Chapter 7 #2
“Well, no,” Caleb argues. “You have first-degree burns on your fingertips because you thought poking at an engine block would get you a gold star with Forty.”
Grace looks at Cooper, who is shaking his head slowly. She laughs at the horrid awe on his face and says, “Get it now?”
Cooper honks out a humorless laugh. “I get it,” he replies, “I get that my brother is a vindictive piece of work.”
“He ain’t all bad,” Caleb says, yet again coming to Crew’s defense. Grace wonders if he even realizes he’s doing it, or if it’s an instinct born out of years spent working by Crew’s side. “Look at it this way: At least you ain’t hauling hay in this heat.”
“We have a hay baler,” Cooper counters. “Why would anyone be hauling hay?”
Mikey and Caleb share a look, then a laugh.
There are probably a dozen stories between them about the ultimate ranch punishment—hauling hay by hand during a Texas summer when a perfectly functional hay baler sits thirty feet away in a hangar.
That kind of job is reserved for real infractions, because it’s the kind of job that results in only one of two things: The ranch hand in question either sucks it up and sticks it out, knowing they’ll never err so badly again, or they pack their bags and find another place to work.
“C’mon, city boy,” Mikey says, wrapping an arm around Cooper’s shoulders and walking them out of the kitchen. “There’s an ice-cold beer in that cooler with your name on it.”
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The beer offered to Cooper turns out to be the first of many.
Grace partakes, too, nursing her Budweiser and observing the poker setup sprawled across the dining room table.
Alec has taken great care to arrange it.
His bunk is the messiest of everyone’s—rumpled clothes spilling out of every nook and cranny—but his poker set is immaculate.
He begins to shuffle the cards, and his tan, sun-leathered hands are a stark contrast to the pristine white of the reverse side.
Grace watches them flow through his fingers fluidly, like a waterfall of paper.
She zones out slightly while watching, the long day attempting to saddle an obstinate horse catching up with her.
Only when the bunkhouse door swings open does she return to herself, glancing over to see who’s barged in so dramatically.
It’s Pierce—he’s holding an open magazine tightly against his chest and his eyes are sparkling with mischief. He’s breathing heavily, like he ran here, his hair windswept and wild. “Y’all ain’t gonna believe this,” he says, approaching the table.
“You’re late,” Alec barks, still shuffling. “Buy-in is ten.”
Pierce waves Alec off. “Shut up and listen to me. Remember how we heard that Easton was doing some modeling out in California?”
“What of it?” Forty asks from his place at the head of the table. His feet are propped up, ankles stacked on top of each other as he counts out single dollar bills.
“Well,” Pierce says, his lips bursting into a grin. “Turns out, it was true.”
He turns the magazine around, holding it wide for everyone to see.
It’s quite a picture. A tanned, smiling man with pearly white teeth sits on a beautiful horse, wearing nothing but a cowboy hat and a pair of very tight-fitting black briefs.
His body is ripped, like never eats carbs and spends four hours in the gym every day kind of ripped.
He has an eight-pack and biceps that are nearly as big as Grace’s head.
She clocks the Come and get it look in the man’s sparkling blue eyes.
How a photograph managed to capture such a clear message, she isn’t sure.
“Holy shittin’ Christmas,” Raymond hollers, standing up immediately to rip the magazine out of Pierce’s hands. “How is this an ad for cologne? What about a shirtless idiot riding a horse in the middle of the day says, Yeah, I smell great?”
The others gather around Raymond, trading their own huffs of bafflement. “What a fucking tool,” Mikey grumbles.
“You mock,” Bryan counters, “but I bet he got at least 10K for that.”
“Take my money, but never take my dignity,” Mikey replies, shaking his head.
“I’m sorry,” June cuts in. She raises her brows at Mikey and asks, “Didn’t you sing ‘…Baby One More Time’ at karaoke last month?”
Mikey looks up from the ad and stares at her. “If you’re implying that paying tribute to Britney Spears is not a dignified act, I’d have to disrespectfully disagree.”
Cooper, who just gulped down the dregs of his third helping of chili, finally joins in the fun.
“What’s everyone freaking out about?” He walks over to the group, standing on his tiptoes to see over their shoulders and get a glimpse.
The second his eyes land on the magazine, the humor and ease of his expression dampens.
Ceases, really. He says nothing, simply sinks back onto his heels and walks away from the cluster.
No one seems to notice the shift except Grace—she follows him with her eyes as he walks over to an empty chair two seats down from her and slumps into it, looking a bit like he could punch a wall if given the opportunity.
“You good?” she asks, quietly enough that only he can hear.
His gaze flits to hers quickly, and his expression clears a little. With a deep breath in through his nose, he nods. “Yeah,” is all he offers in response.
Grace doesn’t ask him any further questions, sensing that he isn’t interested in elaborating. But, clearly, this Easton person is someone Cooper knows. Knows, and—if the look on his face is any indication—does not particularly like.
· · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · ·
The evening takes a turn after that. Beer is swapped out for Jim Beam right around the time Bryan is up at the poker table, cleaning out everyone’s wallets with a cheeky smirk on his whiskey-flushed face.
Mikey is in the hole, trying and failing to use his best puppy dog eyes to persuade Forty to spot him ten bucks.
Alec is dealing cards with a cigarette hanging from the corner of his mouth, plumes of smoke wafting toward the screen door and open windows near the kitchen.
Cooper is quiet and contemplative until suddenly, he isn’t, and then everyone learns very quickly that he’s a bit of an obnoxious drunk.
Which means he fits in perfectly with the rest of the hands, especially when it comes to an increasing lack of inhibitions once shots start getting poured.
Grace checks out right around then, deciding to wait out her turn in the shower rotation in her bunk with her trusty corded earphones and Faith Hill’s greatest hits.
She’s supposed to be after June, who’s after Caleb, who’s after Pierce, who is currently singing “Hound Dog” in the shower and taking his sweet time.
Between the three of them, she might be waiting awhile.
Though Grace probably should’ve guessed she would fall asleep in the meantime, she certainly doesn’t expect a mouth hanging open, a puddle of drool on her pillow kind of knockout.
A rustling in the kitchen is what yanks her out of that depthless slumber, and her eyes shoot open to see Mikey crouched in front of the cabinet under the kitchen sink, rummaging through various cleaning products.
He seems dissatisfied with the Clorox and the Pine-Sol, tossing them over his shoulder quickly, haphazardly.
Still shit-faced, if the way he is slightly teetering from side to side is any indication.
Grace sits up slowly as a dull, throbbing ache rises in her shoulder.
She winces, reaching across herself to rub it, then rotates it slowly against her side.
It feels better every day, but it still isn’t fully mobile, and it has a tendency to ache after a hard sleep.
Once she’s up, it dawns on her just how quiet the rest of the bunkhouse is.
Too quiet—there’s hardly any snoring. She likes all the hands—she really does—but they snore like trains passing over gravel.
So much so that she’s been woken up by the symphony of snoring multiple times in her short tenure at Halcyon, even had to toss a balled-up pair of socks at Forty’s head one night when he was going on so loudly she could hear him over her music.
It’s too dark to confirm who is missing from their bunk, except the obvious, who is still digging through the cabinet with fervor. Grace pads over to him, still in her work clothes and socks, and whispers when she approaches so she doesn’t startle him too badly. “What’re you looking for in there?”
He jumps, nonetheless. “Jesus fucking Christ on a banana,” he shouts, putting a hand to his heart and closing his eyes as he whirls around to face her.
Grace holds her hands up. “It’s just me. Sorry.”
“Am I being noisy?” he asks in a sort of yell-whisper. A comical attempt at keeping his voice down. “I didn’t want to wake you up.”
She shakes her head. “It’s fine. What’s going on?”
“We’ve got a bit of a situation,” he says, voice incrementally raising to a normal volume.
Grace straightens, folding her arms over her chest, and waits for him to elaborate.
He looks guilty, his shoulders starting to slump. “I—uh—I don’t know if I can tell you. I was given strict instructions not to wake you or Forty up.”
Her cheeks begin to heat. Something about this—the guilt in his face, the secretiveness—an ominous feeling spreads in Grace’s gut. “Why?”
Mikey’s eyes drift back to the cabinet, and instead of answering, he pulls out a basket of sponges and rags, his face lighting up as he sets it aside. “Thank God.” He reaches in again, dragging a red plastic box marked with a cross on top.
Grace’s nostrils flare. “Is someone hurt?”
He blinks, then side-eyes her. “Maybe?”
“Mikey,” she says firmly, taking a step toward him. “Tell me what’s going on.”
Mikey winces, then his eyes fall slowly shut, as if all of the will to keep his word to the guys is gone in one single, surrendering breath. “Please don’t be pissed.”