Total pages in book: 29
Estimated words: 26982 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 135(@200wpm)___ 108(@250wpm)___ 90(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 26982 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 135(@200wpm)___ 108(@250wpm)___ 90(@300wpm)
The bartender tips the bottle and fills both the tiny glasses, setting it down and tipping his head to the side, looking at me.
Here it comes.
“Ain’t you Roman Marshall?”
I throw back my shot, letting the burning liquid do its work before I nod, churning over in my mind the ten ways I’m going to need to hold myself back if he pops off about the whole doping bullshit that went down at the reining finals this last May that ended my white-hot career with a planted syringe and a jealous competitor with an evil streak he inherited from his father.
Casey has my back. He always does. “Yes, he is, and we are done here.” He throws an arm around my shoulder, nods at the bartender, and spins me around. “Time to sit and wait for this guy to show up.”
He looks back to the bar. “Send over a bottle of whiskey and three glasses.”
We work our way to a corner table, and my eyes catch a black Stetson coming through the front door. Everything freezes. I squint, making sure I’m seeing what I’m seeing.
“You said the guy’s name was Emmett Smith.” I tense, and Casey knows me well enough to know something’s up. The timbre of my voice, the energy in my body...
“Yeah, Emmett Smith. So what?”
“Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck.” I hustle Casey to the corner just as a waitress with red curly hair and white Tony Llamas sets down the bottle and glasses on the table.
I snatch away one of the shot glasses as Casey throws up his hands.
“Dude, what the fuck?”
“Take a look at who’s walking through the door, bro. He said he’d be wearing a gray hat, brown blazer, and Lucchese’s with silver tips?”
I bob my eyebrows as my brother plays catch-up, eyes connecting to the man in the doorway. “That’s Emmett Smith.”
His face turns whiter than Wonder Bread. “What? I don’t—”
“That’s Emmett Smith.” Luckily, the guy’s paused in the doorway, talking on his phone. “Fucker. That’s also Buck Ryder, Colt Ryder’s dad. Shit. It always sounded like an alias, but I never cared enough to look into it. We’re screwed. He fucking hates me, ever since I knocked out a couple of his son’s teeth for talking shit about Emily. Does he know I’m your partner?”
I raise my eyebrows, backing toward the other exit to my left that leads to the hotel pool and elevators. If I exchange words with Buck Ryder, fucking Emmett Smith, it won’t end well. I fucking know it. He’s an asshole who’s in love with his own rodeo legend, and his son’s a motherfucker.
And if I’m placing bets, the two that set me up at the finals.
Casey is shaking his head. “Naw, I didn’t give a name. Since you had the problem, you said just keep the corporation in my name. I told them I was bringing along someone who helped me build the app, but that’s all. I don’t think they even asked for a name. I’m it.”
“Good.”
The two of them ended my riding career, even if I can’t prove it, and I won’t let Buck Ryder, Emmett Smith, or any other name he chooses to use fuck up this deal as well.
“Land this deal. He obviously doesn’t know who you are, or that I’m in it with you. We shook hands five years ago on this. I trust you. But if I’m here, this shit is not gonna go the way we want. I’ll send Carrie down to be your…silent app partner. All you told him is your partner would be with you, right?”
Casey nods, jaw hanging unhinged.
“So Carrie’s gonna be your partner for today, and you are gonna close this.”
Casey looks like he’s gonna throw up. He’s more brains than me, and he’s tough, but together we are exponentially more intimidating and stronger than apart. But he’s gonna have to man up, because that’s the only way we get this deal.
And despite my personal feelings about Smith or Ryder or whatever, and his maggot of a son, I’m ready to take the money his conglomerate is offering. I just can’t be at the table when the contract is signed.
I spin on my heel, jogging backward toward the exit, shaking my head and pointing at Casey. “He’s coming. I gotta go.”
6
Emily
“It’s the biggest Boot Barn in the state!” I clap as Roman parks the truck in front of the store. Carrie and Casey are in the back seat, and Chris Stapleton is coming through the speakers.
Everything is perfect.
My belly does ten kinds of turns. We’re all riding high. There was some sort of hiccup, and Carrie bailed on me during our second episode of Drag Race to go step in for Roman.
When he came back to the room, he wasn’t in a talking mood, and I’m all for poking the bull, but even I know when to turn into a purring kitten and sit tight.