Chapter 4
Val
“Are you kidding me?You no-called, no-showed for two shifts, and wonder why I don’t want you back?” My hand grips the counter hard enough my knuckles turn white.
It’s either that or start throwing glasses against the wall, and they’re expensive.
“I had a flat tire.” Bethany’s whiny voice grates through the speaker of my phone.
“That’s why you call. Or text. Or communicate somehow.” I take a deep breath. “Don’t use me as a reference.” Ending the call with a push of the button does not have the same satisfaction as slamming down a receiver.
At thirty-four, I’m barely old enough to remember how good that felt.
Maybe I should put in a land-line into my office?
But what the hell am I going to do for Labor Day? It always gets busy as shit in here, with less than a week to train anyone.
Pain in the ass.
There are downsides to owning this place in the middle of nowhere. Anyone worth a damn is already working on one of the big ranches in the area.
I’m sick of trying to hire these prissy primadonna arm candy girls who flock out here looking for a cowboy.
They should learn that ranch hands aren’t all they’re cracked up to be.
I should know. Not only was I married to one, who turned out to be an absolute monster, but I see them strut through my doors here daily.
Ten feet tall and bullet proof until they have a few beers. Then they either start brawling over dick size, or crying into their drink because they can’t keep a woman.
I need a vacation. Except it takes a little thing called “money”.
AndfuckI need help.
Scotty has already told me to pound sand. Am I really that hard to work for?
Just because I ask him to do things and actually expect them to be done?
He’s so dramatic.
“Hey, Val! Two more!” Russ holds up a pair of fingers from the table he’s sitting at.
When I slide the bottles in front of him and his buddy, I pause. “I haven’t seen that many of you Black Gulch boys lately. Is there a boycott I don’t know about?” Perching my fist into my hip, I bounce the empty tray off my knee idly.
“Nah. They all just have women and babies everywhere.” He smirks. “My wife doesn’t lock me down like them.” He raises his beer in a salute to his grinning friend.
“Huh. Or maybe she likes you not being in the house,” I quip before turning away.
“She got you, man,” the buddy laughs.
It’s always the same.
And it’s almost four. Food orders will be coming in soon.
Crap.
The bell over the door is almost a sound I dread when I’m here on my own.
Sophia McCullough saunters in with all of her rodeo queen rhinestone bling reflecting the halogen lights.
