23. Indie
Chapter 23
Indie
T he little hole-in-the-wall Mexican restaurant didn’t look like much from the outside, but damn if it doesn’t serve the best food I’ve had in a while. Apparently, these three have been coming here every morning because the waitress knows them by name and the owner comes out to check on them. She speaks with a heavy Spanish accent and hugs on Ram when she asks if we’re doing okay and if the food is good. She’s very motherly and doesn’t dismiss me. In fact, she brings me a glass of horchata when I admit I’ve never had it before.
She’s right. It’s fantastic.
“How did you find this place?” I ask when I finish my juevos rancheros . I’m delightfully full despite there still being food on my plate. I wish I could finish it, but I can’t. I’m stuffed.
“We found it last year,” Ram admits. “ Tía Josie came to the rodeo and told me I’d have a free plate of food waiting for me. We’ve been coming ever since.”
Beau nods. “Nothing compares to her cookin’ honestly. Except for Ram’s mama’s. Her tamales could bring about world peace if given the opportunity.” He points to my plate. “Are you going to eat that?”
I shake my head and hand him the plate. “I’m too full.”
All three men eat significantly more than I do but that’s by necessity. What they do takes incredible strength and stamina. They need fuel for that.
“So, are the three of you ready for another day of rodeo?” I ask.
“I’m always ready,” Beau shrugs as he shoves the rest of my food in his mouth.
Ram’s eyes crinkle at me. It’s such an endearing look, like his whole face has to smile at me. “I’m as ready as I’ll ever be.” He glances at Tripp where he focuses on his food. “How ‘bout you, Tripp?”
Tripp glances up, his eyes flicking from Ram and then over to me. He shrugs in answer rather than speaking. A man of few words, but something tells me it’s more by choice rather than a personality trait.
Which makes me wonder again what it is they’re hiding. Why don’t they do interviews? Why have they refused them for so long? And most important, why are they okay with me being close to them when they know I’m trying to get an interview?
I lean forward on my elbows, watching him carefully. “Your stats are pretty impressive. Your family must be proud of you continuing that legacy.”
Tripp tenses. Our eyes are locked, so I see the emotion flicker in his before he wipes it away. I’d seen it though. I’d been looking. Anger. Fear. Defensiveness.
Which is strange. Tripp’s stats really are impressive by most bull riding history. The man is a multi-million dollar cowboy and he’s already been inducted into the Rodeo Hall of Fame. Even his own father didn’t have as good of a record before he retired, and he’d never been inducted. Tripp’s grandfather, of course, was an apparent legend, but their stats were on pretty equal footing last year. Tripp has surpassed even his grandfather. So why the tension when I bring up his family?
I glance at Ram. “What about your parents, Ram?”
He raises his brow, and I can tell he thinks about not answering. For whatever reason, he does. “My dad left when I was little. But my mamá , she’s very proud of all three of us.”
I smile. “And she makes the best tamales?”
“The very best,” he agrees. “Maybe you’ll get to try them sometime.”
Which is a silly thing to say. I can’t imagine when I’ll ever be in Wyoming to meet his mom, but it does sound nice. It’s been a long time since I’ve felt at home. For so long, home was wherever the story was. This. . . this right now kind of feels like that. It’s comfortable to sit here at this table with these men. This companionship is what I know from my time chasing stories in wars. It almost feels like I’m back out there, sitting around with people who were very much at war, but still found time to sing the newest pop song before sleep. You haven’t lived until you’ve heard the gruffest of men sing Pink Pony Club.
Sitting with these three men feels like that. Like home. Even out in the desert, there was always a grumpy one, too.
“Have you ever been to the hoedown after the rodeo?” Beau asks, pointing his fork at me.
I raise my brows. “The hoedown? I don’t even know what that is.”
His gasp is so dramatic, it draws the eyes of the next table over. “Then we gotta go tonight,” he says. “You’ve gotta attend at least one hoedown in your life.”
“It’s just dancin’ and drinkin’,” Ram offers as explanation. “The rodeo hosts it each night on the grounds. It’s not bad if you’re lookin’ to dive in deep. It’s worth a trip.”
I hesitate. “I don’t know.”
“Come on,” Beau encourages. “Alcohol loosens lips. Maybe you’ll get that scoop you’re lookin’ for.” He wiggles his eyebrows, teasing, and I can’t help but smile.
“Okay, okay. . . but what do you wear to a hoedown?” I ask.
Ram scores high during his bronc riding, high enough to leave him in first place. Tripp comes in second today, the top bull rider clearly doing his best to knock down the legacy. Beau had nearly made the crowd pee themselves when he’d almost taken a horn to the side. Luckily, the bull missed, but the entire arena thought he was for sure done for, including me. Despite the close encounter, Beau came out of it grinning, his eyes bright with adrenaline.
I don’t think I’ve ever met someone in such a hurry to meet the Grim Reaper.
Riding back to the room to get cleaned up and dressed for the hoedown is a silent affair, all three of the men exhausted after the day. It must get tiring doing the same thing every day, heading to a new rodeo, and then doing it all over again. I can’t imagine the toll it must take on them by the end of the season.
When I’d packed my duffel bag, I’d packed exactly one dress, a burgundy sundress that I’d assumed I wouldn’t need but brought just in case I needed to be on camera for an interview. It’s pretty enough, simple, and I realize quickly when I pull it out of the bag that I hadn’t brought any shoes to go with it. Combat boots are hardly the norm in these parts, but they’ll have to do.
I let the three men take showers first mostly because they’d actually sweat today. Me, I’d frozen my ass off while waiting for them to compete. The arena had been colder today than it’s been the last couple of days. Even with my jacket, I’d been cold.
When it’s my turn to take a shower, I leave the three men to get ready. It doesn’t take me long. A quick shower and some lip gloss is all I need. I don’t bother trying to style my hair. It barely holds a curl because of how straight it is so I just leave it down. When I step out in my dress, three sets of eyes turn to me with raised brows.
“What?” I ask, crossing my arms.
Beau recovers first, coming forward to grab my hand. He presses a kiss to my knuckles and looks up at me. “You look ravishing, little outsider.”
Shit. That’s hotter than I realized it would be. Now I understand the whole obsession with knights and gentlemen.
“It’s just a dress,” I muse, smoothing my hands down it. “It’s not even a good one.”
“Any dress is a good dress,” Ram says, smiling. “You look great.”
“That’s right,” Beau purrs. “Easy access.”
I snort. “Well, I’m about to ruin it with my boots.” I pull them out and sigh. “I didn’t bring anything else.”
Tripp watches me pull on the masculine boots with the very feminine dress. “It’s very you,” he says, surprising me. “You should wear your denim jacket, too. It’s cold.”
I glance at the patch-covered jacket and nod. “You’re right.”
The three of them are dressed relatively casually. Beau’s face is clean of face paint, though part of me expected him to wear it for an event at the fairgrounds. He’s dressed the most casual of the three, in clean jeans and a white t-shirt that says, “Hold my beer while I kiss your girlfriend” on it in red. His cowboy hat is perched on his head and that signature cigarette hangs from the corner of his mouth, but besides that, he wears no other ornamentation. I’m almost sad he’s not wearing his hot pink leather jacket, but he does top off his look with his heart-shaped sunglasses despite it being dark outside.
Ram and Tripp are dressed in jeans and button downs in different shades of plaid. Tripp wears red while Ram wears blue. While Ram wears no jacket, Tripp has a heavy Carhartt on that I’m sure is warm. They both wear their cowboy hats.
“Nice tie,” I comment and point to Ram’s bolo tie. He wears it in the arena, too. I’ve noticed that he rarely goes anywhere without it. The only time I’ve seen him without it is if he’s wearing a t-shirt or no shirt at all. The golden sun with a red jewel in the middle stands out starkly against the blue plaid of his shirt.
“Every good cowboy wears a bolo tie,” Ram says with a grin. “It’s classy.”
“So we ain’t good cowboys now?” Tripp asks with a raised brow.
Ram holds up his hands. “I don’t make the rules. I just follow ‘em.”
“Bolo tie argument aside, what about Bilbo?” I ask, gesturing toward the chocolate lab currently resting on my bed.
“We just leave the tv on for him,” Ram answers. “He really enjoys Animal Planet.”
Tripp turns on the tv and changes the channel to one about lions in Africa and Bilbo looks toward the screen lazily, actually watching it. Well, would you look at that.
The trip back to the fairgrounds is fast since we’re not staying too far away from it. It’s strange to think of their hotel as my hotel, their room as my room, but I’ve adjusted to it easily. Far too easily really. I should be more careful, more focused on getting the story, but something tells me that I won’t be getting that interview without getting closer to them.
The hoedown isn’t. . . what I expect either. There’s a large pole tent set up outside the arena where everyone trails inside. Many of the women entering the tent range from cute and feminine to rodeo queens, dressed in either their cutest sundresses or their bedazzled cowgirl gear. I’ve seen videos of the girls that can line dance, and this looks just like that. In fact, as soon as we step inside, I see that’s exactly what everyone is doing.
Somehow, I doubt I’ll be able to do the complicated feet movements I see, but maybe they’ll play something a little more my speed. I enjoy dancing, but rarely get the opportunity to do so.
It’s loud inside the tent, the band on stage keeping everyone moving. The large bar against the far end is packed. The moment we step inside, Tripp makes a beeline for it, disappearing into the crowd. Beau whoops and takes off his hat, waving it in the air before he skips out to the dance floor and joins in the line dancing like he was born for the movements. The women cheer when he joins in, smiling brightly at him, their eyes eating him up. To his credit, he barely looks at them, his head thrown back in excitement as he just dances. Like he thoroughly enjoys it.
“It’s worth it just to see him let loose,” Ram says with a smile. “Beau likes dancing.”
“I can see that,” I say, watching as he closes his eyes and falls into the repeated movements. “The dance looks complicated.”
“Only until you learn it,” he replies. “Come on, periodista . Let me buy you a drink.”
We trail over to the large bar where Ram orders a couple of beers for him and Beau and a Tom Collins for me. I take the drink from him gratefully and sip it while scanning the tent for Tripp. When I don’t find him, I frown, wondering where it is he could have gotten up to.
The song changes from the upbeat tune to something slow, sweet and very much in Spanish, and my eyes brighten.
I turn to Ram where he passes off the beer to a happy Beau before the clown gets drawn into a conversation with another bull rider. “Do you like dancing?” I ask Ram.
Ram meets my eyes. “Not usually,” he admits.
My face falls and I look back down at my drink. “Oh.”
His fingers lift my chin up, forcing my eyes to his again. “Ask me anyway.”
“Ask you what?” I rasp. I don’t know how he hears me over the music.
“Ask me to dance,” he says, a smile pulling at his lips.
“Okay,” I say, staring deeply into his pretty whiskey eyes. “Do you want to dance with me?”
He tips back the rest of his beer and sets it on the bar before grabbing my mostly empty glass and doing the same. “Yes,” he answers, grabbing my hand. “Of course I want to dance with you.”
He pulls me to the dance floor, and when I would have stopped and put distance between us, he pulls me in closer, his hand respectful on my side. We start to sway side to side at first, before he takes control of the dance and starts to lead me around in a slow two-step.
“I thought you couldn’t dance,” I say, smiling as he spins me around the dance floor.
“I never said I couldn’t,” he laughs. “Just that I don’t usually like dancing.” He leans down, his lip on my ear. “Not unless I enjoy the person I’m dancing with.”
“You sure are a smooth talker,” I tease, smiling at him when he straightens and looks down at me. “I bet you get plenty of women with that dimple on your cheek.”
He flashes said dimple at me. “There’s only one woman on my mind right now.”
“Oh?”
He nods. “And she apparently really likes my dimples. Which means I’m gonna have to show them off even more now.”
I laugh. “See. Smooth talker.”
He leans down. “Oh, periodista . You haven’t even seen how smooth I can be yet.”
I swallow, mostly to keep myself from drooling. “Why waste the energy on me? I bet there are a hundred women who’d happily listen to you smooth talk them. Three of them are looking this way now.”
He doesn’t turn to look like I expect. He keeps his eyes on me. “Who says it’s a waste?”
I shrug instead of answering which only makes his smile wider. He leans in again, pulling me in tighter, and I let him. God, I’m not nearly close enough to him. My hands circle his waist and wrap around his back, my fingers clenching in his shirt. He tilts his head, so his hat doesn’t hit me, and I think he’s just going to hug me. When I feel his lips against my neck, I shiver.
“That’s probably a bad idea,” I tell him, my fingers clenching tighter in his shirt.
“Maybe,” he chuckles, and I swear it makes my legs weak.
The song ends and the band launches into another upbeat tune, bringing everyone back to the dance floor in lines. I lean back, my cheeks flushed, and look up at the man that has me all twisted in knots.
The little crow’s feet at the corner of his eyes scrunch up, and I melt just a little bit more.
“Would you like another drink, periodista ?” he asks.
I nod. “Please.”
“Coming right up.” He finally releases me and steps back, but it takes me a second to unscrunch my hands from his shirt and let him. He winks at me and cuts through the crowd, leaving me to stare after him in confusion.
Beau, I get. He’s a ladies’ man, always flirting, always teasing. There’s nothing that can bring him down. But Ram? What reason would he have to play this game?
My skin is flushed from the interaction, and I press a hand against my cheek. I need some fresh air. I glance over in the direction of the bar. Ram’s going to be there awhile. Since we’ve arrived, the tent has filled up and the lines are long. I have time to get some air.
I slip from the pole tent, immediately tilting my head back to enjoy the chill air that presses on my heated skin. I’m so focused on the feeling that I don’t immediately notice that I’m not alone. Not until he speaks.
“Too many people in there,” he says, and I jerk, searching for the source. I’m surprised to find Tripp sitting on top of a stack of hay bales someone clearly placed to give everything more of a western aesthetic. He’s sprawled out, his eyes hooded in a way that tells me he’s had plenty to drink already. He doesn’t hold a beer in his hand. Instead, he holds a plastic cup with some sort of amber-colored liquor.
“You don’t like crowds?” I ask, tilting my head.
“Never have,” he admits, his eyes watching me.
Something tells me if he tried to get up and walk right about now that he wouldn’t be able to in a straight line. I have no idea how Tripp Savage managed to get drunk so fast, but he’s clearly had experience doing it.
I move over to the haybale and climb up on top of it to reach him before taking a seat beside him. From here, the position overlooks the nice bull riding bronze statue and the small water fountain at the base of it. I notice Tripp’s gaze is on the statue, on the way the unknown bull rider throws his hand in the air.
“Are you okay?” I ask, feeling the dark cloud around him.
“Yep.” He doesn’t look at me. “Just a phone call with dear old dad.”
His words are mocking, almost bitter.
“I assume it wasn’t a good call.”
“It never is,” he laughs, but the sound lacks any real mirth. He finishes off the drink and sets it aside before reaching for another one I hadn’t even seen he’d set beside him. “What brings you out here? I assumed Beau and Ram would be falling over themselves to impress you.”
I study him carefully. “Ram went to get me another drink. Beau is dancing.” He hums under his breath but doesn’t reply. “You and your dad don’t have a good relationship?”
“Does anyone have a good relationship with their father?” he asks, leaning back on his elbows to look up at the stars. “Being a legacy ain’t everything it’s talked up to be.”
It’s the most Tripp Savage has ever spoken to me about personal matters, and I find myself fascinated by the sheer amount of anger in his words. I’ve never heard someone sound so. . . fiercely consumed with rage.
“I wouldn’t know,” I admit. “My own father-daughter relationship has its problems, too.” I’d ignored a handful of calls this week, trying my hardest to ignore the fact that my own father sits in jail for crimes he very much apparently committed. Ten years they’d given him, and apparently, he deserves it. I’d seen the evidence. They’d tried to use it to convince me I was part of it, too. When they realized I didn’t know anything, they’d tried to say I should forget all of it, but who forgets the evidence their father is a criminal. “At least you have a good legacy,” I whisper. “Some of us aren’t so lucky.”
He glances at me from the corner of his eyes. “Hard to believe someone like you has any sort of bad luck.”
I laugh. “Coming from someone who hates me, I’ll consider that a compliment.”
He turns fully to me, his eyes reflecting the night sky back to me. “Why exactly would you think I hate you?”
I shrug. “You don’t give any evidence otherwise. Seems kind of obvious you don’t like me.”
“You’re too pretty to hate,” he grumbles. “Too fuckin’ smart. It pisses me off, but I don’t hate you. Far from it.”
I snort. “Okay, now I know you’ve had too much to drink,” I say. “Tripp Savage paying me multiple compliments? The worlds must be off kilter.”
He picks up his cup and nearly drops it, curses, and takes another drink. “Maybe they are,” he says, his fingers squeezing the cup too hard. I notice the way his hand shakes, the way he seems to be sinking lower and lower into the haybale.
“How long have you been an alcoholic?” I ask softly.
I’d recognize that jitter anywhere. I’d watched my dad battle with it, watched him determined to stop drinking only for his sobriety journey ending with a raid and jail time. Tripp isn’t on a sobriety journey. He’s on a journey to forget. . . whatever it is that haunts him. From the sounds of it, part of that has to do with his dad.
He stares at me. “Anyone ever tell you to mind your business?”
“Yeah, all the time,” I shrug. “But asking questions is kind of part of who I am.”
He shakes his head. “You and Ram are kind of the same. He’s the only reason I don’t just drown myself completely. Him and Beau.” He finishes off his second cup. “They like you.”
“But not you?”
“I don’t not like you. I wanna fuck you. There’s a difference,” he drops.
My eyes widen. “What?”
“Hell, we all do,” he continues as if he’s not dropping news on me. “There’s just something about you that gets under my skin, and I can’t quite figure it out. It makes me nervous.” His words start to slur as he continues, making it hard to understand him as he slumps back all the way.
“Sounds like you’re scared of me,” I muse, staring at him, dismissing his words as just ramblings of a drunk man.
His eyes close and his head tips back. “The only person I’ve ever truly been scared of is my father,” he slurs, before slumping completely, out like a light.
I stare at him, at the tidbits he’d told me, at the way he’s just spread eagled out here under the stars, drunk and cold. Part of me pities him. Using alcohol to run from your trauma is never a good plan, but. . .I can’t blame him for it. I don’t know his history. I don’t know what he’s been through. Clearly, he has good people taking care of him now at least.
“I see you found Tripp.”
I look toward the pole tent to see Ram holding two cups. “He passed out.”
Ram nods. “It took him less time than usual.”
I take the drink he offers me before watching him climb up on the haybales and take a seat beside me. “This is normal?”
He shrugs. “It can be. He goes through waves.”
“Why?” I ask, curious.
His eyes flick to mine. “That’s not my story to tell, periodista .”
I nod in understanding and we both lean back to look at the stars in the clear sky. There are fewer stars out here because of the light pollution, not like the desert. I miss being able to see that many stars no matter what. I’ve been spending too much time in cities.
“He’s right you know,” Ram says a few minutes later.
My brows furrow. “About what?”
He grins at the stars, as if he knows looking at me will break the spell we’re both under. “About us all liking you.”
And I suddenly realize, Ram had been there listening all along, letting Tripp say things he probably shouldn’t to someone planning to write an article about them. But the information had been gathered in a moment of weakness. I won’t use it unless he tells me without being under the influence. I can’t. I’d feel too bad about it. And I think Ram knows that.
Finally, he looks down at me, and our eyes lock, and there’s something playful in the way his lips quirk up, as if daring me to deny I like him, too. I don’t. It’d be a lie.
“Good to know,” I say, before taking a sip of my Tom Collins.
He takes off his hat and sets it to the side of him. His hand wraps around my neck slowly before he tugs me in, and then his lips are moving over mine in a kiss that is meant to seduce. I melt into him, letting him kiss me deeply, loving the feel of his lips on mine. My own hand comes up and threads into his black hair, trying to pull him closer. It’s him that pulls back first, not me. Desire swirls in his eyes while he looks at me, and I’m sure my own eyes swirl with my need.
“We should probably get him back to the room,” he says, gesturing toward Tripp where he’s passed out on my other side.
“Yeah,” I breathe, forgetting for a moment that Tripp was even there. “Yeah, we should do that.”
He presses another quick kiss to my lips before standing up. “I’ll go get Beau to help.” He stands up and steps down the hay bales but stops after a single step. “Oh, I almost forgot.” He reaches into his front pocket and pulls out a pen. “I nabbed this for you,” he says as he holds it out to me.
I pause, staring at the simple pen inscribed with the rodeo name. “You stole a pen for me?”
He nods. “From the bar. I noticed you collect them.” At my wide-eyed look, he grins. “Don’t think we haven’t noticed how large your pen collection is in your laptop bag, periodista . You steal pens everywhere we go. Hell, Tía Josie has been purposely leaving an extra pen at the table for you.”
I flush. “I didn’t realize anyone had noticed.”
“Oh, we noticed,” he laughs. “It’s cute. Go on. Take it.”
I pluck the pen from his fingers and study it. “It is a very nice pen.”
“I know,” he grins. “I’ll be right back. Don’t go anywhere.”
And then he leaves me there beside his drunk friend, the taste of his beer on my lips, my heart thumping painfully in my chest.
Shit.