Page 7 of Storm Warning
Letting out a huff, I muster the most convincing tone I can. “I know ya both would never ask or expect me to handle anythin’ for ya, but y’all have given me the world, and I don’t think I could sleep at night if I didn’t do the same in return.” I can hear a sniffle come from her and I know that means she’s crying. “We’ll fix this,” I whisper softly. “I gotta get to work, but I’ll talk to ya later. I love ya, Ma.”
“I love you too, son.”
I snap my phone shut and rub my eyes, hoping it’ll relieve the pressure that hides behind them. It breaks my heart to hear her cry, but I mean every word I say about trying to fix this, and that’s the very reason I plan to bust my ass to do so. I’ll ride again, I just don’t know when.
I get out of my truck and grab my hard hat. In bold letters it reads: Richard Boyd Construction.
I let out another deep breath I must have been holding in. The rumble of work trucks sound from all around me, sharp bursts from drills and clangs from hammers hitting nails fill the air. I toss the hat on and walk toward the crew break room, tired and not feeling like myself today. B-lining straight for the coffee, I pour a cup and chug it. Then pour another and do the same, followed by a third, but the stares from my co-workers, Sawyer and Judd, remind me to slow down.
“Why don’t you just grab a Monster?” Judd, the taller of the two, questions as if chugging coffee is illegal and he’s the witness.
“Well, Juddy, if your sister hadn’t kept me up all night I wouldn’t need to pump myself with this stuff, but a man’s gotta do what he’s gotta do.” I chuckle as he shakes his head, readying myself for his comeback.
“On second thought,” he replies, “Maybe you should get a Full Throttle, since I plan to beat your ass that fast too.”
We all laugh and I can’t help but send back one more jest. “The only one getting throttled is your mom, and I ain’t heard a single complaint about it.” I grin ear-to-ear.
Sawyer looks back and forth between the two of us with a knowing grin on his lips. Like he can’t figure out where the hell the two of us come up with half the shit we say. It’s funny, he’s my complete opposite—quiet, reserved, doesn’t speak unless he’s really got something meaningful to say, but somehow our friendship just works. In the few short months I’ve been working this job, him and I have become fast friends. Maybe even the realest one I’ve ever had, because he sees me as more than a star or a piggybank. We just mesh.
“Yeah, yeah, whatever you say, dipship.” Judd laughs.
I chuckle, but my laughter dies quickly as my mind drifts back to the woes I arrived with today. The gravity of everything going on resurfaces, and by the looks on both of their faces they can tell something is up. I hate pity more than I hate this job and at the end of the day I’m doing what I’ve got to do, but I don’t really feel like sharing any of that shit with them.
I fake a smile. “For real though, if I’m draggin’ ass, let me know so Richy doesn’t chew me out again.” Reaching over, I grab the pot of coffee one last time, topping off my cup. I drone on with excuses that seem to settle their suspicions. And it isn’t all a farce. I really am tired as fuck trying to juggle everything. Driving back and forth for work while helping my parents with the ranch is a lot. A whole fucking lot. The only part I leave out is why I’m doing it in the first place.
This is all temporary.It’s only been two months since my fall, and after the bills are settled I’m free to do what I want, I just hope by then I’m not too scared to.
It’s crazy how much life changes when the limelight goes out. How friends become strangers and what you once loved only feels like a distant memory. What I wouldn’t give to go back, what I wouldn’t do to change the past few months. Had I just gotten out of my head that day and rode with my heart, everything would be different.
Ma always says that time changes everything. Sometimes for the good, sometimes for the bad, and sometimes the two get so damn mixed together you can’t tell the difference.
I think right now is one of those times.
I spent all morning in a rush, trying to make it to something I could give a fuck less about, but I’m doing it for the people I love, and its funny how during that struggle I land among friends. Genuine ones, who ride the wave right along with me. Who see that struggle and offer a solution, no questions asked.
I check my phone as Sawyer sings along with the radio. Not surprised to find zero messages or calls from anyone. I can’t help but zone into the lyrics he sings, clacking it shut to enjoy the music as we make our way down another road toward his house.
I’ll be damned. He sings the song as though he’s telling a story, as if he believes every line that passes his lips. The lyrics feel like they’re his, despite the fact that I know they’re not. His tone is gentle and kind, like when you hear someone reminisce about something that brought them joy, moments that made their heart feel whole. It makes me miss things I’ve never even had, like a girl who loves me for me, not for my titles. But also for things I had and lost, like that feeling I gotanytime I won. And for a second, it makes me forget everything around me.
It feels like a literal bell goes off in my head. I don’t really know why it’s taken me this long to realize his talent, but now that I have, and I’m not busy riding, I’ve got more than enough time to help him, if he wants it. Maybe it’s always been a dream of his, or maybe I just can’t help myself when I sense talent and don’t want to see it wasted. Either way, I’m happy to make a dream or two come true while I’ve put mine on hold.
“We’re goin’ to make ya famous.” I spit out what I’m thinking without considering the fact that not everyone dives head first into something just because they are good at it like I did. Given Sawyer’s quiet nature, he probably hasn’t ever considered singing as a career, let alone it being his dream. By the look in his eyes, he must think I’ve lost my mind.
The tires of his Bronco shift from a black-top to gravel, pushing me to table our conversation before it really begins. A large wooden sign that reads Rawlings Ranch hangs over a rusty red gate, and, for some reason, it feels like returning home even though I’m so far from mine.
We drive down a two-track a few miles before a massive house with chestnut stained wood siding comes into view. A whistle escapes my lips at the beauty of not only the house, but everything that surrounds it. My place isn’t but half the size of this one and nowhere near as nice, with the red paint chipping wherever you look and a barn that’s just as weathered to match. Not to mention, all the land beyond that used to thrive, but now is nothing more than scorched earth thanks to the fire.
Sighing, I try to rid the sadness from my thoughts. To allow myself time to appreciate what’s in front of me.
The main building has a wrap-around porch, a massive fireplace off to one side, and windows every few feet. We get out of his Bronco and head inside. The interior reflects the exterior, inviting, open and tidy. When he had mentionedliving on an old ranch this is the exact opposite of what I expected. If this isn’t the dream, I don’t know what is.
After touring the main house, we walk toward the bunkhouse. I still can’t believe Sawyer offered to let me crash here—no, basically live here, no questions asked. I’m grateful though. Really damn grateful.
The bunkhouse is smaller, but has the same chestnut siding to match the main house. The storm door needs its mesh replaced—an easy fix—and other than that, it’s beyond suitable for me. We cross the threshold, met with a wide open studio-styled room. A massive plasma TV takes up a good portion of the wall with a built-in cabinet that holds an entire collection of VHS tapes. I scan the selection and smile when I see Young Guns among many more of my favorite movies. A sofa and recliner sit to the right side of the room, with a bookcase separating the living space from a kitchenette and a small dining table. To the left, three oak doors line the wall, and I assume there’s at least a bathroom and bedroom behind two of them.
“Sorry, it’s a mess in here.” Sawyer points out the minimal dust he finds on the counter, like it should be as pristine as the main house with no one living in it. I’m not bothered in the slightest, but after seeing how he lives, it makes sense that he is.
“Trust me, this is more than enough. A little dust don’t scare me.” I mean what I say and hope it relieves some of his stress, because he’s definitely relieving mine by letting me stayhere.
