the way, why is his name Bilbo?” It seems like a strange name for a cowboy to choose.
Tripp glances at me in the rearview mirror. “His full name is Bilbo Waggins,” he says gruffly.
The smile that splits my face makes him look away again. “Like from Lord of the Rings? I didn’t peg you as a fan, Tripp Savage.”
He shrugs. “They eat a lot. I like food.”
And that’s the only answer I get about it. Apparently, Tripp Savage doesn’t plan on holding too long of a conversation then.
The rest of the ride is mostly in silence. Clearly, they don’t want to say too much around me, and I don’t blame them. I’d promised things were off the record, but it would be hard to trust a reporter, I’m sure. Especially if there really are skeletons in your closet.
We make it to Tucson sometime early evening, and I direct them to a tiny motel close to the area where the rodeo takes place. The photos hadn’t looked terrible, and I’d assumed they’d been adjusted a little bit, but nothing could have prepared me for how absolutely shitty it was.
Ramiro scrunches up his face when he gets a good look at it. “You’re staying. . . here?”
I don’t blame him. Fuck, I’m tempted to find somewhere else, but every other place was double the price. Motels aren’t fancy usually anyway, but. . . yeah, this one is bad. The doors were painted red at one point, but much of that paint is chipped and peeling, some of them covered with half-assed graffiti. One of them has the word, “cheater,” scrawled across it. Another has what looks like a bad attempt at a penis.
The guardrails look like they’re hanging on for dear life and like I shouldn’t trust them to stop an accidental fall. One of the windows of the office has a board over it to cover what’s probably broken glass. The wood has been there for a while judging by the color of it. Hell, even the sidewalks and parking lot are overgrown, weeds bursting up through the cracks. It almost looks abandoned, and yet their website is alive and well.
“Yeah,” I finally answer. “It’s fine.”
I open my door and grab my bag, having every intention of walking into that office and getting what I hope is a working key. Fuck, I hope this place at least have bloodstain free rooms. I really don’t want to spend the next week hanging out with a murder victim ghost.
“Are you sure?” Ramiro asks, trying to stop me. “This doesn’t look?—”
“It’ll be fine,” I interrupt, closing my door after giving Bilbo another head pat. “See you guys tomorrow.”
“Until then, little outsider,” Beau says as he leans out the window. “How about a kiss for the road?”
“See you later, Beau,” I respond, shaking my head.
“Spoil sport,” he teases. “I’ll convince you yet.”
“Good luck with that,” I say as Tripp drops it in gear and starts to drive away. Beau hangs out the window like a dog the whole way, waving and blowing kisses until they disappear around the corner. I shake my head with a smile and turn toward the office. The smile turns into a wince.
Fuck. Here goes nothing.