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Carey trips after us, eyes wide and breath coming out in these short, squeaky bursts. She gapes at Rusty. “What the hell was that? Do you realize people in there were getting all of that on video?”
If he could produce a yawn right now it wouldn’t render his expression more disinterested. “I’m over it,” he says simply.
“Rusty,” Carey says, with as much calm as she can muster, “you don’t get to just be over it. You do get that, right?”
His gaze swims as he looks from her to me and then back again. “Why aren’t you two together? But not just together, like together,” he slurs. “Did Melly tell you not to?”
Carey looks at me in abject horror, and I groan, officially done with this conversation. “Come on, Russ, you can’t ask us shit like that. We’re your employees.”
“Well, if that’s the only problem, then you’re both fired.” He turns to James, but a hiccup interrupts his laugh. “I’ll be damned if my wife is going to keep you from getting laid, too.” He pauses, scoffing at our stiff silence. “Oh, please. I see the way you two look at each other.”
Carey visibly shudders. “Rusty, oh my God please don’t talk about this.”
With a deep breath, I walk over to the car at the curb, open the door, and shove Rusty into the back seat. I meet Carey’s eyes and tilt my head for her to get in. “Let’s go.”
It’s a quiet drive back to the cabin, but I’m sure none of our thoughts are quiet. We’re in Laramie, and most people here seem to want to mind their own business, but this could still be bad. I try to remember how many camera phones I saw aimed at Rusty; there had to be at least three. And a couple of people in the booths toward the back were more than likely able to hear him ranting—they could easily have posted his diatribe to Twitter, Reddit, anywhere.
Although I’m glad that the truth about Carey’s skills will get out there, I’m not sure this is the way it should have happened.
“We should call Robyn,” Carey says quietly.
Rusty makes a drunken sound of protest, but Carey turns and glares at him so effectively that he immediately lowers his voice to under-his-breath muttering.
“Yeah,” I agree. “Call her.”
Carey holds the phone to her ear, curling low so she can hear the call over Rusty’s back-seat babble. “Hi, Robyn?” she says. “Yeah, it’s Carey. Look. I need you to do a social media check. We just picked up Rusty from a bar where he was—”
“Telling the truth!” Rusty shouts, and Carey shoos at him.
“—going on a bit of a rant,” she says delicately. “There were some folks there who got video, and I’m sure at least one person in the bar got on—Yeah. Yes.” She stares straight ahead, glum. “We were there. He snuck out of the house after hearing about the numbers.”
“Because my wife is a bitch,” he spits.
“You’re not exactly a great catch yourself, asshole,” Carey says, and I stare at her for a beat before turning my eyes back to the road. Warpath Carey is a novel delight.
“Okay,” she says, returning to the call. “Yes, I think that’s a good idea.” Her voice gets heated. “Yeah, no. I get that you’ve sent us on this impossible mission—believe me, I’m aware what has been asked of us, Robyn—but I’m not owning this one. Melly and Rusty are making their own mess right now.”
She ends the call without saying goodbye, and I give her a few seconds of deep breathing before asking, “So, what’d she say?”
I glance over at her, catching the tightness in her jaw, the tendons rising in her neck. “She said there are some tweets, but she is going to contact the user to get them taken down. She said she’s coming out here tonight.”
In the back, Rusty groans irritably. I’m not Robyn’s biggest fan, either, but I’m glad she’s coming to take care of this. Let someone else babysit.
“She started to tell me she was disappointed in us,” Carey says, “but I’m sorry, I’m not having that.” Her hand shakes as she lifts it to tuck her hair behind her ear, and she lowers it, slipping it under her thigh. “I’m not fucking having this anymore.”
Any hope we have that Robyn quickly contained the Twitter problem, or that Melissa had logged off and decided to enjoy the rest of her night unplugged, is shattered when we pull down the long gravelly driveway and see Melissa taking the front steps two at a time. She marches over, already pointing and yelling at Rusty before he can even get the door open.
“What were you thinking?” she screams.
Without a word, he walks right past her and into the house. She follows, calling his name, and—with some trepidation—Carey and I step in behind them.
