I watched with a growing sense of dread as the dust cloud grew closer and closer, bigger and bigger. I heard the truck long before I could actually see it, it’s engine roaring like the subway outside my Brooklyn apartment.
What I wouldn’t have given to be back in the city.
From the moment my plane took off at LaGuardia, I had a bad feeling about this job. Shoot, I knew this was trouble from the moment Gorman called me into his office and offered me this probation deal. I had no choice but to accept, even though country life was not for me. Los Angeles was about as uncivilized as I wanted to get—and that was only for the few short years of film school because my undergrad advisor thought I should broaden my experience base.
But even though New York was half-a-country closer at the moment than when I was in California, this felt like a completely different universe. Since we drove away from DFW yesterday afternoon I’d seen more cows than cars and more abandoned tractors than skyscrapers. Eight hours in the car and I hadn’t seen a fast food place in the last four.
We were literally in the middle of nowhere.
Well, I wouldn’t it be for naught. If I was going to salvage this opportunity, I had to act fast. And I had to act big. Nothing-left-to-lose big.
“Role tape,” I barked at Eddie as I reached into my small cross-body bag. “And play along.”
He shrugged and lifted the camera onto his shoulder. It wasn’t like his career was on the line here. Just mine.
And I was not about to let some spoiled brat derail me.
After sifting through the contents of my bag—wallet, smartphone, an emergency supply of Xanax for nervous actors, and a handful of pilfered peppermints I grabbed after dinner last night—I finally found the two things I was looking for.
The truck rattled to a halt half a city block away, at the far the end of a weatherbeaten building that looked more like a piece of modern art than a functioning structure. The truck looked even worse. I couldn’t tell what color it’s battered body might have ever been under that thick layer of red-brown mud. The windows appeared clean, but the reflection of the afternoon sun blinded me so I couldn’t see the cowboy inside.
I imagined a short, middle-aged man with a big beer belly and an even bigger cowboy hat wearing a plaid western shirt, dark blue jeans, and an ostentatious belt buckle who said things like “yes ma’am” and drank sweet tea by the bucket.
Metal on metal screeched and the truck started shaking harder than it had on the uneven gravel road as the engine whined to a stop.
I had to work fast.
Pulling out the hair band, I jammed my fingers through my hair and hastily shoved my curls into a high ponytail. Then, for the first time since she started making me carry it in college, I actually used Bethany’s girl-mergency secret weapon.
I flipped open the all-over-color compact, swiped my fingertips over the deep peachy-rose shade, and dotted the cream onto my cheeks, lips, and eyelids. A quick glance in the tiny mirror confirmed Bethany’s promise that it would instantly turn even a makeup-hating, all-black-wearing New Yorker into a girly-girl.
“I can do this,” I muttered as I stuffed the compact back into my bag.
Several of the horses whinnied, leaning out over the fence, toward the now silent truck. I followed the direction of their eager gazes just as the driver’s side door swung open.
In my last moments of sanity, I wracked my brain for any option other than the one I’d come up with. But short of running away to Mexico—too much spicy food—or calling Gorman to tell him what happened—too much career suicide—this was it.
I watched, helpless, as first one and then a second cowboy boot stomped to the ground beneath the open door. They were as dusty as the truck. Unlike the shiny, pointy-toed ones I’d expected—with fancy stitching and exotic leather—they looked more like beaten up work boots.
And the pale blue jeans that hung down over them looked just as worn, dusty and broken in. A little frayed along the hem. They hit the boot just right, wrinkling up a bit in the front and stopping right above the ground in the back.
The hand that gripped the door frame was my first clue that maybe I’d watched too much Storage Wars: Texas as research. It was strong and tan and clearly used to long hours of hard work.
I sucked in a tight breath.
The strong, tan, hard-working hand slammed the door shut and I got my first view of the attached cowboy.
Eddie let out a low whistle. (Had I mentioned the panther-fast bear of a cameraman was gay? Why hadn’t he clued me in on the OSG straight cast disaster, by the way? Maybe his gaydar was as broken as mine.)
The cowboy was pretty much the opposite of everything I imagined. He was around my age—early thirties or even a little younger. He was tall, at least six foot. He wore those faded jeans that hugged him in all the right places and a blue-gray tee that did the same. There wasn’t a belt, buckle, or belly in sight. And instead of a cowboy hat, he wore a baseball cap.
Even from this distance I could make out the team logo.
Right there, in the middle of the Texas outback and on the head of possibly the most attractive guy I’d ever seen in real life—and I’d seen a lot—was a white NY on a navy blue hat. The cowboy was a Yankees fan.
I almost swooned on the spot.
MUSICAL BONUS
My friend Andy thought Kelly Clarkson's Stronger would be the perfect theme song for Cassie. What do you think?
