Page 66 of Storm Warning
“Is that a bull dummy?” Sage works her way around all of us, walking toward the plastic bull and tries to push it down with her hand. The pressure she applies barely moves the bull, and I’m unsure if she’s genuinely fascinated by it or just wants to break the tension.
“Glad to see you’re back at it, Rhett.” Billy mounts Wrangler and rides off, dismissing himself without any further words—normal behavior for him—and Judd walks toward his sister. Their conversation is hushed, so we keep our distance.
Under his breath, Duke whispers, “I ain’t normally a gossip, but that interaction got ya wonderin’ too?” His eyebrows raise, and I chuckle softly, nodding yes.
Daisy opens the front door, calling for Sage, and that forces a stop to whatever Judd’s telling her.
Hugging his sister, Judd says, “I’ll be back in an hour.Don’t forget what I said.” He walks toward us, and I consider asking about the little tit for tat we witnessed, but whatever it is, is just another distraction and I need to get my head back into the game, not into other people’s problems.
Today’s not the day to be saving anyone from anything besides myself.
He doesn’t stay to chat, just waves us on, starts his engine, and drives off down the road.
Sage watches Judd leave before her eyes trail off toward the direction Billy went on Wrangler. She releases a slow, steady exhale, a smile gradually returning to her face. “So nice meetin’ y’all.” Walking toward Daisy, her once light and breezy air seems to carry a nearly unnoticeable raincloud, but even though I don’t know her, I can tell she’s disappointed by something.
The door closes before Duke speaks, “Alright, no more fuckin’ around. Up ya go, champ. Make that bull yer bitch.”
40
RHETT - SEPTEMBER 4, 2004
Take life by the horns.
I mean, that’s what they say at least. So, here I am, finally putting the narrative in my own court. After months of healing, months of finding out what life’s about, it finally feels right to be back here.
I march through the rodeo looking for a very specific reporter, the one who finds himself lurking around, working hard for his craft even if it pisses most of us off.
A handlebar mustache and dark, beady eyes. Ones that lack trust, but seek truth.
Why him? God, if I only knew, but for whatever reason, he’s the one everyone takes the most seriously, and I don’t want to do this shit twice. Speak my mind and walk. That’s the plan.
Eyes follow me from every direction. Fans and foes each wondering why I’m here, if I’ll ever ride again, or hoping I don’t. People reach out and touch me, to shake my hand, to greet me, to question my presence, but, steadfast, I keep my eye on the objective, remaining polite, but not taking the time to say more than hello.
The concession stand is thriving with people all ready fora rodeo dog and soda, and there, amongst the crowd, is good ol’ Clay Cassidy. I stop in my tracks and sigh, trying to prepare myself.
This ain’t any different than performing.He wants a piece worth writing and I want to come out unscathed.
He turns toward me, corn dog half way to his lips, before we make eye contact. He stills, his food still poised in his hand, those beady eyes now zeroed in on me as if he can’t quite decide if what he’s seeing is real. A wistful smile finds its way onto my lips and I nod as he places his meal back into the confines of its wrapper.
I close the gap between us.
“You’re a hard man to get a hold of, Rogers.” He doesn’t appear shocked, more so subtly surprised. Like of all the places he’d have expected to find me after trying and failing to track me down, here was the most unexpected. Though I can’t imagine he didn’t read the roster today.
“Only when I’m tryin’ not to be found, sir.” I joke, even though it also happens to be the truth.
“This…” He motions between the both of us. “Your way of saying you want to be found?”
I fill my lungs with air.Well, you wanted to give them a story, let’s give them a story.I nod. “Sure is.”
“How about right now?”
“Lead the way.” I keep my responses curt. He and I both know there’s no reason to drag this out. What’s most important is getting this story,my story, on record.
“Follow me.” He tosses his corn dog into the trash as he walks past, taking one last sip of his drink before doing the same. I follow him through the crowd of people and straight for a spot gated off for the media. Thankfully, the events haven’t started, so beyond a small group of reporters, it lies rather vacant. He pulls a tape recorder out of his pocket, taking a seat at a table away from everyone else.
“Moving forward, everything will be on record.” He clicks the little red button of his machine and sets it down on the table between us, pulling out a small pad of paper and pencil. “September 4, 2004, Rhett Rogers and Clay Cassidy.The Come Back.”
I furrow my brow as I look up from the recorder, but I don’t say a word. I guess if you’ve done this your whole life it only makes sense he knows why I’m here, but in a sense it feels like a treaty. Like he’s letting me know his expectations for this interview before it ever starts.
