Chapter Five

Hometown Hoes

Waking up the next morning is brutal. I stayed up too late actually plotting out the thriller I’ve been dreaming of writing. Ross provided  more blood-thirsty inspiration than I thought possible and I was making notes until way past midnight. I was too euphoric from finally doing something about the burning desire to weave snippets of inspiration I’ve had over the years into something cohesive.

The existence this basic outline is miraculous after so many years of being told it was something I could never do. And believing it.

But I’m doing it now, aren't I?

Unfortunately for me, I’m not an author yet. I still have to pay the bills and dreaming of writing doesn't do it. I live in the ranching world and ranching starts at the wee hours of the morning. Horses don’t do alarm clocks and neither do the people who tend them. Even after growing up in this town, I am not one of those people self-programmed to rise with the morning light, so my alarm clock rattled my brain just before sun-up.

Needless to say, I’m pretty wrecked. It’s a harsh reality to face after spending a couple of weeks in Hollywood with my head in the clouds. I liked who I was there, and it had nothing to do with being a visitor away from my real life. It had everything to do with the people around me. People who encouraged me and saw potential. Who didn’t expect me to follow any particular path other than the one I was led down.

I felt like myself there, like every day had potential to be the best day ever. I used to believe that back in high school, before the expectations forced onto me weighed me down. Before prom night, when I finally recognized the red flags that were warning me away from a future of misery as Mrs. Ross Johnson. A truth stranger than fiction? It was in Hollywood, land of make-believe, where I found my smile again, my sunshine.

Now that I’m back home, the weight of those long held expectations has stolen my smile away.

But I’m not giving in. I’m determined to get back the hope I’ve lost along the way. And I’m tossing the judgement I’m sure to face aside. I will write the story I’ve dreamed of writing even though it will probably go nowhere. Following my dreams might do the trick, shining a light through the fog of doubt cast over me by the Silver Valley busy bodies.

But first I have to get through the grind of my day. Which might suck the life right out of me.

After a full shift at the Seed and Grain filling orders and sweeping ailes, I’m ready to collapse. I was only gone two weeks, for goodness sakes! I shouldn’t be this wiped out. I have a strong sense I’m more emotionally tired than physically tired, but what can a girl do about that?

Other than text her new besties…

It occurs to me that Brianna and Char could give me a mental boost. Brianna may be famous as they come but she’s also more grounded than almost anyone I know. Fame hasn’t dulled her shine, that’s for sure.

I open up the group chain as I consider texting all of them. But no, I’m not ready to put myself under the spotlight with Clinton yet. Everyone else? No problem. I have nothing to hide.

Clinton, however, is on another level. He’s a complete grouch and seriously overprotective. Although, he is paid to be in charge of saving Brianna’s literal life, so I’ll give him some grace. Plus, the way he clenches his jaw when he’s particularly grouchy is my new obsession. Which is why I’m not ready for him to pick apart my proximity to Ross. I don’t want him to think less of me.

Because I already know what Clinton would say if he knew what I was puting up with: “Stay away from that one.”

Yeah, I’m trying. Someone needs to give my parents the memo.

Ugh. Now I’m irritated with them about yesterday’s ambush all over again. Time to call in the calvary.

Quickly adding Char and Bree to a girls only chain, I send them an S.O.S.

Me: Anybody out there? I’m in Hallmark Hell.

Only seconds later I see the telltale bouncing dots of an incoming reply.

Char: Sounds like a romcom spoof. I’m in. What time will it be on?

Me: Not a movie. My real life! I was ambushed by my ex at the airport. MY PARENTS SENT HIM!

Bree: what??? Why would they do that to you????

Char: Do you need me to fly there and have words with mom and pop?

Me: NO. That would not go over well. They just don’t see through his BS facade. But I talked to mom. I’m sure the meddling is over.

I hope.

Char: nothing worse than a clueless helping hand.

Me: hence the Hallmark Hell headline.

Bree: what can I do to help?

Me: honestly this. Just knowing I can text you and unload is everything

Bree: you got it. Anytime, day or night

Char: ditto. I love a good bitch session so send it my way

Me: ❤️❤️❤️

Me: I’m about to stop at the Grab n Go so I bet I’ll have some drama to share soon.

Char: I’ll be waiting!

Bree: If Marjorie is working, don’t hug anyone! It’ll be front page news by dinner.

I groan outloud remembering that day. I hugged Zack goodbye after bumping into him for the first time in four years and Miss Can’t-Mind-Her-Own-Business snapped pics and sold them to Star Tracker. That was my first go-round with the rumor mill in Hollywood. The little bee debacle was my second. I’m not itching for a third anytime soon.

I send my thanks and virtual hugs with a gif before heading into the store. Mom texted a couple of things for me to pick up on my way home including a new garden hoe from the seed and grain which I already picked up. 

As I step inside the store, I wish-not for the first time-that there was more than one grocery store in town. This one carries the bare minimum and is the only one around for at least 50 miles.

I grab the bag of flour and the cocoa powder she requested. Mom must be baking a cake tonight, which isn’t unusual. She’s never used a boxed mix in her life and I think she’d keel over if she realized most everyone else does.

I will admit her cake is the best I’ve ever had.

Rushing to the check out because I’m dying to get home and take a shower after the long day I had hauling bags of grain, which is dusty work, I skid to a halt when I find none other than Marjorie at the checkout gabbing with Betty, the owner.

Beady eyed Betty is what Ross always calls her behind her back. She caught him nicking more than one bar of candy a time or two and has never let him forget it.

I should thank her for her service in knocking his ego down a peg every time she sees him. But I don’t. Because now her beady eyes are aimed at me right along with good ol’ Marj.

 I should have shoved the garden hoe in my purse before I came in her.

Self-defense and all.

“Just this today,” I say, with brighter energy than I’m feeling. But I’d do anything to get out of here without an interrogation.

“Sure thing.” Marj drawls.

Betty’s eyes are still locked on me as she pulls out the cash drawer. Must be time to count the til.

“Heard you were off visitin’ that hoity pop star the Maron boy is tangled up with.”

“Um,” my eyes pop, not expecting Marj to go straight for the jugular. If Clinton only knew what this woman had said…

I picture his jaw clenching, his fury filled eyes locked on me. A full body chill runs over me that I’m unable to disguise. The groan I let loose sounds pornographic.

Marjorie’s jaw drops. “So it’s like that, is it?” She looks over at Betty. “I’ve heard the talk about what they get up to in that town.”

“From who?” I manage to find my voice at her insinuation. Glancing at the magazine rack, I see the main source. Star Tracker is front and center. Brianna isn’t on the cover but she will be considering the bee story made it to their website already.

She won’t make eye contact as she bags up my items. “Who do you think? Ross. Poor guy was heartbroken after what you’d been caught doing. Wouldn’t have believed it if I hadn’t just seen you go all glassy eyed thinking about your little tryst.”

I gasp. Loudly.

“Are you fucking kidding me?”

“Well!” Marjorie shoves the bag my way. “Get out with your dirty mouth.”

Betty chimes in. “Your mama would be shocked.”

I roll my eyes. She’s a rancher’s wife. She’s heard much worse than that in the barn.

Picking up my bag I spin away and leave without haste. One day back and I’m already sick of this place.

“I told Ross he needed to keep his eye on you. He let you out of arms reach and look where it got him.”

Seething, I stomp out the door and directly to my car. Breathing through my nose, I picture Clinton glaring at those two, scaring the beejezus out of them without laying a hand on either of them. Zack calls it the “hands off” method because Clinton can get even the toughest nut to crack with simply a look.

I wish he’d crack the two of them.

Yanking my phone out of my pocket, I make the impulse decision to text him. I thought of some security questions to ask last night in regards to my plot line, but now I want them for an entirely different reason.

Me: How do you knock someone out?

It isn’t until after I hit send that I realize I didn’t introduce myself or give any context for my question. If he didn’t think I was unstable before I sent it, he does now.

Oh well.

My heart rate picks up when he replies almost immediately.

Clinton: who do you need taken care of?

His answer shocks me. It’s a little scary that he went directly into beat down mode. But it’s also so hot I have to fan myself. 

Me: this is Colleen, btw

Clinton: I know

Clinton: Who’s bothering you?

Now that’s a loaded question considering the last 24 hours of my life. For now I deviate back to my plot questions instead of the naked truth. 

Me: I’m working on writing a psychological thriller and the antagonist needs to knock out the hero.

Me: so…a punch? A well placed nerve pinch? A chemically laced cloth? What’s the most efficient?

Clinton: depends on physical strength paired with opportunity. If the bad guy is stronger, a punch to the head could do it. But that would make your hero look like a wimp.

Me: interesting take. So if I build in an opportunity for the bad guy to surprise the hero, something like a chemical would work fast enough?

Clinton: I don’t like that either. The hero should never be caught unaware.

I laugh. That’s my storm cloud. Stressing about a fictional bad guy. Shaking my head, I send a reply knowing he’s not going to engage with me much longer. This text thread is already more conversation than I had with him in person during the two weeks I was out there.

Me: it's just a story. And every hero has flaws.

Clinton: then he’s not a very good hero.

I stare at his latest reply, wondering who hurt this man. His protective instincts are going to be his downfall if he can’t even relax about a fictional story. Makes me want to keep pressing him. But not today. I don’t want to break the man.

Me: would it be ok if I text questions like this once in a while?

Clinton: yeah, no problem. I didn’t realize you’re a writer. I’m happy to help whenever.

His reaction leaves me feeling off balance. He called me a writer. He didn’t question my claim to be writing at all. He didn’t minimize it or act like it was silly. How did the grumpiest man I’ve ever met who’s entire life revolves around seeing through people’s bullshit end up paying me the nicest unintended compliment of my entire life?

This man who accepts nothing at face value offered me blind acceptance of my aspirations.

I sit up straighter. Glancing back at the Grab n’ Go, Marjorie standing at the cash register with her arms crossed glaring out the window in my direction, I scoff.

I’m never letting any of these hometown hoes question me again.

Me: Thanks!

I snap send after tapping out my text and toss the phone onto the passenger seat. Then I scoot home to work on my future.

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https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=x34icYC8zA0