Page 10 of Space Cowgirl: Houston, All Systems Go
I’m having trouble keeping up. Jules, agendas, the ranch…my gut is telling me that this is not going to end well.
“Listen man, if you’d rather not—”
I snap out of my fog. “Don’t even say it. I’m all in. The ranch is yours. Whatever you need.”
This is my brother. The boy I helped raise. My whole life is devoted to making sure he and Rose have everything they need. Even when what they need had Flynn refusing to speak to me for a while. If my baby brother wants me to help with his wedding, I’ll not only help, but I’ll freaking like it.
“Great. And if you need any tips on how to smooth-talk the ladies…”
“Shut it.”
I click the side button to cancel the call, but not before I hear Flynn’s loud laughter coming through the phone.
* * *
Jules
After gulpingdown another cup of coffee, chased with ice water to soothe my torched throat, I get my laptop from my backpack and boot up. It takes quite a few minutes, as it’s a government laptop and I have to wade through security protocols before I can even check my email.
My phone lights up with new notifications while I’m waiting, so I pick it up, thinking it’s Jackie posting something about her engagement.
I’m wrong. I hate being wrong in general, but I hate it even more when the reason my Twitter and Instagram accounts have pinged is because I’ve gotten more of those damn private messages. Private messages filled with pictures that have my stomach churning over the acidic coffee from a moment ago.
I go through, looking at one after another. Five of them this time. Three more than yesterday, and four more than the day before that.
My finger hovers over the delete button, but I stop myself. Instead, I go into settings and turn off private messages for each account.
Part of me knows I need to tell Human Resources about this. I’m a public figure. Basically a government asset. I know the right thing to do is tell them. Unfortunately, I also know what the outcome will be. They’ll ground me to protect me until they figure out who’s sending me this crap.
I don’t have time for that. I can’t be a public relations liability when I’mthis closeto commander.
And especially now that I’m in charge of Jackie’s wedding. This is her time. Her day.
Fuck this creep with his sad existence and too much time on his hands.
Pushing the images from my mind, I turn off my phone and get to work on the influx of emails. I take my time answering each one, making sure all the people in charge of future projects happening on the ISS over the course of the next few missions know I’m qualified and ready to take charge. I may slip in Jackie’s name in regards to a few projects while I’m at it. I cross off a lot of items on my lists.
Just as I’m finishing up, my computer dings with an email from Jackie.
See? This is why Jackie and I are friends. It’s Sunday and yet here we both are, logged into NASA, focused on getting ahead of the pack.
But damnit, I’m wrong again. Her email isn’t about work. It’s about her wedding.
Already things are changing.
Scanning the email, it seems I need to pick up a thumb drive from Trish. A thumb drive full of wedding picture ideas.
Awesome.
Looks like my first official maid of honor duty starts now.
* * *
Shiftingmy body weight into the turn, I steer my Ducati down a small paved drive of the trailer park right off of Route 3 and 96. It’s deceiving from the road, looking more like a large cement parking lot with trailer hooks-ups off a busy intersection than a neighborhood. But as I wind father down the road, the cheaper, temporary-stay paved lots evolve into larger, grassy yards for the permanent residents. In the middle of the circular drive is a retention pond and a few large trees worth their weight in gold for the blessed shade they’ll provide in the summer. I match the lot number Jackie texted me to a silver bullet trailer on one of the larger, nicer spots with a rusted-out vintage pickup truck next to it.
Silence rings in my ears when I switch off the bike’s engine. My leg is mid-swing over the seat of the bike when I’m greeted with the muzzle of a shotgun.
Embarrassingly enough, I stumble before regaining my footing and yank off my helmet. My jaw screams in pain as the strap I didn’t have time to loosen scrapes over my jawbone. “Holy fuck, girl. It’s me, Jules!”
