“Light touching,” he says, as if that makes any of this better. “Just a photo and video of the act for the customer to keep. You keep your hat on and lose everything else. If you want tomake real money, you upgrade to the Premium Package. That’s when?—”
Oh hell no. “Not freaking happening,” I mutter as I turn and hightail back to my Mazda. “I’ll leave the elf uniform at the UPS store,” I call over my shoulder without looking back at Sleazy Santa.
He sputters behind me, “You’ll never find another gig that pays this well.”
I ignore him as I fumble my Mazda’s door open and launch myself inside. Pissed I fell for this.
My breath fogs up the windshield as I turn the key. The engine stutters to life, barely. There’s a rattling behind the glove compartment as I put the car in reverse, and I hold my breath, hoping my trusty rusty Mazda at least gets me back to my apartment.
I pull out of the lot, gripping the wheel so tightly my knuckles go white. There’s a moment, as I wait for a break in traffic, where the car idles and everything is eerily quiet.
I roll up my window, jam the heater to “MAX,” and head home. I make it about three blocks before my Mazda starts screaming for help.
At first, it’s just the normal, sad little whine from the engine. Been there, heard that. I pat the dash and mutter, “Don’t you dare, Zippy Doo. Just a little farther.” My car answers with a sound like a coffee grinder eating gravel. Louder. Then a thunk so violent it jars my teeth.
Not kidding, my heart drops to my toes as the steering wheel shudders under my hands. The heater coughs out one last pitifulpuff of lukewarm air before giving up completely. Of course. Because the only thing worse than being broke is being broke and freezing your butt off in a dying car with no way to pay for the repairs.
Oh, and the check engine light? Now it’s flashing in time with the radio, which is playing Mariah Carey at full blast.
Fate is trolling me. Big time.
I jerk the wheel and lurch Zippy Doo onto the shoulder, right next to a field that’s as empty as my bank account. The engine wheezes, shudders, and goes dead. Silence. Mariah Carey’s last note is still ringing in my ears.
Things have definitely gone from bad to worse.
It’s pitch black outside except for the sad glow from a streetlamp up the road. I smack the dashboard. Nothing. I try the key again. Not even a whimper. I’m officially stranded while wearing Elf Hooker Chic with no coat, no power, no heat, and not even the dignity of pants.
I fumble for my phone and... are you kidding me? The screen’s completely black. Dead as a doornail. I press the button a million times. Nada.
This cannot be happening.
But it is. I take a deep breath and mentally pull up my big girl pants. I’ve been in jams before. Plenty. Growing up in an orphanage taught me to be tough. And to rely on myself. I tell myself I’ve been in worse jams than this, and I’ve always gotten by. I’ll find a way out of this, too. After my little pep talk, I open the door and step out into the chilly, Texas night. Freaking hell. It’s cold.
My entire body does a full-body shiver as I huddle against the wind, regretting every life choice that landed me in this position. I mean, what kind of cosmic joke is it to get stuck on the side of the road in slutty Elf Hooker Chic? I’m so cold my knees are knocking louder than Mariah Carey’s high note. My fingers are numb. My teeth are chattering.
There’s a bar down the road. The Silver Spur Saloon. I’ve driven past it a hundred times but never actually set foot inside. Guess tonight’s the night I bust in wearing a skirt so short it technically qualifies as a belt and an elf hat that jingles every time I blink.
Please, universe, don’t let me die of embarrassment. I push open the door to the Silver Spur Saloon, and every single head turns at once. Of course, they do. Because I’m the literal opposite of subtle right now.
Desperation sucks.
TWO
FLINT
The Silver Spoon Spuris packed like usual when Tanner and I take a seat at the bar, prepared to drink away the week and argue over whatever-the-fuck he brought me here to try to ease me into.
He thinks I don’t know that’s why we’re here, but I know how the fucker operates. Anytime he wants me to do some bullshit,we hit the bar first. We’re always three beers in before he gets around to dropping the bomb, like he thinks a few pints of Silver Spoon IPA will make the news go down easier. Newsflash: It never does.
But so long as he’s paying, I play along.
“You going to get the cattle moved to the north field next week?” he asks as Lex, the bartender, slides two pints across the battered bar top to us.
“Yep.” I take a long sip. Christ, this shit is good. “We need to bolster the windbreaks before we move them.”
“Good deal.” Tanner runs a hand through his dark hair, sighing. “If the weather turns after Christmas, we’ll need to bring them all in. The new cattle run needs to be finished before then.”
I narrow my eyes on him, instantly suspicious. “Is that why we’re drinking today?”
