“Is it bad? Did you get too much sun? I shouldn’t have been talking your ear off. Do you want me to see if Ranger Mitch has any aspirin?”
“I think Sergeant Cowboy would tell me to cut my head off with a rusty machete before he gave me painkillers.”
Charlie still looked worried. “Do you need more coffee?”
She shook her head. “I’ll take a nap when we get back.”
“Want some company?” Smithson asked, sliding between Jean and Charlie.
“You’ve stepped in it now,” Charlie observed.
Jean assumed he was referring to the verbal evisceration shewas about to deliver until she noticed he was looking at the ground. More specifically, Charlie had his gaze trained on the fresh horse droppings Smithson had walked right into.
Cursing, Smithson wiped his shoe on the grass, loudly informing everyone in hearing range how much he’d paid for his stupid loafers.
“That was your first mistake,” Sergeant Cowboy said. “The rest of you, mount up.”
“What about me?” Smithson whined.
“You can follow when you get yourself cleaned up. The horse knows where it’s going.”
“Are you kidding me? I’m supposed to trust a horse to get me home?”
“Ever seen a horse step in a pile of crap?”
“No,” Smithson snapped, like that was the stupidest question he’d ever been asked.
“That’s right. Horses are too smart for that shit.”
Chapter 24
Short of adding spinning saw blades or a cloud of poison gas, it was hard for Charlie to imagine a less appealing environment than the party bus Smithson had commissioned to bring the younger members of the group to Deadwood that evening. Between the flashing lights and mirrored chrome, a stereo system that vibrated from the carpeted floor up to the base of Charlie’s skull, and the general stickiness of every soft surface, he couldn’t find a safe place for his eyes to land, much less the rest of his body.
Worst of all, Jean wasn’t there, having declined on the grounds that she wasn’t feeling well. Charlie hated the idea of her alone in her wagon with a headache—or worse! He’d wanted to call a doctor, but his mom suggested a care package instead, filled with painkillers, dark chocolate, a romance novel, fluffy socks, and several of Mugsy’s teas. He’d have to hope it was enough.
This bus was the last place anyone would want to convalesce, fluffy socks or not, so in that sense Charlie was glad Jean had been spared. And yet he felt every added mile between them as if it were yanking on something tender inside him that would snap if it stretched too far.
“You are sighing,” Emma Koenig observed, peering at him from across the aisle. She’d had the foresight to bring sunglasses on this after-dark excursion, so maybe this wasn’t her first time riding a party bus. Beside her, Mugsy was taking the old-school approach, closing her eyes while her lips moved in what was either a prayer for serenity or a curse on Smithson.
Someone turned the music up even louder, eliciting cheersfrom the front of the bus. Drinks had been flowing freely all day. Not unexpected with this many liquor distributors gathered in one place, but another source of anxiety for Charlie. Human behavior was hard enough to predict without throwing the mood-altering volatility of alcohol into the mix.
At least the thundering bass meant no one expected him to make conversation. Even Mugsy and Emma, seated side by side, were reduced to touching each other’s arms and hands when they wanted to point something out.
Only Smithson seemed undeterred by the background noise, yelling at his pack of followers like he was delivering a TED Talk on a dance floor. Charlie caught snatches of his monologue and was surprised to find that he was discussing business. Stock options, import taxes, market penetration: all the buzzwords Charlie knew he should care about, that inevitably turned to white noise whenever his father mentioned them.
“Hey, Two Buck,” Smithson shouted, cupping his hands around his mouth like a megaphone. Charlie braced for a pop quiz he was bound to fail, about MOQ or ISO or any of the other acronyms he could never keep straight. “How come your girl isn’t riding with us?”
“She has a headache,” Charlie answered without thinking. “Which is none of your business.” He could have kicked himself for revealing anything about Jean to her old enemy.
“I got the deluxe bus for her.” Smithson spread his arms wide, like they should all be grateful to him for sourcing this traveling hellscape. “Hey, maybe she’s coming on horseback. That girl canride… but I guess you already knew that, eh Chuck?”
There was a round of chortling and hand slapping, in case Charlie had missed the double meaning. Then Smithson grabbed the driver’s microphone and started singing over the PA system.
“Silent storm, you rocked me—”
Mugsy stomped up the aisle and grabbed the handset. “Grow up,” she said to Smithson, her voice echoing through the speakers. “This isn’t your frat house.” After offering what looked like an apology to the driver, she returned to her seat, still muttering.
“If this is the future of the industry, maybe I don’t want to be part of it.”
