I pack the leftover chicken and rice salad in a container, along with a bottle of water and some silverware. Real food, not the greasy takeout he’d probably otherwise eat.
The drive to the office is filled with anticipation. I rehearse what I’ll say, how I’ll surprise him. Maybe I’ll sneak up behind him while he’s working, wrap my arms around his neck...
The elevator dings as it reaches the 34th floor. The firm is dark except for a light coming from Richard’s corner office. My heels click softly against the marble floor as I approach, the container of food in my hand.
I push open the door slightly, a playful smile on my lips. “Surprise,” I start to say, but the words die in my throat.
Richard is there, but he’s not alone. He’s on his knees, his head buried between Penelope’s legs as she leans back against his desk, her fingers tangled in his hair. Her yellow dress is hiked up around her waist, her eyes closed in ecstasy.
For a moment, I can’t process what I’m seeing. My brain refuses to accept the image before me. Richard. My Richard. With Penelope. My best friend.
The container of food slips from my hand, clattering to the floor. Chicken and rice scatter across the pristine marble. “What the fuck?”
Richard looks up, his blue eyes twinkling.
All he says is “Shit!” as I stand there frozen, my entire reality crumbling before my very eyes.
Knox
“So you’re telling me,” I say, pacing the length of my cabin’s small living room, “that Jack Dalton has gone completely off the grid?”
My manager, Gary, sighs on the other end of the line. I can picture him pinching the bridge of his nose, his glasses perched on his balding head. “We’ve been trying to reach him for three days, Knox. No one at the APBRA has heard from him. There are... rumblings.”
I stop pacing, my boots scuffing against the worn wooden floor. “Rumblings? What kind of rumblings? You know I hate vague shit, Gary.”
“Trouble with the association,” he says, his words careful. “Some kind of internal conflict. No one’s saying much, but Dalton was at the center of it. Now he’s gone, and no one knows if the season is even going to happen.”
My gut clenches. I’ve spent months training, pushing my body to its limits, preparing for the Rough Riders Circuit. The thought of all that work going to waste makes me want to punch something.
“Is there going to be a competition this year or not?” I demand, running a hand through my hair.
“If the APBRA falls through, we’ll find another circuit,” Gary assures me. “Your talent is too good to waste. We’ll make sure you have somewhere to compete. Your months of practice won’t be for nothing.”
I let out a breath. “Alright. Keep me updated.”
“Will do. Try not to worry too much. Focus on training.”
“Yeah,” I say, ending the call and tossing my phone onto the couch.
I walk to the window, looking out at the sprawling expanse of Meadowlark Ranch. The Wyoming sun is high in the sky, casting long shadows across the pasture. In the distance, I can see the roof of Boone’s cabin, smoke curling from its chimney. It’s thanks to him that I even have this place as my retreat.
Boone and I go way back. We met on the circuit a few years ago, both of us young and hungry. He was the quiet, intense one; I was the charismatic daredevil. Somehow, we became best friends. When I mentioned needing a place to escape the noise between events, he put me onto Mr. Anthony Cruz, the old man who owned this ranch.
Mr. Cruz was a character, tough as leather but with a soft spot for rodeo folks. He’d rented me one of the cabins at the edge of his property, happy to have the extra income and someone to keep an eye on things. I’d sit with him on his porch sometimes, drinking whiskey and listening to stories about the old days.
It was a damn shame when he died two months ago. Heart attack, they said. Quick. He’d left instructions to be cremated, no fuss, just the way he lived his life. I wonder what will happen to this place, who gets to inherit it now. Anthony always talked about his daughter Angelina, but from what I know, she died almost ten years ago.
I know he has a granddaughter somewhere who abandoned him and the ranch. Did he have anyone else?
Not my business, I guess, but it feels strange knowing the old man is gone.
I stretch my arms over my head, my muscles protesting. It’s almost midday. Hopefully Boone will be done with his chores soon so we can head to The Salt Lick for a couple of cold beers. I could use the distraction.
My phone buzzes on the couch, but I ignore it. Right now, all I want is a shower. The cabin Rhett stays in is empty—he took the cattle to the new pasture this morning, leaving me with nothing to do but wait and worry about my career.
I grab my portable radio from the counter. It’s been with me through every circuit, every city, every victory and defeat. It’s battered and old, but it still works like a charm. I tune it to a classic rock station, AC/DC blasting through the speakers as I head outside.
The shower is just a stone’s throw from my cabin, three walls of weathered wood and no roof. I love that it opens to the sky. It’s my favorite part of this place—standing under the hot water with nothing but Wyoming wilderness around me. I strip off my clothes, leaving them in a heap on a nearby rock, and step under the spray.
