by Mia Hopkins
They laughed at something. The metal gate buzzed open. The man opened the door. Harmony walked in. The doctor followed her inside and the gate slammed shut.
Lucky gripped the steering wheel to keep himself together. He sat frozen, unsure of what to do. All of the courage he’d gathered a minute earlier dissipated like smoke, replaced by a different voice.
Don’t confuse fantasy for reality. One night doesn’t mean anything.
Shoving his feelings deep down inside, Lucky tapped his fist on the dashboard.
You were a distraction. She told you so.
He turned the key and started up his engine.
This was a mistake. She’s not yours. She never was. She never will be.
He put the truck in drive and started back for Oleander.
Friday evening at the Silver Spur. Sitting at a table with Clark and Daniel MacKinnon, Lucky worked on his Jack and Coke. It wasn’t his first. The floor was crowded with giggly newbies taking line-dancing lessons. Lucky figured that for every replay of “Achy Breaky Heart,” Billy Ray Cyrus deserved at least six hours in purgatory.
“So what’s this big announcement?” Lucky was already slurring a little.
Daniel shrugged. “Dean said to meet him here at eight. That’s all I know.”
“Another kid?” Clark asked.
“I don’t think so. Too soon, even by our standards.” Daniel sipped his beer. “So, when are you planning on starting work on the farmhouse?”
“We’re shooting for next month,” said Clark. “Copper piping. New roof. And we’re going to add that suite for Mom on the first floor. She wants a big south-facing room. Lots of sun.”
“Let me know who you’re working with. We had some good guys when we built our house. That was what, twelve years ago? The work’s still sound.”
“I will. Melody wants to make sure everyone we work with’s licensed and bonded.”
“I don’t blame her. It’s an old house. Lots of quirks.”
Lucky groaned inwardly. Wives, babies, houses. All he wanted was to get drunk. He polished off his cocktail and attempted to wave a server over for another.
“Hey, Hemingway.” Clark elbowed him. “You okay?”
“Yeah. I just need a drink.”
“Or three?”
“Or four.”
Clark narrowed his eyes at Lucky. “Is this about—”
“Don’t. I don’t want to talk about it.”
Clark said nothing more. Daniel held out his hand. “Keys.”
True friends. Lucky handed Daniel the keys to his truck. When Lucky shook the ice in his glass, one of the Spur’s new cocktail waitresses, a college cutie with pink hair and an upturned nose, sauntered over. “What can I getcha?” She stood close enough for Lucky to smell her perfume. Vanilla, sweet and heady.
“Another Jack and Coke,” he said.
“You got it, cowboy.”
Lucky was well pickled by the time Dean arrived. He’d driven straight from Walker Ranch in Lake Isabella and ordered a round for all of them before he sat down at the table.
“Suspense is not my thing,” said Clark. “Spill it.”
Dean cleared his throat. “Bo’s retiring. He wants me to take over.”
“The ranch? The rough stock?” asked Daniel.
“All of it.” The bullfighter grinned. “We’ve been working on this deal for two months. Our lawyers finalized the paperwork today. Walker Ranch is now Walker-MacKinnon Ranch. And you are looking at its new owner. Dean MacKinnon, bona-fide stock contractor.”
“Ho-leeeeee shit,” Clark said.
Whoops, hollers, backslaps. Bo Walker had bred bucking bulls and pickup horses for more than three decades. His operation was the envy of stock contractors all over the country. Semen straws from his champion bull Dandelion Wine were almost two grand a pop. Bo and Dean had forged a bond back when Dean was an up-and-coming bullfighter looking for a mentor. They’d been friends ever since.
Lucky raised his glass and the brothers clinked their beer bottles against it. “Congratulations, Dean,” he said, and meant it. The MacKinnons were on a roll—but Lucky was not a MacKinnon, last time he checked.
He shot the shit with his friends at the table, riding the ebb and flow of his buzz. When he was feeling a little steadier on his feet, he joined the crowd on the dance floor. He knew all of these dances by heart. Even a few fingers of Jack Daniels couldn’t make him forget the steps. “Watermelon Crawl” was followed by Alan Jackson’s “Good Time.” By the second chorus, Lucky was almost convinced he was having a good time himself. When the flashbacks started, he tried to erase each memory with another dance or another drink.
Harmony petting Batman’s nose and laughing as his horse drooled on her? “Boot Scootin’ Boogie.”
Harmony sitting on the ottoman at Annette Leblanc’s party, laughing and barefoot? “Country Girl Shake It For Me.”
Harmony holding him tight, shuddering and gasping as she came? Another Jack and Coke.
Harmony asleep on his chest as he stroked her hair? Jack on the rocks, hold the Coke.
Harmony laughing as the doctor followed her upstairs? Jack. Hold the rocks, hold the Coke.
Lucky was lost in a haze of his own bad decisions when he found himself sitting on a milk crate behind the bar, arms crossed, his head tipped forward as a pair of unknown hands rubbed his shoulders.
“Easy does it.”
The hands massaged his neck. Cool thumbs dug into his hot flesh. He groaned.
Someone whispered in his ear. “You are the hottest thing in this shithole, you know that?”
He was barely conscious when a girl appeared in his lap. Surprised, he lost his balance, unfolded his arms and reached out to steady himself against a nearby Dumpster. The girl straddled him and laced her hands tightly around the back of his neck. Before he could react, she covered his mouth with hers. Lucky’s eyes shot open. The pink-haired cocktail waitress. She smelled so strongly of vanilla, his stomach turned at the cloying perfume. Lucky jerked his head back as he broke the kiss. “Hey, wait—”
She clung to him. “Shh.”
Alarms went off in his head as he struggled to stand up. The milk crate fell over with a crash as he got to his feet. The young woman dragged his head down for another kiss. When he slipped out of her grasp, she reached for his belt buckle. He tried to dodge her again. Whiskey had muddled his reflexes. She caught him, undid his fly, and pushed him against the wall.
He swayed on his feet as he tried to pull the zipper back up. “This is a bad idea.”
She pushed his hands away with a wicked smile and undid the top button of his jeans. “I’ll make it good for you.”
“I don’t want this.” He stepped sideways out of her grasp. He was going to be sick.
“Trust me, baby. You do.”
“No, no—”
“Get off him.” In a flash, the waitress was on her back on the asphalt, coughing and sputtering, the wind knocked out of her. Confused, Lucky looked up and saw Harmony, in boots, jeans, and an old T-shirt that said Hello Nurse. Her hands were curled into fists and her cheeks were rosy with anger. “Your boss is gonna hear about this, you shady little shit.”
The young woman struggled to her feet. Harmony had thrown her hard, judo-style. The girl’s watery eyes burned with fury. “Crazy Chinese bitch.”
Harmony pointed to herself. “Filipino. Crazy Filipino bitch.”
Just then, the back door banged open and out walked the MacKinnons, beer bottles in hand. “What’d we miss?” Clark asked, looking from Lucky to Harmony and back.
Outgunned, the furious cocktail waitress limped back into the bar.
Harmony gave Clark a shove. “Why weren’t you guys watching Lucky? He’s wasted.”
“Lucky? I thought he was in the shitter. How you doin’, kid?”
Lucky took a deep breath and swayed. “Not so great, Superman.” He took two steps towards Harmony, paused, bent over, and dumped a bucketful of hot puke at her feet. As he heaved,
Lucky wished the ground would open up and swallow him whole at last. The MacKinnons were laughing up a storm.
Harmony, unmoved by bodily fluids of any kind, shook her head and sighed.
“Help me get him home, you gorillas,” she said.
Chapter 3
Two Wraps and a Hooey
In any case you mustn’t confuse a single failure
with a final defeat.
―F. SCOTT FITZGERALD
When Lucky’s alarm went off that morning, the sharp sound pierced his eye sockets like ice picks. After a long make-out session with the toilet, he took a hot shower, drank a cup of coffee, and survived a furious glare from his mother before he left for work. Like a good robot, he put in his hours at the feed store. He’d worked through a hangover before but never like this. By noon, he’d vowed never to touch a drop of Jack Daniels again. His head throbbed like it had been trampled by every horse in the state of Tennessee.
At quitting time, Lucky got his jacket on and shuffled out to the parking lot before Orbach could give him a talking-to. He needed this job—at least until he gave up rodeo for good. Then he’d be able to find better work.
With a weary sigh, he sat in his truck and checked his messages. Harmony had sent him two while he was getting drunk at the Spur. One read, Phone ran out of battery. Got your messages. Call me. The other one read, Where are you? Mel said you’re at the Spur. Call me. There were no other texts from her.
Lucky stared at his phone. This was the worst game of phone tag ever. After the party at Annette Leblanc’s, he’d ignored Harmony’s texts. When he’d gotten the guts to call her at last, her phone had run out of battery. After what he’d seen at the apartment, she’d texted him again, but he was too drunk to pick up. She’d turned up at the Spur and saved him from a tiny, horny racist. After that? Nothing. Not a peep.
Did she still want to talk to him? He’d embarrassed her at the party, acted like an ass by not answering her calls, and barfed all over her boots.
He groaned.
But she’d left him messages. And she’d done a good thing, looking after him last night. Being her boyfriend was definitely off the table. But being her friend? Maybe he could still be that—if he thanked her and apologized for his douchebag behavior.
Before he lost his nerve, he dialed her number. She picked up on the fourth ring. “Oh, good, you’re alive.”
“Barely.” He rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Do you have a second? Can you talk?”
“Yeah.”
“Okay. Two things.” He took off his hat and put it on the dashboard. He leaned back and shut his eyes. His head still ached. “First off, thank you for last night. I acted like an idiot. You don’t have to believe me, but I don’t usually get carried away like that.” Lucky thought about the disaster by the Dumpster. “I don’t know what would’ve happened if you hadn’t turned up. Nothing good.”
“Probably not.”
“Also, I wanted to apologize for the party. At Annette’s. What I did—that was uncalled for.” He didn’t truly believe that last part, but it felt like the right thing to say. “I’m sorry. I got carried away. I forgot where I was. I disrespected you and your boyfriend.”
“My boyfriend?” She was quiet for a second. “Lucky, tell me something.”
“What?”
“Why were you getting shitfaced at the Spur last night?”
Think fast. “Dean. Dean’s taking ownership of Walker Ranch. He wanted to celebrate.”
“Any reason you were drinking whiskey while the other guys were drinking Bud?”
Yeah. You. “No, not really. Just a case of nerves, I guess. Qualifying for finals and everything.” Lucky winced. He didn’t like lying to her. Then something occurred to him. “Why were you at the Spur last night?”
“Your messages,” she said. “I was worried about you.”
“About me?”
“I forgot my phone charger at home. I didn’t receive your messages until I got back from the hospital. When you didn’t text back, I called my sister. She told me where you were.” She sighed. “So I came out to see you.”
“Why would you do that?”
She paused. “Like I said. I was worried.”
“That’s a long drive. Didn’t Dr. Dickhead mind?”
“What are you talking about?”
“I saw him, Harm. I saw him go upstairs with you. Thursday night, I came out to visit you. To apologize. To talk to you in person. But you were with him. So I left.” Yes, that’s it. Perfect. Confess what a creepy loser you are. “It makes no difference anyway. You love him. It’s obvious.”
“Obvious, huh?” Her voice was sarcastic. “So what happened between you and me? What was that?”
That caught him off guard. “What we had was a one-night stand. It was good—it was amazing, to tell the truth. But it was a mistake.” The word cut him. “This is going to sound really pathetic, but mistake or not, I still feel lucky to have shared it with you. Just so you know.”
Silence stretched between them like a bridge that was too weak to cross safely. Then Harmony crossed it. “You’re wrong.”
“Wrong? How am I wrong?”
“Frank is not my boyfriend. We didn’t get back together.”
“I know what I saw. No girl cries over a guy who’s just gotten his ass beat unless she loves him.”
“Or she’s drunk and furious. I tried to hold you both back. You both ignored me. Some girls fantasize about two guys fighting over them. Not me. My friends, my coworkers—everyone was there, watching. It was embarrassing. Then when I looked for you afterwards, Annette told me you’d gone home.”
Lucky hadn’t considered the situation from her perspective. “How about what I saw at your apartment? He went upstairs with you. You were laughing.”
“I was laughing about what I was going to do with his Xbox if he hadn’t come to pick it up. I told him I was going to sell it and pocket the money.” She paused. “That’s what he was doing at my place. Picking up his crap. What am I going to do with a brand-new Xbox? I don’t play.”
Lucky remembered seeing the system in her living room. “Basically, what you’re saying is…you’re not together?”
“No. We’re not.”
“At all?”
She took a deep breath. “We talked it out. Shouted it out, more like. I got to the truth. He’s got big plans to leave Bakersfield and travel the world.”
“Don’t you want to travel too? Don’t you want to go with him?”
“I thought I would. But in the time we’ve spent apart, I finally got the chance to look at our relationship objectively. And I saw things I hadn’t seen before.”
“Like what?”
“Lots of things.” She sighed. “For example, the whole time we were together, I second-guessed myself. I tried to be everything he told me I should be. Less impulsive. Less immature. Less crazy. More like him.”
“I never thought you were immature. Crazy, maybe.” He paused. “The best kind of crazy.”
She sniffed, a little puff of laughter that made Lucky smile. “We had been growing apart for months. I was just too shortsighted to realize it. Frank is capable of a lot of good in his life. But it’s hard for him to see beyond his own career. He wants to make decisions for both of us. And that just doesn’t work for me.”
“So what works for you?”
“Maybe I just need to find someone who appreciates my kind of crazy.”
A minute passed as Lucky processed what she’d just said. Absently, he played with the edge of a piece of duct tape he’d used to repair a tear in his upholstery. “Just to be clear, that’s it? That’s it between you two?”
“That’s it.”
He suppressed the urge to cheer. “So.”
“So.”
“Back to this ‘you and me’ idea.”
“What about it?”
“I think we should look into it a little more.”
She paused. “Only if you answer a question for me.”
/>
“What’s that, belleza?”
“Why were you getting shitfaced at the Spur last night?”
Lucky groaned. “Really? You’re really asking me that?”
“Yes! And it wasn’t because of Dean or because of finals. Stop lying to me.”
“Jesus Christ.” This girl was driving him crazy. She always had. He gathered his courage. “All right. Fine. Here it is. I was drinking because—”
“Yes, I’m listening.”
“Do you want me to tell you or not?”
She laughed softly. “Tell me.”
“I was drinking because”—his heart beat faster, but his head got clearer—“I didn’t like seeing you with your ex. After the night we spent together, I thought I might have a chance with you.”
She stopped laughing. “Honest to God?”
“Honest to God. Harmony, do you know how long I’ve had a crush on you? Do you have any idea?”
She said nothing.
Just when it seems impossible to get any creepier, you manage to do it. Good job, fucker. Lucky cleared his throat. “So, um. Are you with your sister? Or are you in Bakersfield?”
“Bakersfield,” she said softly. “When are you leaving for Arizona?”
“Tomorrow.”
Harmony was silent for a long time. Lucky waited. When she spoke at last, her voice was rough. “I want to see you. Before you go.”
Lucky sat up and shoved his key into the ignition. “I’m on my way.”
Harmony showered and shaved, slathered herself with lotion, and dried her hair. After putting on a little tinted lip balm and waterproof mascara, she stood in front of her closet. What did one wear for a booty call? What would Lucky like? She settled on nothing and put on her robe.
Harmony turned the air conditioning on and tightened the belt on her robe. She listened to something sad on the country radio station as she changed the sheets on her bed. After that, she sat on a chair by the window and looked out at the dark, empty street.
Lucky had been there, just a few days ago. Waiting in his truck for her to get home. He wasn’t a stranger. He wasn’t a friend. The logical part of her brain told her she should’ve been creeped out by him waiting for her at home. But the rest of her brain—as well as her body—felt a jumpy kind of excitement. He’d been thinking about her. Waiting. Wanting.
