BUCKED Box Set: A Bull Rider Western Romance (7 page)

Chapter Seven - Laci

I have to
admit, I was a little surprised. I thought it was generally common knowledge
that digging into one’s personal life is usually considered a little too heavy
for dinner table conversation—especially when you’ve just met that person on
account of the untimely deaths of both of her parents. Make no mistake, Hank
and Karen Tucker seem like very sweet people. I knew they meant well, but
forgive me for not wanting to talk about how I was feeling. I came to the ranch
to take my mind off of things, not play twenty questions about my emotions over
pork chops and potato casserole.

I laid
there on the bed Aunt Sara had made so nicely for me and stared at the ceiling,
trying to clear my head. Jackson—God bless that boy—tried and tried to get me
to come out and go riding with him. He even bribed me with chocolate. When it
came down to it, though, I just couldn’t get myself to go. Poor boy didn’t know
any better; he was too young when he lost his dad to remember what the
heartache was like. After countless attempts, he eventually slid a candy bar
under my door anyway and said he’d get someone else to take him on a ride. When
I finally pushed all of the negative thoughts swimming through my head aside,
my mind drifted to Emily and Mark.
I
wonder what they’re doing right now
.

I pictured
Emily sitting on her bed painting her nails, holding the nail polish bottle
between her feet while watching one of her favorite movies and eating an entire
bag of cheese puffs. I snorted rather indelicately when my little mental scenario
showed Emily picking up a cheese puff while engrossed in a kissing scene, then
dragging it across her freshly-painted nail, thinking it was the nail polish
brush. A curse would slip from her lips as she lamented the loss of a cheese
puff and the need to repaint a nail.

Then, I
started thinking about Mark. Mr. Nice Guy. The quintessential boy-next-door.

He was
probably doing something super sweet, like helping an old lady cross a street.
Then, for some ridiculous reason, my brain went off the rails and an image of
him writing “Mrs. Laci Hannon” on a piece of notebook paper came to mind.
Good God
,
you need to snap out of it. We aren’t in grade school.
My fingers
lightly traced the pendant around my neck and I settled my thoughts back to
something more realistic.

And, I
went back to imagining Mark help that old lady cross the street, after which
he’d probably walk to the nearest coffee shop so he could sit and pretend to
write poetry while he sipped on an Americano and people watch, studying them
for character ideas like we used to do. That’s one thing I’ll always appreciate
about Mark—he has great taste in coffee.

Speaking
of coffee, I was definitely craving some. I emerged from my room like a rat
looking for cheese and scampered down the stairs. I poked my head into the
living room, expecting to see Jackson there with Aunt Sara and Grandma, but he
wasn’t.

“Hey,
Lace,” Aunt Sara said, looking up from her crossword puzzle as the news droned
on in front of her. Grandma
snored
lightly from her chair. “What’s up?”

“Where’s
Jack?” I asked. “He’s been begging me to come out all day, and now that I
finally do, he disappears. Go figure.”

“He said
he was going over to see if Noah would take him for a ride.” I suddenly felt
like a total jerk. My cousin actually resorted to turning to the rude, wannabe
cowboy from next door because I couldn’t get myself out to the stables.

“Oh, okay.
Hey, I’m really feeling like a cup of coffee. Mind showing me where the stuff
is?”

“You’re a
coffee drinker now?” she asked in surprise. “How did I not know that?” Judging
by the look on her face as she said it, you’d have thought I just told her Zac
Efron wanted to take me on a hot night on the town.

“Uh,
yeah,” I said. “I’ve been drinking coffee since I was, I dunno, sixteen, I
think.” Grandma let out a quick, loud snore. “Looks like Gram could use a cup,
too,” I chuckled with a look across the room.

Aunt Sara
waved her hand dismissively as she stood from her seat on the couch. “Eh,
she’ll come to in about an hour, then stagger to bed like a zombie. Well, what
are we waiting for? I can’t wait to show you my new espresso machine!”

Hmm, I didn’t know she was such a coffee
fanatic.

She led
the way to the kitchen, then opened a set of double doors on an antique-looking
cabinet and revealed a huge double espresso machine. She gingerly pulled it
forward a bit like it was a baby, then squatted down and opened another set of
doors, pulling out a wooden box from inside. After she had
put
it on the counter beside the machine, she
clicked her tongue and hovered her index finger over at least five different
coffee options, trying to decide which one to use. “What do you think?” she
asked, snapping her head toward me. “French vanilla, robust roast, hazelnut,
half-caf, breakfast blend, or blueberry?”

“Blueberry?
That sounds horrifying.”

“Bite your
tongue, Laci Daniels!” she gasped. “That just so happens to be my favorite!”

I pride
myself on being the kind of girl who will try almost anything at least once, so
I figured what the hell? “You’re favorite, huh? Hmph. Alright, I guess I can
try it. For you,” I gushed.

“You won’t
regret it. Now,” she crossed to the fridge, “whole milk, half and
half
, or cream? And, to make it as sweet as
you, do you want agave nectar or sugar?”
“Geez, I don’t know. Surprise me.”

“Ahhh! One
Sara Special, coming right up!”

She pulled
everything out and went to work—she ground the beans,
tamped
the resulting grounds into the little espresso filter, and
clicked it into place. Next, she pressed a few buttons and placed a shot glass
sized cup underneath the spout. She put equal parts of milk and
half
and
half
in a metal tin she pulled out of the freezer then turned on the frother to
steam it. I got lost in the rest of her process and started a conversation.

“So, how
are you feeling?” A little part of me hated myself for asking that question the
moment it spilled from my lips—she probably wasn’t feeling much better than
me—but it was much different to get that kind of question from a relative going
through the same situation as you than it was to get it from a bunch of
strangers around a dinner table.

“Oh, don’t
worry about me, sweetie,” she said. “How are you?” It’s just like her to put
the focus on anyone but herself.

“I do
worry about you, ya know. I’m going to tell you what Em told me—you don’t have
to keep it together for my sake.”

She smiled
sadly. “I know, Lace, but really, I’m okay. I’ve been trying to think about it
like your grandmother said last night. Of course, I miss my sister and
brother-in-law, but they lived good lives and they were loved. I’m trying to
celebrate all the love they brought into the world…like you, for example. How
are you holding up?”

I
shrugged. “Been better, been worse. I think I hit rock bottom in the car with
Em a few days ago, so I’m starting my uphill battle. I have to admit, it wasn’t
the greatest feeling to have it brought up at dinner last night, though.”

“Yeah,
sorry about that,” Sara said as she put a mug in front of me that had a heart
in the foam and was dusted with cinnamon. “Hank and Karen apologized profusely
after you went upstairs, and again today when I talked to them. They really had
the best of intentions.”

I nodded.
“Oh, I don’t doubt that,” I said as I took a sip of the blueberry concoction.
“Damn, that’s good. I would never have thought cinnamon went with blueberry. Or
that blueberry went with coffee, for that matter.”

“Oh ye of
little faith,” she chuckled. “So what was all that between you and Noah,
anyway? It’s like you’ve had it out for each other from the
get-go
. I think he’s pretty cute; I’m surprised
you don’t think so.”

“Well, he
isn’t exactly
bad-looking
,” I said.
“But he’s got a rotten attitude. The first thing he did was look me up and down
like I was a piece of meat, then comment that I shouldn’t wear what I had on to
a ranch.”

“In his
defense, you weren’t wearing the best of shoes to handle this kind of terrain,”
she pointed out, starting her elaborate espresso process again for a cup of her
own.

“It’s not
just about the shoes, Aunt Sara. It’s about the fact that the first thing out
of his mouth was criticism. Don’t get me wrong, I’m all for a constructive
critique, but he talked to me like I’m completely dense and had no idea where I
was going.”

“I
understand that, honey, but he’s not used to filtering himself. You have to
take everything he says with a grain of salt. Being a twenty-two-year-old in
the middle of the PBR circuit, trying to prove himself worthy to be there, he’s
gotta act all high and mighty if he’s got any hope of earning respect.”

“I’m kinda
in his shoes, too,” I pointed out. “I’m an eighteen-year-old who’s about to
jump head first into an industry dominated by people with quadruple the
experience as me and some with the fame to go along with it, but you don’t see
me treating everyone like they crapped in my Cheerios.”

Aunt Sara
laughed. “Now, that’s a new one. How about you think of it this way—people
don’t normally think of actors as being rough and tough, down and dirty,
manly-men. Bull riders, on the other hand…”

“I get it,
they have to come off as the Alpha male. What I don’t get is why he has to keep
it up at home when he’s away from everyone who’d judge him for being a real
human being.”

“Hank, his
dad, used to be a bull rider, you know. Maybe he feels like he’s got to put on
the show for him. Few things can wound an ego more than a dad who isn’t proud
of you.”

“Yeah,
maybe you’re right,” I confessed. “Maybe I should apologize. I’m glad I could
always be myself
around
Daddy…” I paused,
feeling the weight of how much I missed him already. “And, he was always proud
of me. I never had to wonder if he was. He made sure I knew.” I felt my chest
tighten, that crippling lump rising up in the back of my throat as I choked
back the tears. In an effort to try to keep myself from crying, I took a deep
sip of my weirdly delicious blueberry cappuccino and ended up burning my
tongue. Guess I forgot how long espresso stays scalding hot. I hung my tongue
out and panted a little bit, asking in a slurred voice where the ice was.

“In the
freezer, blondie,” she told me.

Right, I knew that.

I ran to
the freezer and pulled out an ice cube, then popped it into my mouth. “Das
bettur
,” I murmured around the chunk of ice
before crunching it into tiny pieces and swallowing it.

“You know
what’ll make you feel even better?” Sara added.

“What’s
that?”

“A nice,
hot shower. Always works for me when I’m down.”

“You know,
I think that sounds awesome,” I told her gratefully. I stood up and picked up
the mug. She took it out of my hands and assured me she’d take care of it,
which meant she had no problem drinking what I hadn’t. I thanked her and
slumped up the stairs.

It didn’t
take long to strip out of my clothes and get a towel. There was a whole basket
of those puffy bath sponges in the towel closet, so I helped myself to a blue
one. I dug in my bags for my favorite fuzzy pajama pants and a tank top and
made a mental note to unpack them later. Even though it was June in the deep
south, with how cold Aunt Sara and Grandma had the air conditioner, I’d freeze
my ass off if I wore anything other than long pants to bed.

When I’d
wrapped the towel around myself and laid out my pajamas, I headed to the
bathroom and closed the door behind me. Moments later, I stepped into the tub
with my bath sponge and drew the flowery curtain across the
rod
. Now, I generally considered myself a
fairly smart person. I mean, I can find the derivative of a curve without a
calculator and analyze Shakespeare like nobody’s business, but when it comes to
using someone else’s shower, I feel like a total baboon. Emily’s shower
functioned the same as the one I was used to from home, but using Aunt Sara’s
was like trying to speak a foreign language you’ve never studied. There were
three knobs instead of the usual two—none of which were labeled, might I
add—and so I stood there in the tub, fiddling with them for a solid minute
thinking there had to be some magical combination before I realized that the
left knob was hot, the right one was cold, and the one in the middle was used
to turn the shower. It would have made sense, really, if they all three
functioned in the same capacity. But the hot and cold ones turned. The middle
one you had to pull out, then push up. It was like the Rubik’s Cubes of
showers. Go figure.

To top it
all off, when you pushed the middle knob the whole way and the water blasted
out of the shower head, it was
much
colder
than the water that came out of the tub’s faucet. It may as well have been
glacier water that rained down
on
me. I’m
sure it would have been a sight to see when I jumped and flattened myself
against the wall to avoid as much
arctic
water as I could. I tried to pretzel my arm around to twiddle the knobs.
Finally, I adjusted it to a nice, toasty temperature. The hot water felt
amazing pouring over my body, especially after the cold water wake up call. I
wet my hair first and breathed in the steam to relax.