5. A Woman Who Slays Her Own Dragons
A WOMAN WHO SLAYS HER OWN DRAGONS
EXTON
“When can I call you again?”
Willa stands in front of her house, head bowed, arms folded loosely over her chest. “You don’t have to, Exton. It was a good time, but—”
“Hey.” I lift a finger to her chin. “It was better than a good time.” I dip my head to hold her gaze. Her eyes are flitting, searching.
“What is it?” I continue.
“It’s just that…” She rises into her real posture, not the slumped woman who has been with me in these last few moments, and exhales sharply. “I like you. I had a great time. You know I’m attracted to you. But I don’t want you to feel obligated.”
I lean in, taking her mouth. It’s possessive but gentle, slow, and deliberate.
“Willa Jayne, I don’t feel obligated to see you again.
I want to see you again. I want to call you again.
I sure as fuck want to taste you again. And I want you to taste me.
I want to watch you come again. I want to have tacos with you at two a.m. And I want to see your dragon again. ”
While I’m speaking, I watch her face brighten and her eyes sparkle. And I see the real her. No pretense.
“Call me, Exton Ranger. We can play the tacos by ear.”
I kiss her forehead and head to my Lyft.
For the first time in a very long time, I leave a woman and want more.
In the Lyft, I watch the city pass by and consider the last couple of hours.
We ate delicious, greasy dive-bar burgers and chatted about anything and everything.
Mine was piled with jalapenos, cream cheese, and grilled onions.
Hers had none of that but did have pulled pork, cheddar, and barbeque sauce on top.
It was lady’s choice, and she went with the messy concoction that ran down her hands.
She didn’t care one bit and licked her fingers instead of fussing and trying to keep it tidy. It was refreshing.
The rings weren’t crispy, but the sauces were worth it.
One garlic aioli, another chimichurri with lime, a salsa ranch, and some avocado something that made her groan and made me hard.
I grabbed her neck and kissed her hard and closed-mouthed.
I caught her eye when no one was looking and dropped my gaze to my lap before giving her a wink.
We drank cold beer, and I told her I didn’t know how long I’d be in town, but I really wanted to see her again.
We laughed with Jon. And Blondie, whose name is Jackie, has demons haunting her. It doesn’t take an expert to figure that out. Her dark, sunken eyes tell a story that no one seems to be reading. And someone should, because it’s a dark and twisted tale, and the damsel needs saving.
Like Jon and me, Jackie and Willa were in school together.
They’ve been thick as thieves since they met when Jackie’s dad got transferred to Midland.
Willa moved to Austin after a brief stint in Dallas for art school.
Jackie did college there and moved to New York with an iPhone and a dream.
She made it, but it cost her. I could smell her desperation. Willa didn’t seem to notice.
I arrive back at my rental car near Jon’s office, to find a ticket on the windshield. I can’t even be mad, since it means I spent a great night enjoying a beautiful woman. Before I head to Mom and Pop’s house which is almost an hour away with no traffic, I shoot her a quick text.
Me: Tonight was amazing. You are amazing. I’ll call you tomorrow, dragon slayer.
I receive no response.
I arrive at the ranch, hating the heaviness that settles into my bones when I walk inside.
I miss Mom moving around the kitchen, singing and dancing while she cooked.
Yelling up the stairs for any one of us—my two brothers, my sister, or me.
For that matter, she’d yell for our friends, who used our revolving front door as a home away from home.
My strong Italian mother was fiery. She was kind and loving but took no shit.
She had no problem whacking us with a pot holder or the towel in her hand, since she didn’t sit idle.
And back in the day, no one thought that was abuse.
She loved hard. She loved big. She loved loud.
She meant for us to be good people. She practically demanded it. Mom was the anchor to the Ranger ship, and without her, we’re adrift.
When she was diagnosed, we all knew what could happen… what would eventually happen. Cancer is a bitch.
She fought with dignity and all her defiant stubbornness, until she decided she was tired of fighting and would rather accept her fate with grace. They called us home. Three days later, holding Pop’s hand and with all of us there, she told us she loved us, closed her eyes, and let go.
I got to be with her when she passed. For that, I’m grateful. But thirty-three years old or not, a good career with the FBI or not, a man losing his mom becomes a boy for a moment. And that moment can last longer than we understand.
Watching Pop deal with her loss? That’s another story. The man is broken. Lost. And there’s nothing anyone can do to help. Mom raised a son; Pop taught me how to be a man. There’s nothing I can offer him, except my presence. Which the Bureau will only allow for a week or two more.
I head to my old room before the sun rises and the damn roosters crow.
I may have grown up with it, but it’s been years since it’s been a regular occurrence.
D.C. doesn’t have roosters. It has a flight path that’s silenced for the beauty sleep of the rich and powerful, and we working stiffs get its benefits.
I spend my time between headquarters and Quantico.
I spend too little time around nature and horses. I miss it sorely.
Me: Up for a ride tomorrow morning?
Brighton: What the hell? It’s three in the morning.
Me: But I’m your favorite brother.
Brighton: Not at three in the morning.
Me: What about at nine?
Brighton: I might like you again at nine.
Me: I meant the ride. And you love me 24/7.
Brighton: Adding you to DND now
Me: Don’t you dare throw me into do not disturb. I’ll tap your phone and make your calls and messages only come in midnight to 5 a.m.
Brighton: 1. That’s illegal and 2. You don’t have the skills.
Me: See you at nine.
Brighton: STOP TEXTING ME AT 3 A.M.
I wake at eight and dress for a ride with Bright. I’ve been in dress shoes and starched shirts so long that boots and a flannel are a welcome relief. I grab a tumbler for coffee and find that Pop is already gone for the day, so I make my way to the barn.
“Morning, asshole,” my older brother, Braxton, quips.
“Fuck you to you too,” I reply, my grin wide.
“Will you two ever stop your bickering?” Pop throws out.
“Nope,” we say in unison.
Pop smiles. “I’m counting on that.”
“Where’s Bright? We’re going to ride this morning.”
“It must be nice being on vacation,” Braxton says.
“I wouldn’t call contracting with the Travis County DA vacation.”
“You and Jon hanging out and drinking is hard to call work.” He sketches air quotes around the word work.
“You remember that episode of Friends when Joey tried to do air quotes?”
“Seriously. That was hysterical,” he says, making the gesture on the wrong words, and we both crack up.
“You gonna saddle your horse, city boy? Do you even remember how?” My sister throws a hand on her hip and lets her sass shine.
“If you want to do it, have at it,” I say, just to get a rise out of her.
“Don’t you dare think I’m going to do all the work for you.”
“Here we go,” Brax says, rolling his eyes. “Always the ballbuster.”
“Ain’t that the truth,” I mumble.
“Don’t you start with me too, Brax,” Brighton retorts.
“I wouldn’t dream of it,” he says with a flourish, before turning to Pop. “Are you gonna ride with them?”
“Not today.” His speech conveys his emotional weariness. It doesn’t take an expert to see it.
“Well, let’s see to our ranch while these two fools argue about the best way to saddle a horse.” Pop follows Braxton and leaves me with Bright. I walk to her and throw an arm around her shoulder as we make our way to the stalls.
Brighton isn’t slight. She’s basically a dynamo at five six with mom’s chestnut hair and coffee-colored eyes. She’s fire and sass and the best of our mom, left here to torture us.
“Who are we riding today, Bright?” I ask as my gorgeous chocolate brown mare, hears my voice and whinnies, popping her nose over the stall door.
“Hey, beautiful. How are you, girl?” I push the door open and set my face to her nose, rubbing around her ears and under her chin. “How are you doing, mama?”
“She’s progressing beautifully, due in five or six months. Her foal is developing right on track. We can take her today. It’s the best time in her pregnancy if she wants to run. Besides, she misses you. It’s obvious. But no wild moves and listen to her if she’s telling you something.”
“That’s what I do,” I say to Bright, but am still looking at Marron, rubbing her neck. “Wanna go, girl? Wanna go play?” Marron shuffles and nickers. A laugh, too seldom these days, pours from my chest. “You do. Well, come on then. Let’s get you saddled up.”
I saddle Marron, and Bright readies her young stallion, Strait, and we make our way out of the stables and into the brilliant Texas morning.
We ride for a while, letting the horses lead and set the pace. Strait is rambunctious, but nothing my sister can’t handle, and Marron’s presence, along with Bright’s guidance and steady hand, means he’ll be a great horse for riding and breeding.
When we slow from our canter and head into an easier pace, I look at Brighton. “I miss this place.” I say, apropos of nothing.
“It’s an easy place to miss,” she replies.
“I miss you too,” I add.
“Same, Exton. It’s been shitty. I’m glad you’ve been here. It’s easier to pretend like old times when we’re all—” She stops herself and looks off into the distance before continuing, “When we’re together. You and Layton being home means everything.”
I nod.
“Ever think of moving home?”
“On days like today I do.”
“There’s always a place for you here.”
“Says the vet on a horse ranch,” I mutter. “What are you going to do with a counter interrogation instructor? Have me work negotiations on the geldings?”
“It’s not a bad idea,” she says. “Brax has more than enough to do and Pop is…” She sighs and finishes, “You know.”
“I know…” I nod in reply. “How are you really, Bright?”
“If you don’t ask it like my big brother, then I’d tell you I’m fine. Busy. Happy. Fine. If you make me cry, I might have to kill you, so ask it normally.” She smiles and, before I can read anything with her, she kicks Strait’s flanks and is gone.
“Ya,” I call and flick my reins gently, avoiding any movement with my legs for the sake of the foal, and allow Marron to run. She sets her own pace and takes the easy way home.
I’m rubbing her down after her run and feeding her treats when my phone vibrates.
Willa: Dragon slayer?
Me: You strike me as a woman who slays her own dragons.
No immediate reply so I go back to my girl, giving her love while I have the time and am here. I return her to her stall and rub her nose, passing her an oatmeal cookie, her favorite. I hear Bright fake clear her throat, hands on hips, just as my phone buzzes again.
“No more cookies. You’ll spoil her.”
Willa: You’d be an easy man to fall for, Exton Ranger.
“What’s that smile for?”
I wipe my face clean, a practiced response to any question I don’t want to entertain.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Bright.”
Me: Same could be said for you, Willa Jayne.
Willa: I don’t get called a man often these days.
Me: You know what I mean.
“Seriously, what’s with the grin?”
Dragon Slayer: I do.
Dragon Slayer: Slay my own dragons, that is.
Me: …which is why you’d be easy to fall for. A man loves when a woman knows who she is. And what she wants.
My phone gets ripped from my hand, and my sister runs.
“You better run.”
“Who’s Dragon Slayer?” she yells, giggling, like we’re ten and eight again and I just stole her diary.
She’s fast, and so am I, but I do my running on city streets and treadmills, not rocky terrain and uneven grass. We both stop dead when we see Brax and Elias Finchley, Brax’s college roommate, standing in front of Pop’s house, staring with confused looks.
Pop walks out as I catch up to Bright and interjects himself between the two of us, as if she needs his protection.
He’s always been wrapped around her finger.
From the moment she was born. I think he sometimes fails to recognize that she is strong and, like Willa, would be a greater threat to a dragon than they would be to her.
I hold out my hand, huffing after the run, and my phone appears, passed around Pop’s barrel chest. Bright’s giggle is as unmistakable as what she says next.
“Exton is seeing someone.” I drop my head.
The commentary begins bubbling from the three men around me just as she adds, “He seems like a nice man.”
My head springs up.
“I need some water.” With that, she makes for the porch while my dad turns his curious face my way.
Brax stands, hands limp at his sides, mouth hanging open like the hinge is broke. Eli says, “Happy for you, Exton,” and heads toward the porch.
“Brighton!” I yell, “Come back here.”
“So thirsty,” she yells and goes inside our childhood home with Eli on her heels and shuts the door.
I’m left staring at my dad and brother and knowing I just got outed.