Epilogue
Grady
“And now, without further ado...”
Ira Sullivan stands next to a purple sheet, roughly the color of the velvet ropes lining either side of the red carpet leading directly into the Shooting Gallery Arcade. “Allow me to introduce, Nash Remington!”
The crowd of about three dozen onlookers, reporters, podcasters, social media influencers, and local radio station DJs cheers politely as Sullivan whips off the shroud, the cardboard cutout of a smiling, winking, pointing-two-pistols cowboy nearly topples over.
There is laughter and some polite “booing” as Sullivan holds his hands up in mock surrender.
“I know, I know,” the slick businessman announces, mugging it up for the cameras as shudders snap and flashbulbs ignite and the bright light over the camera from Channel 34 News brightens the already sunny Friday morning.
“Unfortunately, Nash had to rustle up some bad hombres over the weekend and couldn’t be with us in person today, but if he were, we know that he’d want to welcome you to the Shooting Gallery Arcade with open arms! ”
Cheers erupt, mostly from Chet and me standing just shy of the crowd, waving Nash’s cardboard face glued to a popsicle stick.
We’re not alone. Most of the crowd has one, another one of the goodies from the shipment Wild West Studios sent just in time for the grand opening.
Those without Nash face fans pop off cap guns that smell like burning coffee, tip rubber cowboy hats, or show off tiny tin badges clipped to their shirts, proclaiming them honorary members of the Official Nash Remington Fan Club.
Amazingly, the absence of the real Nash Remington isn’t quite the end of the world, Chet thought it might be after learning his hit TV show, Smoking Guns, had been canceled earlier that week.
If anything, it had only renewed our interest in turning today’s Grand Opening into a gala affair, something even I didn’t think we could pull off.
And yet, we have. Sullivan mugs it up for the cameras before turning the life-size cardboard cutout into a six-foot photo prop, holding it in place while the crowd eagerly queues up to snap a quick selfie before disappearing into the chaotic shooting gallery just beyond.
Parker clomps up the sidewalk behind us, a leggy blond in tow. “Jesus,” I grumble, shaking my head. “Another one?”
“Another what?” Chet asks before turning to see for himself. “Oh, another one of those.”
Parker grins and doffs his hat. “Fellas,” he says in that fake voice he uses when he wants to show off for a new lady friend. “Meet Cherry Cola!”
“Cherry,” I offer, struggling not to snicker.
“Ms. Cola,” Chet beams as Parker shoves his big, size thirteen boot across my sneakers. “So nice to finally meet you.”
“Finally?” Cherry, or Ms. Cola, or whatever her name is, twirls bright red hair around one finger.
“Oh yes,” Chet insists as Parker glares at him from under his cowboy hat. “Parker’s told us so much about you!”
“You dog you.” Cherry beams, slugging him on the shoulder before teetering off on towering heels to get in the selfie line and pose with Nash’s life-size replica.
“Jesus, Parker,” I huff.
“Look who’s talking,” he wheezes, giggling as Cherry poses with a local reporter as if it’s the most natural thing in the world. “I’m surprised you two horn dogs came up for air long enough to show up to this little shindig today.”
“Wouldn’t miss it for the world.” Chet beams, slugging me on the shoulder the way Cherry had Parker. “Would we, babe?”
I blush but nod enthusiastically. “Wouldn’t and ... contractually? Couldn’t.”
“Oh right.” Chet chuckles.
Parker rolls his eyes, nodding at the entrance. “Ain’t you two coming in?”
“What?” I tease, offering two-finger pointing hand pistols cheesily. “And show you up at the shooting gallery?”
“Fat chance.” He snickers, pausing as Cherry Cola finally gets her shot at a selfie with cardboard Nash. His eyes dance from me to Chet and back again. “And now? What’s next for you two?”
I wink as Chet drags me playfully away. “Wouldn’t you like to know?” I tease.
Chet’s a few feet away, tummy rumbling and eager for something other than the kid’s meal at the Cracked Egg Café. “I saw the contract on your desk,” Parker whispers, winking before I turn to follow. “I already know what’s next.”
“Then that makes two of us.” I beam, hardly surprised.
“When are you going to tell him?” Parker asks, waving innocently as Chet turns around, making his pouty, baby, impatient face. Funny, I think to myself, already blushing. It looks so different with his clothes on. “On the way to the airport?”
“Nothing that dramatic.” I sigh. “I mean, after all, he’s changed his ticket to fly out on Monday, so I’ve got all weekend to convince him what a great idea it is.”
“Don’t make the boy wait,” Parker warns with a wink as Cherry Cola begs him to join her on the red carpet. “After all, haven’t you waited long enough?”
His words are still ringing in my ears as I race to catch up with Chet, the crowd behind us fading even as others race to join in the festive weekday fun. “What was that all about?” he asks, taking my hand as I glance around for witnesses. Then I realize: why?
“Nothing much,” I hedge as we walk, hand in hand, toward our favorite breakfast joint.
“It wouldn’t be about that spiffy new contract sitting on your desk now, would it?” Chet teases knowingly.
“What?” I tug him to a standstill, turning him to face me in the middle of the street. “When did you see that?”
“This morning when I asked you where the tape was,” he insists. “And you said ... on your desk.”
“Shit!” I literally smack my head. “So ... you read it?” He nods. “All of it?” Another nod. “And ... you’re thinking of signing it?”
“Already did,” he insists, turning to walk away with a sudden pep in his already jaunty step. This time? I join him.
“Seriously.”
“Why not?” He sighs. “I read the terms. Carefully, I might add.”
“And?”
“It’s only for a year,” he begins coyly.
“Standard contract language,” I insist. “We can change it later? Or now?”
“I think it’s fine,” he insists. “After all, in a year I might—”
“Get tired of me?” I sag at the thought.
He punches my arm. “I was going to say ... get promoted, Silly!”
I brighten, already picturing what it might be like to work in the same office with Chet on a daily basis. Even if he will be training mostly with Parker as our newest Junior Property Manager. “Oh, yes, well ... it will depend on your performance.”
He pretends to be surprised, if only to layer in a little drama to the already eventful Friday morning. “My performance, huh? In or out of bed, Cowboy?”
“Both, I suppose?” I mutter through a simmering blush.
“Well then,” he hems, pretending to turn away just as I open the café door for him.
For once, with all the hubbub down at the Arcade, it’s practically deserted inside.
All the better to canoodle, gorge ourselves, and plan our future together.
“Why not skip breakfast and get started on my, uh, performance review right away?”
“Skip breakfast?” I tease, beaming as he struts inside. “Trust me, City Boy. You’ll need all the energy you can get.”
“Oh yeah, why’s that?” he sasses playfully, as if he already knows the answer.
“Because, Silly. My performance reviews? Are very, very thorough.”
He winks and tugs me deeper into the café, Trixie waving to a booth in her section and not batting an eye at the pretty boy leading me in by the hand.
“I’m counting on it, Cowboy.” And then, just before we sit, he leans in for a quiet little kiss, big as you please. “But mostly? I’m just counting on you.”
The End
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