Page 34 of Space Cowgirl: Houston, All Systems Go
It’s nine in the morning and I’ve competed my whole checklist.
Finally giving in to the urge, I log on to my laptop again and replay last night’s newscast.
“No word yet from NASA on why Julie Starr suddenly canceled the scheduled training session in NASA’s T-38 today,” a stuffy white dude behind a news desk reports. “But here with us is field reporter Susan Jenkins who was at the airfield at the time of the incident.” Stuffy white dude swivels in his seat, directing the viewers’ attention to the blonde next to him with a Barbie bouffant hairdo. “Tell us, Susan,” the dude continues. “From someone who was on-site when it happened, what is your take on the situation?”
“Julie Starr made no comment on why she aborted the flight,” Susan says, crossing her legs, which causes her suit skirt to ride up. I roll my eyes. This woman is a menace to journalists everywhere.
And women.
Susan gestures to the screen behind her, where a video of me storming past the reporters with a scowl on my face plays in slow-mo.
Awesome. All my practiced PR smiles, and they get the one of me pissed off. And in slow-mo, no less. Ugh. No one looks good in slow-mo.
Except Baywatch.
“In fact,” reporter Barbie continues, “I have fielded some concerned reports from insiders at NASA that wonder about Julie Starr’s mental health.”
I stop the video, my finger jamming my mouse pad a bit too vigorously.
Damaging government property, that’s all I’d need now.
Though I have to say NASA hasn’t given me any shit about it. Apparently getting sick right before a flight isn’t that uncommon. It’s happened before. Just not when there were a bunch of news reporters on site.
Just my luck.
The girls and Bodie texted a few times, checking in, but haven’t hassled me about it.
After I aborted the flight, I made sure to drop a line to NAMIS, NASA’s Aircraft Management Information System to complete a full check on the T-38.
NAMIS confirmed this morning that the jet was safe to fly.
I’m annoyed I fell for the stalker’s bluff, but when the safety of my team is in question, better safe than sorry. I’d rather have bad press than put Bodie in danger.
I writeshoweranddresson my list and immediately cross it off. But the usual thrill I get from completing tasks just isn’t there.
From my room I can hear truck engines starting up and ranch hands calling out to each other. It’s a regular old day on the ranch. Everyone’s got a job to do.
Except me.
Falling back on the bed, I stare up at the ceiling. I wish it were metal. With toggle switches and blinking lights. I basically want to run away to space.
I could always masturbate.
But recently, all my go-to fantasies have been replaced by a pair of whiskey colored eyes and callused hands demanding I ride him hard.
I’ve already given the man a striptease. I don’t need to add him to the list of people I finger paint my lady box to as well.
I haven’t even heard or seen much of Holt since the great Pearl debacle from two days ago. Which is fine. It’s what I wanted. Full control and whatnot. Doesn’t have anything to do with why I sit up, stride out of my room and beeline for my boots by the front door.
It’s just that I’ve never been to the horse barn. Might be fun to check it out. That’s all.
So I am not too sure why after striding out into the Texas sun, I’m so disappointed when I find the barn empty.
“Ma’am?”
My shitkickers leave the dirt floor as I spin around to see Tucker in the doorway, hat in hand.
“Fuck, Tucker.” I put my hand on my heaving chest. “Scare a girl to death, why don’t you?”
