17. Indie
Chapter 17
Indie
O n the fifth day, I wake up with so much pain, I know I won’t be able to get out of the motel at the same time I always do. I like to be at the arena early so I can catch everyone coming in, maybe scout out the best place to pester the Crimson Three from. Today, I can barely roll out of the bed without grimacing in pain. My hip screams in agony and it feels like something may be pinched. Worse, the pain is shooting down past my knees and my toes are going numb. I won’t be making it to the arena any time soon, not if I can’t get that worked out.
I take the hottest shower I can stand, hoping the heat eases some of the tension. I pop two pain pills and pull up a stretching video I’d saved on my laptop. It’s a long one, an hour’s worth of stretches and movements to help ease back pain. It almost always helps, so hopefully it can help now, especially since it’s so difficult to even stand up straight. If I can’t get this worked out, there’s no way I’ll be able to get to the fairgrounds. I certainly won’t be able to stand out there all day.
The workout eases the pain, but it doesn’t make it go away. Clearly, whatever I’d agitated is going to remain a problem and this brick of a bed doesn’t help. Even the pillows here are hard. I’m just about to decide to do another round of stretches when a knock on the door grabs my attention.
I eye the door warily. No one knocks on doors here, and honestly, it’s probably not a great idea to open the door for someone anyways when this place is as sketchy as it is. I don’t even think there’s a housekeeper here to worry about. The front desk made it abundantly clear that there would be no room service.
“Indie?” a voice I recognize calls through the door. “Open up. It’s Ram.”
The tension I hadn’t even realized I’d been carrying eases. Oh. Not something sinister. Just the bronc rider.
I go over to the door, slide the deadbolt away, and open the door. “What are you doing here? You should be at the arena.”
“I got worried when you didn’t show up,” he says, a crooked smile on his face. “Can I come in?”
I glance around at the shitty room and wince. “Sure. I guess,” I say as I open the door wider.
He steps in, his eyes tracing the relatively bare room, and looks as unimpressed as I had when I’d first seen it. He holds out a white box as I close the door behind him. “I brought donuts.”
I stare at the box in surprise. “That’s. . . really nice of you. Thank you.” I carefully take the box from him and set it on the scratched up tv console. “So, you just came to check on me?” I ask.
“ Sí . You’re always earlier than us. You’ve been getting later and later, and then today, you weren’t there,” he admits. “I was worried considering I knew the shitty motel we dropped you off at.”
I frown. “And how did you know my room number?”
“The lady at the front desk told me. Didn’t even take much asking.” He points to the door. “I hope you keep that thing deadbolted.”
“I do, yeah,” I nod, amazed with just how terrible this motel is. I guess the one-star reviews weren’t lying. “Well, I’m fine. Seems weird to come check on the reporter you want nothing to do with, but I appreciate the donuts.”
The corner of his eyes crinkle. “It’s easy to forget we’re just your little project and that I shouldn’t even be talking to you.” He shrugs. “I guess you’re just so easy to talk to.”
I snort. “I’ve been told I’m not easy to talk to at all. I’d argue I grate on most people’s nerves.”
“Those people weren’t listening, is all. Not everyone is for everyone, you know?” He glances around the room again, taking note of the made up bed and the duffel bag sitting on the stained chair in the corner. “So, what’s up with the limp?” he asks, focusing back on me. “Really.”
“It’s nothing. Just?—”
“I’m many things, Indie, but I’m not a liar. I’d appreciate it if you weren’t one either,” he says, crossing his arms.
I take in his stance, the way his forearms bulge with his arms crossed, and throw caution to the wind. What do I have to lose really? Does it matter if he knows why I hurt? It changes nothing, but at least I can explain the situation and reassure him that I’m fine. Maybe he’ll share something in return with me and I can finally get this interview.
Sighing, I take a seat on the edge of the mattress and pat beside me. When he sits down, he grunts at how hard it is, clearly not realizing. “I wasn’t lying when I said it’s the mattress,” I murmur. “I just didn’t explain why it’s messing me up so much.”
“Well, go on then. Explain,” he encourages.
“There really isn’t much to explain,” I reply honestly. “I spent a lot of time in war zones, crouching, crawling, sleeping on the hard ground with soldiers. It was fine. Aches and pains were normal. But at some point, a pain in my hip didn’t really get better. It would just get worse the more I used it, and I was unable to ease the tension there. When it gets real bad, I get shooting pains down my leg and sometimes my foot falls asleep. At my worst, I can’t even stand up straight. It’s been like this for a few years now.”
“Have you gone to the doctor for this chronic pain?” he asks.
“Of course I have,” I says with a shrug. “But I’m a woman. They tell me it’s either anxiety or all in my head. I had one tell me to do water aerobics when I explained exercising makes things worse. I’ve had x-rays, MRIs, cat scans. I’ve ruled out cancer, autoimmune disorders, as far as I know, and bone spurs. They don’t know why it hurts. The last doctor I went to told me I’d just have a baseline of pain for the rest of my life.” I shrug. “I took that seriously, and I live with it. But sometimes, things compound the problem. Like this fucking brick of a bed.”
He scowls. “Then why stay in this shithole? Doesn’t your company pay for it? Surely they can afford something a little better.”
“They’re not paying for it,” I admit. “I am.”
“What? Why the hell not?” he demands. “That’s how being a journalist works.”
“I’m not supposed to be here. The magazine is already paying for two others on these circuits, and this is more of a proving I can get the interview with The Crimson Three gig so I can write more important articles in general. He told me that they wouldn’t be paying, and I agreed. I’m just trying not to go completely into dept chasing you three around and trying to convince you to give me an interview.” I smile. “It’s fine. Really.”
He grimaces and stands, before starting to pace back and forth. “The bed is making things worse?”
“Don’t worry about it,” I tell him. “I have pills I can take and?—”
“Are the beds in these shitty motels making things worse?” he demands, his expression hard as he faces me.
I hesitate, confused where this line of questioning is going. “Well. . . yeah.”
He nods, seemingly deciding something. “Pack your things.”
I furrow my brows. “What?”
“Here, I’ll pack them for you then,” he says, grabbing my clothes laid out on the console and stacking them up.
I shoot up and take my clothes from him. “Stop touching my things,” I growl. “Why would I pack? We still have another four days left at this event.”
“Because you’re not staying here,” he growls. “Not anymore.”
“And where the hell would I stay instead?” I demand. “I can’t exactly afford five-star hotels right now?—”
“You’re staying with us,” he says, cutting me off.
I stop, staring at him like he’s lost his damned mind. “I’m what?”
“We have an extra bed. It’s fine. Come on.” His tone leaves no room for argument. When I don’t move, he starts snapping his fingers.
“Hey! That’s fucking unnecessary! Really, Ram. I’m fine here. I appreciate it but?—”
“I’m not going to argue with you, Indie,” he growls. “Pack your shit or I’m going to pack it for you.” His eyes meet mine. “Hurry up. We don’t have time to argue.”
“I don’t?—”
His fingers grab my chin, and he tilts it up as he steps close to me. “Indie,” he breathes, the sound nearly a growl, and fuck if I don’t hang on his every word. “Unless you want my hands all over your spare underwear, I suggest you fucking move.”
Fuck. I melt. Because I kind of do want his hands in my underwear. But I can’t exactly say that.
My face flushes. “I. . . okay.”
Because what the fuck else am I going to say? Holy shit.