by Liora Blake
My truck door is barely open before the driver is headed my way, calling out a greeting and extending his hand.
“Morning!”
“Morning.” I return his handshake. “Braden Montgomery, CPW unit manager for this area.”
“Greg Dunlap. This is my son, Bryce.”
I tip my chin toward the truck bed. “Looks like you two had a good day.”
Greg chuckles, puffing his chest out a bit. “Yes we did. This is Bryce’s first archery season, and we’re headed home with this guy.”
The still-grinning Bryce beams when I give him a nod. “Congratulations.”
“Thank you, sir,” he breathes, now gawking over the bedside to admire his deer.
I step forward and peer over the tailgate myself, pretending to give the deer an appreciative once-over. Then I shake my head, clicking my tongue a little.
“Man, this sucks. I hate casting a cloud over your big Colorado hunt. I mean, you came all the way from Texas, after all. Which makes this situation such a bummer.”
Bryce freezes, darting a glance his dad’s way. Greg’s head rears back as a puzzled look crosses his face.
“Situation?”
I drop a forearm to the tailgate and lean on it casually, thumbing toward the carcass.
“No tag.”
Behind me, Bryce makes a choked-off noise. I hear the sound of his boots shuffling, his hands patting over every pocket on his clothing, followed by the passenger door on the truck opening and a whole host of junk inside rattling about.
Greg shakes his head. “Shit. We have it. I swear. It’s just … we were … shit. We never do this, forget to tag out.” He flicks a hand toward Bryce. “His first with a bow, you know? I was as excited as he was. But I raised him to know the regs and follow the rules. This was an oversight, nothing else.”
“Got it!”
Bryce has his hand thrust in the air, waving the tag about. He slams the truck door shut behind him as he careens our way and looks frantically about for a pen. Greg does the same. Slowly, I pull a pen from the breast pocket on my shirt, stalling long enough to be sure they both have time to note the CPW logo stitched there. I hand the pen to Bryce, watching as he signs it with a shaking hand, and then uses the tip of the pen to poke a hole in the bottom corner. He hands the pen back to me, the tag along with it. I lift a brow.
“It goes on the animal.”
His face goes slack. “Crap. Sorry. Yes, sir.”
Awkwardly leaning over the bed, Bryce wrestles the deer closer by grabbing on to a hoof and ties the tag to it. He gives me another sheepish apology. I draw in a long breath, as if I’m thinking hard through what to do or say next.
I’m not.
“Improper tagging. Illegal transport,” I muse. “I’m well within my rights to assess a hefty fine. If I assess penalty points, you could lose your privileges here in Colorado for a year. Not to mention I could confiscate this deer.”
The fines and points seem to the least of Bryce’s concerns. Confiscating his deer would mean he can’t show off to his friends when he gets home. Or show off right here, via social media—assuming he didn’t already do that in the field. So the possibility of losing his deer means his lip is quivering and his eyes are watering. If I weren’t such an insufferable asshole these days, I might try to put myself in his shoes, remembering what it was like to be a kid who just shot his first deer with a bow.
“He’s twelve,” Greg sputters. “This was a God’s-honest mistake. One that won’t happen again. Cut us some slack here. Please.”
Greg knows as well as I do that game wardens have plenty of latitude when it comes to lesser violations, which in the grand scheme of things is exactly what I’m dealing with. No one’s poaching or trespassing, nor have they cut the head off this animal and left the carcass to rot somewhere in the field.
I could easily send these two on their way with a verbal warning. A few months ago, I’d have done exactly that, mostly because it’s nice to meet kids these days who show an interest in anything that doesn’t have a touch screen.
But that was a few months ago. Today, things are different.
“Rules are rules. We all have to play by them.” I dig out my ticket pad and begin to write without looking up. “I won’t confiscate the deer. That’s the best I can do.”
An hour later, just as I pull into my driveway, my phone rings with a call from Tobias.
I groan. A call from my boss at four in the afternoon on a Saturday cannot be a good thing. Tobias guards his weekends as if they’re precious metals, and from Friday at five p.m. to Monday at seven a.m., he’s not interested in anything but golf, his grandkids, and working on the ’49 Triumph motorcycle he’s restoring.
When I answer, I’m prepared for the worst, because I already have a good suspicion what he’s calling about. He doesn’t offer any greeting—not that I was expecting one.
“Did you just issue a five-hundred-dollar fine and a fifteen-point ticket to some kid who isn’t old enough to drive?”
“Yes.” I spare him the details because it doesn’t sound like he cares. At all.
“Fifteen points. Five short of the twenty that would suspend his hunting privileges in the state of Colorado for a year. Similar to what we slapped on that guy who poached an elk on that private ranch outside Delta last year.”
“Yes.”
“Was this kid carrying a machete? Did he flip you off? Did he kick you with his twelve-year-old feet?”
“He was from Texas.”
Tobias curses quietly and grumbles until I’m nearly convinced he has nothing else to say. Finally, he blows out an audible exhale.
“I like you, Montgomery. You’re reliable, you give a shit, and I don’t have to look over your shoulder every five minutes. And until today, I always trusted you to do your job without any drama. I’ve never questioned where your head is at. I’ve certainly never thought it might be up your ass.”
He pauses to lower his voice, speaking measuredly so I can’t mistake a word.
“I don’t know what happened when you took that little unplanned trip to Texas, and I don’t care. Get your act together, Montgomery. I won’t say it again.”
He hangs up. I stare out my windshield, regretting all of what I’ve done. Jesus. What have I done? I must have lost my mind, because this would be one stupid-ass way to find myself on the unemployment line.
Inside my house, I toss my coat on the couch and toe off my boots. Charley skitters around me with her favorite chew toy in her mouth as I cast a look around my place. All my books and my records are in their place; everything is where it should be. All I have to do tonight is crack a beer and heat up some of the leftover soup I made yesterday, slice up some of the soda bread I made to go with it, and call it dinner. After that, I can read for a while or crash into bed or stare at the sunset from my front porch. Life doesn’t get any simpler than that.
Garrett may have moved to Kansas, and Cooper may be days away from being a new dad, but they’re still my buddies. We’ll still hunt turkeys together and drink a few beers when we can. Next year, I’ll find myself back in Oregon at the cabin, just like always, trying to track down that buck again—and if my mom happens to be there, we’ll share dinner and talk about the same things we always have: books and ferns and politics. And, currently, I still have my job. My dog is still here and is always happy to see me.
My life is just as it was before Amber Regan stormed her way into it and, for a moment, changed everything. She was like an impending flashover in a wildfire, one that after all those years I spent on the front lines, I should have seen coming. The signs were there—the heat, the oxygen, the fuel—but I ignored them. Then boom, it all goes up in flames, my heart and my good judgment along with it.
But it doesn’t have to be that way. Not for one more day or one more minute. Not anymore. I can choose to get over this and move on, just the way I did with Laurel. And I will.
(Amber)
“Other things being equal,
it is the man who shoots with his heart in his bow that hits the mark.”
—SAXTON POPE, HUNTING WITH THE BOW AND ARROW
Why I expected that the studio heads of an adventure reality production company would be anything other than walking SoCal clichés, I do not know. And yet, in my mind, they wouldn’t be quite this bad. I think it may be the cardigans. Or the porkpie hats.
Either way, Hayes Halston and Vann Newell are very Hollywood, in an up-and-comer way—confident but still hungry, desperate but still disaffected—which explains their taking the time to fly to Austin to meet me. Of course, if I were a little less disaffected myself these days, I might be delusional enough to think their trip out here meant I was special. But I’ve seen exactly how suddenly special can lose its luster, so I know that in the end, these guys won’t be any different from Smeltzer.
Except for those hats.
Even Jaxon—a full-fledged appreciator of the hipster look when done well—continues to squint at the iridescent peacock feather stuck in the band of Vann’s hat, and that’s only when he isn’t casting a judgmental look at Hayes’s puce-colored cardigan.
“Amber, we can’t tell you how much we appreciate you taking the time to meet with us. We’re hoping by the time we finish these,” Hayes says, lifting his beer up, “we can confidently say that we’ll see you in Cabo this winter. Cabo for Christmas, right? Come on, nothing beats that.”
“Definitely,” I answer, giving him a smile before taking a sip of my sparkling ginger lemonade. Jaxon and I both ordered mocktails because we’re more interested in staying sober at our business meeting than getting buddy-buddy with these guys. Hayes and Vann each—like the predictably cool out-of-towners they are—ordered Shiner Bocks.
Hayes and Vann booked rooms at a downtown boutique hotel that was once the site of a trailer park but is now home to lodgings with concrete floors and midcentury modern furniture, each accessorized with things like retro Smith Corona typewriters and Polaroid cameras. Just in case Jack Kerouac returns from the dead and needs a place to crash, I suppose. We agreed to meet for a drink at the hotel’s outdoor lounge, where a sand-lined courtyard is dotted with gas-operated lava-rock fire pits. We’ve settled ourselves around one of the fire pits, inexplicably “lit” despite it being the middle of the day.
Surrounding the pit are four leather egg chairs that are both ugly and a little awkward to sit in while hoping to appear confident and tall, especially for someone my size. Hopefully, when it’s time to extricate myself from this thing, Jaxon will sidle over here and give me a hand so I don’t look like a toddler crawling out of a playpen.
“Cabo beats what I grew up with during the holidays. Too much tinsel draped on cacti in Tucson,” Vann mutters drily.
We all give him a courtesy chuckle despite the fact that Vann has spent much of our meeting face-first in his phone. I’m more than used to the way so many of us interact with only half of our attention spans these days, but he’s worse than most.
Hayes seizes conversational control again, looking like he’s decided that after ten minutes together it’s high time we get down to business.
“So, Amber, you checked out our media kit and the links, right? Tell us what questions you have. Tell us what it will take to get you on board.”
I do have questions. Lots of them. Half of them, though, they can’t answer.
Will I regret this? Is the nonstop ache in my chest due to having a broken heart? Or is that just my soul hardening in anticipation of doing this show? Are you aware I’ve never guided anyone before? Do you care? Also, can I drink the water there? Because Montezuma’s revenge in a house crawling with cameras? No thank you. And, last, do you think Braden misses me?
Jaxon cuts in, saving me with one flap of his manager-lawyer-superhero cape.
“Today is just about Amber getting a feel for how you guys do business. If Amber’s going to relocate to another country for six weeks, she needs to know who has her back when she does.”
Hayes nods reassuringly before allowing a mischievous expression to cover his face.
“Sure, sure, of course. I get it. It sounds like maybe you’re a wild card who’s concerned about the policia, eh? Are you a rabble-rouser? An agent provocateur?”
Then he winks.
And I try not to throw up a little in my mouth.
This show is all I have on the horizon, after all, and I’ll be lucky if my pride is the only thing I lose track of over the next few months. But a few years under my belt in this business means I can play along with the best of them.
“Oh, yes,” I deadpan, then send him a sly smile. “I’m all sorts of trouble. Gotta be sure I’m covered for the mischief and mayhem I’ll inevitably leave in my wake.”
Hayes returns my smile with his own, albeit with a lot more teeth showing. If I weren’t seriously considering the possibility that my libido has taken leave of my body entirely, I’d think he was saying more with that smile than “please sign our contract.” But my man compass is all screwed up, and I wouldn’t know what to do with sexual interest if it hit me over the head. My compass guides one route these days—north through Oklahoma and Kansas, then hooks one state over and straight into southwestern Colorado. And given how depressed I’ve been since Braden left town with nothing but a quiet goodbye in my driveway, I’m not sure I’ll ever find a way to recalibrate my man compass.
“Look, Angela …”
Vann drains his beer, signaling the bartender across the way to bring another round. Jaxon automatically lurches forward at Vann getting my name wrong, but I shoot him a look to stand down because I’m interested in seeing where this goes. While signing with Bona Fide may be the only option I have right now, deep down, I’m still looking for an out. I have a feeling we’re about to enjoy a good cop–bad cop show courtesy of Hayes and Vann.
“… Let’s not play around, OK? We know you’re an Afield Channel cast-off.”
He levels his beady eyes on mine.
“But luckily for you, rejects are our game. We reboot careers. If it isn’t yours, there are a million other chicks out there with blow-up-doll personalities and good racks that would be happy to take your place.”
Jaxon is up and out of his chair before I am, and God bless the man, his hand immediately extends my way. I take it and, despite the way my body is shaking, I rise from the chair like a queen. Jaxon’s hand stays in mine. He gives Hayes and Vann a curt nod.
“You’ve given us a lot to consider. We’ll be in touch.”
We round the corner out of the courtyard, quick-stepping in silence until we’ve made it to the lot where Jaxon’s car is parked. He moves to open the passenger door for me. I lock my eyes with his.
“No.”
He nods. “Obviously. I’ll call them tomorrow.”
I slide into the black leather seat and Jaxon shuts the door.
Sealed in silence for a moment, Braden is with me. His honest assessment of what I was getting myself into is ringing in my head—and how he was able to predict what just happened here with such eerie accuracy, I’ll never know.
“To new beginnings.”
I roll my eyes at Teagan’s cliché toast, then knock back the shot of whiskey she’s poured for me, stopping just shy of slamming the glass on the coffee table in front of me, only because my beer is sitting there and I wouldn’t want to knock that over. She mirrors my actions, both of us chasing the harsh liquor burn with a gulp of our beers.
I slump into the couch cushions and offer my deep thoughts. “New beginnings suck.”
Teagan snorts. “Yes, they do. But this one is happening just the same.” I stick my lip out in an exaggerated pout, and she sighs. “You will be fine.”
My reply is to take a long slug off my beer. This isn’t a pity party—it’s a suck-it-up-and-move-on party. With boilermakers. Because in my mind, the drink du jour of a pity party is wine, red or white, just so long as it’s from a box. But a cheap whiskey shot followed by an even cheaper beer? That is the nectar of som
eone who might need a goddam break, but doesn’t take any shit.
I invited Jaxon, Teagan, and Colin over to “celebrate” the end of Record Racks, knowing if I did, none of them would dare bring box wine, so I could safely avoid things devolving into a pity party. Jaxon left a few minutes ago to pick up cheap Mexican food for dinner, and Colin is due here at any moment. For now, it’s just Teagan and me.
I cut a look her way. “Have you talked to Colin lately?”
“Colin and I do not talk. You know that. This will be the first time I’ve seen him since your party when Braden was in town. Even then we didn’t talk. I mean, we …” She circles a hand in the air, aimlessly.
I narrow my eyes to the ceiling with a nod, but it takes me a moment to process what she just said.
“Wait. What? During the party?” I point to the couch. “Here?”
“No, not there.” Her cheeks redden. “The guest bathroom.”
I consider taking her by the shoulders and shaking the hell out of her. Not because I care if she and Colin got it on in my bathroom, but because I’m now intimately acquainted with heartbreak, and therefore, I really can’t understand why these two stay apart when they don’t have to.
Teagan points her beer bottle at me. “Don’t start. We’ve had this conversation before. Colin and me together is like going on vacation. Everyone goes on vacation and thinks they want to move to Paris when they’re there on holiday, but then they go home and they realize exactly why they can’t live in Paris. Because it’s like another world.”
“Colin lives in Harper, not Paris. It’s, like, two hours away. Not exactly another world.”
She snorts. “Don’t be so sure. I’ve seen pictures of his family. They are their own species of Texas tough. Can you picture me there? Colin taking me home to meet his family? Paris, Amber. Paris.”
I tilt my head, speaking softly. “But he makes you happy.”
