Page 32 of Property of Riptide
It’s a sad situation and I wish I had the right words to ease his heartache. However, I’m still struggling to get through it myself, and if I can’t soothe the pain of his duplicity for me, there’s no way I can for him.
Not long after Icer’s departure, Riptide plops down beside me. “The emcee is about to kick things off. You ready for this?”
“I’m not sure anyone is ever ready for something like this,” I refute. “But I’m as prepared as one can be.” Something in the background catches my attention. A man looming there, looking at me as if I’m his next meal. It makes the hair on the back of my neck stand up and goosebumps erupt along my skin.
“What is it?” Riptide asks, twisting his torso.
By the time he takes a look, the man is gone, dissipating like a bloom of smoke. It’s eerie and has me shuddering.
“Did you see something? I don’t like the way your eyes just glassed over, Van. Talk to me, baby.”
“It’s nothing,” I lie.
What am I supposed to say in response that won’t have me sounding like a lunatic needing a strait jacket? A sketchy looking man gave me a case of the heebie-jeebies. It’d make me sound paranoid and demented, as if I’m causing trouble because my overactive imagination got the better of me.
I’m not usually one searching for problems nor do I think they’re following me, as a matter of fact, I avoid them at all costs, but I can’t get rid of the gut feeling that one just found me anyway.
And that has my fight or flight instincts gearing up into overdrive.
“It’s not nothing, Van, if it has you twitchy.”
I wave him off and explain, “It’s just a figment of my imagination, Riptide. I promise, it’s nothing to be concerned about.”
“If it’s nothing then it won’t hurt to tell me what has you spooked, now will it, Van?” He bends down to where we’re eye level, imploring me to talk. “Your gut is never wrong. Remember that, it could save your life.”
I nod my head letting him know I heard what he said. But I’m still worried about coming across as skittish. “There was a manover there. It’s not that he was here watching, it’s the way he was looking at me that creeped me out, Riptide.”
“What did this man look like, Van?” he asks, coming across as more interested in his appearance than I thought he’d be.
Chewing on my bottom lip, I think back and try to recall every detail I can. “He had dark hair, kinda scraggly like he hasn’t had a cut in a while. A full beard, again, it looked gnarly, unkempt. A little taller than you but not as statuesque as Icer. But I think it was Zoey he was looking for because his eyes stayed on her more than they did on me.”
Riptide stands from his stadium seat and begins twirling around through the aisle, one that there’s hardly room to walk through let alone twist in. When he doesn’t find anything, he lifts his phone and begins rapidly firing off text messages.
“Who was it?” I ask.
“I don’t know, but we’re going to find out,” he assures me.
Before I get a chance to quiz him further, the crackling of a microphone coming to life seizes the opportunity.
“Ladies and gentlemen, if you’ll give your attention to the big screen,” the emcee starts, “you’ll see a slideshow of one of our own, Gage Michaelson, who tragically lost his life earlier this year. As a three-time champion on the circuit in bull riding for the Triple R, they’re going to give him the sendoff he deserves.”
CHAPTER
SEVENTEEN
Riptide
Van wipes stray tears from her cheeks as the slideshow progresses. There’s a photo that has him leaning against the horse trailer, a toothpick in his mouth that has Van snickering. “He always had one in his mouth when he was thinking over something,” she says.
“I remember,” I tell her. “Used to drive Paps nuts because he’d find them flicked here and there and always knew who the culprit was. Paps made him start carrying one of those car trash sacks to toss them in when he was done. He actually threaded the two slots in the back into his belt. I used to laugh because anytime he’d walk, it’d bounce with each step.”
“He still did that when we got together. I used to think it was silly, but now it makes sense. Oh, that’s a good one, too,” she whispers. On the big screen, Gage is riding a bull with one hand gripped on the reins and the other tossed up into the air at an angle. It’s how bull riders help balance themselves when they’re being bucked around.
“That’s the day he won his last buckle,” I explain, memories of the past flashing through my mind. “The bull he’s on in the picture, that’s Fury, he was the one that no one could ride out until the last second. Gage got the highest score of the day.”
“I never understood how something so dangerous as that enamored him like it did,” she ruminates. “There wasn’t a time that he’d come back from riding a circuit that he wasn’t either limping or suffering from bruised ribs.”
“It’s the cowboy call,” I tell her. “Paps used to say you’re either born with it or you’re not. Those who aren’t, have to work harder at succeeding and those with the natural gift, the calling, feel it in the depths of their bones. The animal becomes an extension of them.”
