The call ends.The crickets chirp.The night surrounds me and, from behind, I hear a wooden plank creak.I don’t have to turn to know who made it do that.Instead, I wait until his bare feet whisper closer, a big throw in his hand as he tosses it over my shoulders as gently as he crept up on me.I shiver beneath it, suddenly warmed by its shelter.
“What ruse?”he asks, inching beside me under his own throw.
I turn to him, forgetting how tall he is as I crane my neck to peer into his big, curious eyes.“I’ll explain later,” I croak, struggling not to cry again.“And I’ll need your help.”
“With some ruse?”
I nod.“A big one.”
“But for now?”he presses.
I smile up at him weakly.“Can you ...just hold me?”
He winks and drags me into his arms.Hard.Naked.Warm.Sticky.“City Boy.”He sighs, breath warm on top of my head.“I thought you’d never ask.”
Epilogue
Grady
“And now, without furtherado...”
Ira Sullivan stands next to a purple sheet, roughly the color of the velvet ropes lining either side of the red carpet leading directly into theShooting Gallery Arcade.“Allow me to introduce, Nash Remington!”
The crowd of about three dozen onlookers, reporters, podcasters, social media influencers, and local radio station DJs cheers politely as Sullivan whips off the shroud, the cardboard cutout of a smiling, winking, pointing-two-pistols cowboy nearly topples over.
There is laughter and some polite “booing” as Sullivan holds his hands up in mock surrender.“I know, I know,” the slick businessman announces, mugging it up for the cameras as shudders snap and flashbulbs ignite and the bright light over the camera fromChannel 34 Newsbrightens the already sunny Friday morning.“Unfortunately, Nash had to rustle up some bad hombres over the weekend and couldn’t be with us in person today, but if he were, we know that he’d want to welcome you to theShooting Gallery Arcadewith open arms!”
Cheers erupt, mostly from Chet and me standing just shy of the crowd, waving Nash’s cardboard face glued to a popsicle stick.We’re not alone.Most of the crowd has one, another one of the goodies from the shipment Wild West Studios sent just in time for the grand opening.Those without Nash face fans pop off cap guns that smell like burning coffee, tip rubber cowboy hats, or show off tiny tin badges clipped to their shirts, proclaiming them honorary members of theOfficial Nash Remington Fan Club.
Amazingly, the absence of therealNash Remington isn’t quite the end of the world, Chet thought it might be after learning his hit TV show,Smoking Guns, had been canceled earlier that week.If anything, it had only renewed our interest in turning today’s Grand Opening into a gala affair, something even I didn’t think we could pull off.
And yet, we have.Sullivan mugs it up for the cameras before turning the life-size cardboard cutout into a six-foot photo prop, holding it in place while the crowd eagerly queues up to snap a quick selfie before disappearing into the chaotic shooting gallery just beyond.
Parker clomps up the sidewalk behind us, a leggy blond in tow.“Jesus,” I grumble, shaking my head.“Another one?”
“Another what?”Chet asks before turning to see for himself.“Oh, another one ofthose.”
