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I’ll be back soon.

CHAPTER SIX

JAMIE

It’s been a really fucking long year.

My top client, and closest friend, is on the other side of the States now. Not working; on a hiatus I’m unsure he’ll ever come back from, with the girl he’s in love with. I’m really happy for him. But he left me with a bunch of pushed contracts, abruptly ended negotiations, and an open spot in my roster that I haven’t found anyone to fill.

I got through the professional angle.

The personal was a little harder.

I shift my left leg, knee popping. I’ve been on the road since early morning, with nothing to fuel me but black coffee roiling in my stomach for the first three hours. My PA got my flights mixed up, flew me into the wrong airport, but had a car waiting to fill the gap. I’m not upset, I get it, and it’s given me some time to think things over.

Boy, has it.

I crack my neck. It’s time to stop at a gas station, which might prove to be a problem. It’s been a good forty minutes since I the last one, but that makes me hopeful it won’t be much longer. Like the universe can read my thoughts, a green-and-white station wavers in the distance, a couple pickup trucks parked on the gravel by the road. I slow, swinging into the lot and cut the engine.

Silence falls.

My father lived in Wyoming. Technically, I’m from here, too. It doesn’t feel like home, and it hasn’t for a long time. Not since Dad passed, at least. Or since Coen’s mom passed. Before she went, we had something to return to. He told me they tore down her house and sold it to the neighboring ranch, I think. All I know is, there isn’t shit left from my childhood. Not a person, not a place. Just this familiar, but strange, endless road that looks like my memory, but doesn’t feel like it.

I get out of the truck.

I haven’t smoked in a bit. I think I might get a pack of Marlboros and have one before I get back to it.

A bell chimes when I step into the cool gas station. It’s better kept than I expected. The floors are glossy, shelves well stocked. I make a pit stop at the bathroom, and even that’s scrubbed.

I’m washing my hands when I look up and see myself. My hair’s flat on one end. I fix it as best I can.

My brain goes to the one place I’ve been hoping it wouldn’t.

fucking Maxwell.

Beautiful, sharp who put me in the biggest slump of my life last year. I showed up because Coen asked me to; I just didn’t expect to step out of my truck and see the prettiest girl I’d ever laid eyes on. Shorts too short, brows drawn together all mean, arms crossed tight. She was determined to be pissed off from our first words. At first, I thought it was strange, but she quickly started pissing me off right back.

We were oil and water from the get-go.

Then…well, more like fire and gasoline the her bedroom door shut.

I tear myself away from the mirror and leave the bathroom, heading to the fridge. There, I grab a bottled water and a plain iced tea. From the kiosk by the register, I gather a few protein bars, ask for a lighter and a pack of smokes, and take my things out to the truck.

Coen says he doesn’t smoke much anymore. Good for him—I’m trying to get there. Like everything else, he moved on and left me behind.

That’s not fair.

I drop the tailgate and sit, lighting up and cracking my water open. Across the road runs a fence, and beyond it a herd of cattle. Back before Coen and I hit the road to make our fortune, so to speak, this was what I was used to. Then when I was sixteen, I went to live with my aunt in California, got an internship at her agency, and the rest was history. Sometimes, I wish I wasn’t as good as I am. Maybe I could have given it a shot, failed, and gone home.

The problem is, unlike Coen, I fucking love what I do. He was born with the talent of a superstar, but the personality of a gentleman farmer. Me, on the other hand, I have the personality of a border collie, never occupied and needing a job so I don’t spiral. I’ve always had a talent for finding talent and the willingness to do anything to get what I want.

Within reason, I’m not an asshole. But God, do I love the chase and reward of a successful client.

Until…

No, I’m not thinking about that right now.

I grind out my cigarette and rise with my things, dropping the butt in the bin before getting into my truck. The map says I have about forty minutes before I hit Maxwell Ranch. My heart rate increases, just a hair, as I pull out onto the road. On the airplane, I snapped in my earbuds and slept. For the first hour, I made some phone calls and thought about client files.