Chapter 3 #2
I turn my head slowly, jaw tight. “It’s not an act. It’s survival.”
He studies me. Long enough to make it uncomfortable. “Alright.” He walks off without waiting for me to follow because he knows I won’t.
I walk back toward the hotel in my tattered shirt.
My shoulder burns under the tape. I pass rodeo fans spilling out of the grandstands.
A few people notice my ripped-up shirt and patched-up body.
Women nudge each other and stare. Someone takes my picture.
I should have driven over here earlier but that seemed stupid when I could walk across the street and half a block to the rodeo grounds.
Every once in a while, I lift my head to scan the crowd from under my cowboy hat, half-hoping Kinsley's still here but I don’t see her. Just strangers moving past.
My phone buzzes: Dad. I let it ring once, twice. Then answer because I'm a glutton for punishment tonight and being mad at him mixes with pain like peanut butter and jelly.
“You comin’ home this week or not?” he asks.
“Not.”
“You hurt?”
“I’ll live.”
“Good.” Click.
That’s Dad. Duty and disappointment wrapped in denim and dirt. I keep walking, jaw tight, and push through the lobby doors of the hotel. The air conditioning hits my bare chest like a slap.
Buzz. Grandpa.
Of course. Because Dad must not have berated me the right way and now Grandpa's got to get in on the action. The motel doors whoosh open and I step inside.
“What?” I answer.
“You done playing yet? We’ve got a ranch to run, and you’re out there riding the livestock.”
“I’m ranked third in the world,” I snap. “That ain’t a game.”
“Third don’t put up fence or work cows, son.”
“Neither do you,” I mutter, too low for him to hear.
He keeps going. “You’re wasting yourself. All that grit, all that talent, poured out for a bunch of spectators who won’t remember your name in a year.”
“They will tonight,” I say, and hang up before he can answer. I pace in the lobby. My reflection in the soda machine looks older than it should. Tired.
My phone buzzes again. Mom.
I hesitate. Then swipe to answer. “Hi, Mom.”
Her voice is soft. “You alright, baby?”
The lump in my throat nearly chokes me. “Yeah. Doc taped me up. Just a strain.”
“I saw the ride. And the fall.”
Of course she did. She's the only one who cares. “You need to rest that shoulder,” she says gently, “and we need you home. The ranch needs you.”
I close my eyes. “I know.”
“Your father—he means well. He just... doesn’t say it right.”
“I know,” I say again.
“Call me when you get some rest.”
“Okay.” The line goes quiet.
I press the heel of my hand to my eye and close the other one. My shoulder is on fire. My chest feels tighter than the tape Doc wound around me.
Three calls.
Three reminders that no matter how far I ride, the weight of home always catches up.
I slump against the wall beside the soda machine. The tape itches like fire. Lights hum overhead, turning everything sterile and yellow. Someone’s vacuuming down the hall. Country music plays soft and twangy from the front desk radio.
I reach into my back pocket to put my phone away and feel the pill bottle.
I pull it out. It's warm from being carried, the label already starting to smudge. The pain is building, not getting better and Dad’s voice is echoing in my skull.
I twist the cap off and dump one pill into my hand.
White. Oblong. Harmless looking. I toss it back and swallow dry. The second one goes down easier.
My stomach growls the moment it’s done, but I brush it off. It’ll be fine.
I lean my head back against the wall and close my eyes, breathing deeply until the pain in my shoulder begins to dull. I don’t know how long it takes. It’s like someone’s turning down the volume, muffling the edges. Not all at once. Just... loosening the seams.
I check for my key. Room 224. Two floors up. If I move now, I can sleep it off.
“Hey, handsome.” The voice is all honey and confidence, and before I even turn, I know who it is. Brittney.
She’s the kind of woman rodeo towns manufacture on purpose—tight jeans, tighter tank top, and a spray tan. Long blonde hair.
“You were incredible out there,” she says, smiling.
“Yeah,” I say. Or maybe just nod. My words feel like they’re coming from the bottom of a well.
She takes a step closer. “I’ve got a weakness for the quiet ones who throw themselves at death and call it a sport.”
I can’t seem to find the edges of my charm tonight. It’s all blurry.
“Are you hurt?” she asks, softer now. Her face starts floating around in front of me and I blink to bring it back to center.
“Let me help you upstairs. Just to make sure you’re okay.” She grabs my arm. I’m floating and she keeps me from hitting the ceiling.
“I’m gooood,” I say.
“Come on, cowboy. Just a few steps this way.”
The elevator is so far away and then it’s right in front of me. I hand her my key because it’s easier than arguing.
I don’t remember the ride up. I just remember her perfume smells like burnt sugar and makes my stomach twist.
And then—nothing.