Page 78 of Space Cowgirl: Houston, All Systems Go
“Yep. It was.” He doesn’t sound any less awkward. So at least we’re lame together.
Fuck it. I’m just going to be honest.
“Holt, I—” Buzzing cuts through the silence.
“That your phone?” Holt’s face looks harder than it did a minute ago.
“Uh, yeah. Probably just one of the girls.”
“But they just left.”
“You know those idiots.” He opens his mouth to speak, but I cut him off. “I’m going to go say good-night to Cookie. I’ll see you inside in a minute, okay?”
Holt’s quiet, staring at me so intensely with his whiskey eyes that for a moment I want to tell him what’s going on. I want to unburden myself of all the pain and fear I’ve been keeping inside, boxed up. But I don’t know how. These feelings are so foreign to me that I don’t even wait for Holt to answer, I just turn and walk away.
Afraid to admit I’m scared, afraid to admit I might need help, afraid to admit I care.
Finally alone in the barn, I step into Cookie’s stall and pull out my phone.
“Holy fuck.” The image burns itself into my brain and I lean back to slide down the stall wall, coming to rest on my ass.
Cookie, being the good pet she is, crouches down beside me, laying her giant, heavy head in my lap. But not even the comfort from the world’s most brilliant bovine can make me unsee the picture on my phone.
Though obviously taken from some old western movie, if the grain and color of the picture are anything to go by, the image of a dead cowboy hanging from a tree is enough to make me, the person who can withstand eight g’s without blinking, nauseous and shaky.
It was bad enough when this person, whoever it is, aimed his anger toward me, threatened me. But no way is Holt going to be involved in this. He said the ranch was his safe place, where he felt the happiest. I’m not about to take that away.
I stroke Cookie’s head, taking comfort for a moment before doing what I need to do.
Twenty
Alpha Mike Foxtrot
HOLT
Something’s off.
I’ve been telling myself not to draw the wrong conclusions every time Jules frowns at her phone, or shields it from view, or like a moment ago, runs away so she doesn’t have to answer it in front of me.
She deserves her privacy. She doesn’t owe me anything. She isn’t Mom.
But in the quiet of my room, voices from the past fill my head.
Who were you out with? Why can’t a girl just go have fun? Where did the bracelet come from? When did you become so boring? Why are you lying to me? What more do you want from me? I regret the day we married.
I remember my mother leaving the room when she’d get a call. My father clenching his fist, often following her, yelling.
Physically trying to free myself of these thoughts, I start to undress for bed. Jules’ calls and texts could just be secret NASA stuff. They always have classified projects going on, according to both Jackie and Jules.
But this reasoning feels uneasy in my gut. If it was NASA, she’d just say so. Tell me it’s confidential. I’d respect that.
So why the secrecy? She basically shoved me out of the laundry room door earlier. Does she not want her friends to know we’re together? Am I just a hookup? She let my hand rest on her back for a moment by the barn, but then she kept a distance between us the rest of the night.
Not that I helped much, what with yelling at her in the barn earlier.
Frustrated, I yank one button too hard and it pops off. “Fuck.” Looking in the mirror, I barely recognize myself. I used to be steady. Reassuring. Calm. And now I’m ripping apart clothes and cursing in frustration.
My house is in the middle of being torn apart, I’ve barely worked a full day on the ranch since my brother got engaged, and now I’m suddenly anxious over a woman. Second-guessing myself.
