11. Crackerbox
ELEVEN
CRACKERBOX
Jules
I am not a damsel. I have never relied on a man to save me, and I do not want to start now. But God damn, there isn’t a worse time for Bess to decide to be a skittish bitch.
“Fuuu…” I have mind enough to censor my language mid-scream, in case cameras are rolling, but that’s about all I have a mind to do.
I hadn’t bothered asking Tucker what to do if Bess decided to go bronco and rear up, because honestly, she looked a few months away from the glue factory.
But when my ass leaves the seat and I’m momentarily airborne before crashing back down, my hoo-ha bruised like a prize fighter’s eye, I seriously regret not asking.
To make matters worse, some idiot lying prone on the grass keeps clicking away on his camera. Bess decides cameras are the spawn of the devil and takes off at a run. Without the reins in my hands I’m completely untethered. And as any astronaut knows, that shit just ain’t safe.
I’m about to kick up and over and try sliding off onto the hard-pressed dirt in a tuck and roll that even the most badass gymnast would be proud of, when I’m lifted off the saddle and dropped onto a pair of hard, hot thighs.
Something large and stiff pokes my ass, and it takes me a minute to realize it’s the pommel of the saddle and not an extra happy Holt.
Bess just keeps running down the main road back to the barn.
“Jules! Jules! Over here!”
The reporters are struggling up off the ground, cameras still at the ready. Like a hard punch to the gut, I realize I’ve given them the perfect front page shot.Me, astronaut extraordinaire, saved from a runaway horse by oil baron Holt West.
Fuck. Me.
Holt spurs his horse after Bess.
“Relax, I’ve got you,” Holt murmurs in my ear.
Relax? How can I relax when I’m freaking seething inside? Using all my strength, I sink my fingers into his thigh, unable to voice my anger just yet.
Too many witnesses.
I’ve ejected out of an F-22 at 13,000 feet over a barren desert.
I’m on target to become the youngest astronaut commander ever , and I hot-wired the motherfucking International Space Station on my last spacewalk.
But in less than a heartbeat, I have no doubt that my most googled picture will be of me in a cowboy’sarms.
I’m sure the majority of women will sigh at the cliché romantic moment come to life that will undoubtedly be plastered all over tomorrow’s tabloids.
But what kills me is the thought that girls who look to me as a role model for breaking glass ceilings and kicking ass while still having boobs will now see me looking helpless, saved only by the strength of a man.
The large stallion eats up the long stretch of road to the main house.
I stare over Holt’s shoulder at the dirt cloud behind us, holding on to my anger and pretending that I don’t like the feel of his arms around me, or his warm breath tickling the curls at the side of my neck.
Instead, I’ll focus on the pommel that’s trying to go where no man has gone before.
Finally, we slow down, pulling up outside the open barn doors. Without waiting for Holt’s assistance, I push off his lap, sliding down and landing on my own two feet. Like I should’ve done with Bess.
“Whoa, hold on a minute,” Holts says, reaching out like he can somehow steady my descent.
“Fuck. You.” I stomp toward the main house.
“Excuse me?” I turn to see Holt dismount his horse. “Why do I deserve an ‘F you’?”
“Jesus! Can’t you even say fuck?”
“Now you’re mad that I don’t curse?” He shakes his head like he thinks I’m deranged.
Well guess what, motherfucker? I feel deranged at this moment.
I square up to him, spine straight, shoulders back.
“Yes, I’m mad that you won’t cuss.” I throw my arms wide.
“It’s freaking unnatural. And I’m also mad that you fucked up the works when the reporters started asking questions.
” I step forward and poke him in the chest. “But most of all, I’m mad because you think of yourself as some saves-the-day kind of man and me as some damsel in distress.
” I raise my finger to his face. “Clue in, cowboy. I’m nobody’s damsel. ”
Whiskey colored eyes narrow to match mine. We stand like two people in an Old West stand-off for an incalculable amount of time.
That is, until Tucker’s voice breaks in.
“Um, Holt? You want me to brush down the horses?” He’s still on his mount, leading that traitorous bitch Bess, who now looks docile as can be, by the reins.
When Holt turns to address Tucker, I stomp my way back to the house.
Inside, I’m greeted by demolition chaos. Ray wasn’t kidding when he said he’d start right away. He’d showed up with the contract and a full platoon of workers just as Tucker and I rode off earlier.
I sidestep a broken kitchen cabinet lying in the foyer and hop over a power saw to reach the stairs.
I’m halfway up the steps before the front door slams open behind me.
“Now just hold on, Julie Starr,” Holt calls to me over the sound of hammering and sanding. “You don’t get to be all high and mighty over something that’s your fault, and then stomp off like a child.”
My whole body stills. I pivot my boot on the stair tread. “My fault?” My voice is low and dangerous and if Holt had any sort of street smarts he’d get his fine ass back to the barn right now. “ My fault?”
Instead he takes off his hat, tossing it on a sawhorse. “Yes. Your fault.” He follows the same path I’d taken, coming to a stop at the base of the stairs, running his hands through his sweaty hair before resting them on his hips.
Like a lion about to pounce, I take my time dropping down a few more steps until my eyes are level with his. Just a few inches between us. I’m somewhat surprised that his plaid shirt doesn’t burst into flames from the anger radiating off me.
“You want to tell me how what just happened is somehow my fault?” I don’t recognize my voice.
I’ve spent my life pretending to play along, all the while doing my own thing.
You get further faster that way. Confrontation just slows down the works.
I learned that from years of living under the general’s roof.
But right here, right now, there is nothing I’d like to do more than lay into the pretentious, ass-kissing, goody-two-shoes, hot-as-fuck cowboy in front of me.
“Sure thing, ma’am. ”
Fucker. He knows I hate that ma’am shit. I keep my mouth closed, teeth grinding so hard I’m sure to have a headache later. When I don’t respond to his taunt, his nostrils flare and I feel a sense of pride that I’ve ruffled his pompous feathers.
He straightens and clears his throat. I’m too mad to even roll my eyes at him.
“First, you invited reporters to my house. I don’t appreciate that.
I stay away from the papers. Always have.
And second, you have no business being on any horse if you don’t know how to control it.
And third, when someone saves your life, you don’t tell them to F off.
You get down on your knees and thank them. ”
He’s breathing hard, but his anger is no match for mine.
The blood rushing through my body has reached its boiling point and all I want to do is punch Holt in his too-handsome face.
But as I’m a freaking astronaut, I can’t.
A broken hand would get me taken off flight rotation.
And if I’m not risking that over some creepy text messages and deliveries, I’m sure as hell not risking it over Holt’s hard head.
Verbal annihilation it is.
“So glad to really know what you think of me, without all that polite bullshit you drown yourself in, cowboy. But let me set you straight. I didn’t invite those reporters here.
I don’t do PR unless expressly told to by NASA.
I don’t like it. And I sure as shit didn’t want anyone to know where I was.
That’s the whole point of me being here in bumfuck Texas, surrounded by horses and dirt. ”
“Oh really? Then who else would benefit from spreading the word that NASA’s most famous astronaut just happens to be staying on West property?”
“Pearl.”
Holt blinks. Then he blinks again.
I cross my arms over my chest. “Does that surprise you? Really ?” At his blank look, my lip curls.
“You think because a woman has her nails done, wears oyster shit around her neck, and speaks like an American impersonating Downton Abbey that she can’t be a back-stabbing bitch?
That she can’t strike back in an underhanded way and let a few reporters know who she saw at the West house before she was unceremoniously fired? Non-disclosure agreement be damned.”
“I…” Holt tries fishing for words, but he comes up with nothing.
“Yeah, that’s right. I may be blunt, curse like a sailor on leave, and dress like a biker bitch, but if I’m going to stab you, it won’t be in the back. It will be face to face where I can see the pain flash in your eyes.”
Damn, I gave myself goosebumps with that speech.
“Jules, I’m sorry, I?—”
“And second, I was on Bess. Bess.” I throw my hands in the air.
“Even you have to know that she is the saddest sack of bones in your whole goddamn stable. I was supposed to plod along with Tucker as my guide like a good little horse-riding newbie until I learned the ropes. I’m not stupid.
No matter what you may think of me. I didn’t get to where I am today because I don’t know how to evaluate risk or know my own limitations.
I am this close to a promotion and I wouldn’t jeopardize that by trying to hot-shot around on one of your godforsaken horses. ”
Holt takes a deep breath, the fight leaving his shoulders.
It signals that I’ve won. I know that he feels bad and that I could just walk away right now, victorious in our verbal skirmish.
But when a man is going down, you might as well take him down all the way.
Another lesson learned from daddy dearest.