Chapter 6 - Chase Me, Cowboy

It’s been a really fucking long year.

My top client, and closest friend, is on the other side of the States now. Not working; on a hiatus I’m unsure he’ll ever come back from, with the girl he’s in love with. I’m really happy for him. But he left me with a bunch of pushed contracts, abruptly ended negotiations, and an open spot in my roster that I haven’t found anyone to fill.

I got through the professional angle.

The personal was a little harder.

I shift my left leg, knee popping. I’ve been on the road since early morning, with nothing to fuel me but black coffee roiling in my stomach for the first three hours. My PA got my flights mixed up, flew me into the wrong airport, but had a car waiting to fill the gap. I’m not upset, I get it, and it’s given me some time to think things over.

Boy, has it.

I crack my neck. It’s time to stop at a gas station, which might prove to be a problem. It’s been a good forty minutes since I the last one, but that makes me hopeful it won’t be much longer. Like the universe can read my thoughts, a green-and-white station wavers in the distance, a couple pickup trucks parked on the gravel by the road. I slow, swinging into the lot and cut the engine.

Silence falls.

My father lived in Wyoming. Technically, I’m from here, too. It doesn’t feel like home, and it hasn’t for a long time. Not since Dad passed, at least. Or since Coen’s mom passed. Before she went, we had something to return to. He told me they tore down her house and sold it to the neighboring ranch, I think. All I know is, there isn’t shit left from my childhood. Not a person, not a place. Just this familiar, but strange, endless road that looks like my memory, but doesn’t feel like it.

I get out of the truck.

I haven’t smoked in a bit. I think I might get a pack of Marlboros and have one before I get back to it.

A bell chimes when I step into the cool gas station. It’s better kept than I expected. The floors are glossy, shelves well stocked. I make a pit stop at the bathroom, and even that’s scrubbed.

I’m washing my hands when I look up and see myself. My hair’s flat on one end. I fix it as best I can.

My brain goes to the one place I’ve been hoping it wouldn’t.

fucking Maxwell.

Beautiful, sharp who put me in the biggest slump of my life last year. I showed up because Coen asked me to; I just didn’t expect to step out of my truck and see the prettiest girl I’d ever laid eyes on. Shorts too short, brows drawn together all mean, arms crossed tight. She was determined to be pissed off from our first words. At first, I thought it was strange, but she quickly started pissing me off right back.

We were oil and water from the get-go.

Then…well, more like fire and gasoline the her bedroom door shut.

I tear myself away from the mirror and leave the bathroom, heading to the fridge. There, I grab a bottled water and a plain iced tea. From the kiosk by the register, I gather a few protein bars, ask for a lighter and a pack of smokes, and take my things out to the truck.

Coen says he doesn’t smoke much anymore. Good for him—I’m trying to get there. Like everything else, he moved on and left me behind.

That’s not fair.

I drop the tailgate and sit, lighting up and cracking my water open. Across the road runs a fence, and beyond it a herd of cattle. Back before Coen and I hit the road to make our fortune, so to speak, this was what I was used to. Then when I was sixteen, I went to live with my aunt in California, got an internship at her agency, and the rest was history. Sometimes, I wish I wasn’t as good as I am. Maybe I could have given it a shot, failed, and gone home.

The problem is, unlike Coen, I fucking love what I do. He was born with the talent of a superstar, but the personality of a gentleman farmer. Me, on the other hand, I have the personality of a border collie, never occupied and needing a job so I don’t spiral. I’ve always had a talent for finding talent and the willingness to do anything to get what I want.

Within reason, I’m not an asshole. But God, do I love the chase and reward of a successful client.

Until…

No, I’m not thinking about that right now.

I grind out my cigarette and rise with my things, dropping the butt in the bin before getting into my truck. The map says I have about forty minutes before I hit Maxwell Ranch. My heart rate increases, just a hair, as I pull out onto the road. On the airplane, I snapped in my earbuds and slept. For the first hour, I made some phone calls and thought about client files.

Now, I’m getting closer and closer.

Now, I’m thinking real hard about .

I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t hoping she’d give me a chance and sleep with me again. My brain plays a reel of every we spent together for those few nights. The first night, in her bed. The in the shower. Goddamn, nothing has come close to that feeling. It was like being high, but on warm skin and a sweet vanilla scent, on the scrape of her nails, and her breathy little moans.

I shift in my seat, adjusting the front of my pants.

The main issue here is she gave me her number, but I never contacted her because I’m too old and she’s my best friend’s future sister-in-law. Those are the basic reasons. The other thing that alarms me is that she’s a budding musician and she’s really fucking good. I heard her play and sing a bit through the walls. If she had the guts to start posting her music online, some agency would snatch her up quickly. And, deep down, in my business brain, I kind of want that agency to be mine.

My thoughts spiral a little darker.

I was the who took Coen to superstardom. That means I was also the architect of the career that sent his mental health crashing into the ground.

I haven’t told anyone, but I’m really struggling with that.

Blinking, I pop the cap off my tea and sip some, hoping the cold will jerk me out of my thoughts. I turn on the radio, making sure it’s not country because I don’t want to hear my own clients right now. Soft pop fills the car; I only have two pop clients, so it’s a safe bet to get away from thoughts of work.

The problem: it makes me think about and what genre I think she’d do best in.

I go back and forth like this for the entire forty minutes. I’m frustrated, and I need to take a leak when I pull up to the ranch house. The Maligators, two enormous Belgian Malinois, start barking their heads off when I get out. The door swings open, and Coen steps out. It’s been a minute since I saw him, and I take a beat, surprised by how good he looks. In the last several years, he started looking tired and a touch gaunt, with a stare that reached a thousand yards. Now, he’s tanned, he’s gained a little muscle, and there’s a spring in his step as he crosses the drive.

He embraces me, pulling back.

“Well, don’t you look like shit,” he says.

“Yeah, fuck you, I’m traveling.” I drag my bag off the truck bed. “What do you expect?”

“How many hours you pulling these days?”

We go up the front steps. My heart is hammering. The dogs have quieted and gone back to lying on the porch.

“None of your business,” I say lightly. “I’ve got things handled.”

We go inside. In the kitchen, perched on the barstool with a stack of papers on the counter is Sabrina. She’s a slender, bird-like woman, with a pretty face and big eyes framed by dark lashes and freckles. Her dark hair is piled on her head, wispy bangs brushing her brows. As we enter, she looks up and smiles.

“Hey, Jamie,” she says.

“Hey,” I say, glancing around. No , as far as I can see.

Coen starts making coffee, hitting the button and crossing his arms. “I’m about to get dinner going. Sabrina got me a big-ass grill for my birthday.”

“Sounds great,” I say, eyes flicking over the windows.

Sabrina hops off the barstool. “I’m gonna run these papers to the office.”

She disappears down the hall. Coen holds out the coffee and gives me a look.

“What?” I say.

“She ain’t here,” he says.

“Who?”

He shakes his head, the corner of his mouth curling. “. She flew out to New York this morning.”

Coen knows that and I hooked up. I told him last year. A tiny bit of relief hits me, followed closely by more disappointment than I anticipated. So I worried about it for hours—well, maybe days—for nothing? Or maybe she was just as preoccupied thinking about me, so she took a flight out so we didn’t have to see each other.

Or she really fucking hates me because I never texted her, so she’s gonna make sure she never has to see me again.

Ouch.

That’s the most likely explanation.

I take a sip of scalding black coffee and shrug. “Doesn’t much matter to me either way.”

He’s watching me, but he won’t get a micro-expression out of me right now. I’m excellent at hiding my feelings in business. I can sit in a boardroom across from the biggest asshole I know and smile and shake his hand with no problem. Poker face is my default mode.

“Alright,” Sabrina says brightly, appearing in the kitchen. “Who wants to help me cook the sides?”

I end up having to chop a bunch of vegetables before I have the chance to shower. Then, while Sabrina and Coen sit out with the grill, I go up to the guestroom and strip down, trying not to think about the last time I was in this house. It’s a highlight reel, a pornographic one, and I can’t seem to turn it off.

After I shower, I reach for my sweats. My hands go still while tying on the strings. A wash of something I have no name for comes over me like a wave pulling me into deep water. My intention was to come out of Wyoming to see Coen, get a little bit of old times to keep me going, then head out of Maine for a few days for a rare break before I have to handle one of my new clients. I’ve spent the last seven months flying between LA and New York City. Exhausted isn’t a strong enough word.

I’m dead, in my bones.

The problem is…I’ve been dead before and I’ve always managed to wring some energy out of myself.

I have far too many people depending on me for their paychecks and careers. Stopping isn’t an option. Maybe, I can safely add a few hundred more milligrams of caffeine and take a direct flight when I head back so I can sleep before I get to Maine. Once I’m at the house, I won’t have the excuse of traveling to not answer my phone and emails. These days, I have to be on the verge of death before I can ignore an email and whoever is on the other end takes that as a valid excuse.

I shake my head and go downstairs.

It’s nice to be back at the ranch, but something is off. When I was here last year, I was worried about Coen and getting him situated. Now, he’s thriving and I’m thinking I might be the one who’s crumbling at the edges. All through our meal, I keep catching him looking at me like he’s worried. Do I really look that bad? Tired, yeah. But not to a worrying degree.

“What are you working on now, Jamie?”

I blink, focusing on Sabrina’s expectant face.

“I got a new client,” I say.

“Oh yeah? Anyone we know?”

I shake my head. “She’s got a big social media following, but I can’t say too much. I think she’s got a lot of potential though. I’m gonna be busy for the of the summer.”

“Is that where you’re headed after this week?” Coen asks.

I open my mouth, but somebody else’s words come out.

“I actually gotta get back in the next couple of days. She’s out in Texas, and I want a chance to hit up the Maine house to grab some things I left there.”

They glance at each other with that annoying all-knowing glance that couples do. They both know, but clearly nobody is going to outright mention the aspect in all this. If they’re not, I’m more than happy to keep quiet about it too.

At least for the time being.

After dinner, Coen and I do chores. It’s been a while since I worked on a ranch, but the muscle memory is there. I’m more impressed that he’s fallen so easily into the rhythm of it after years of being in the music industry, touring, and writing. He used to walk with his shoulders hunched, almost like he was expecting someone to swing. Now, he moves easily with his shoulders back, chest out. He looks a lot like me in that sense, only mine is born out of the need to always be on the defense.

Sabrina says she wants to get to bed early and retires upstairs. Coen lingers in the kitchen, wiping the countertops. I lean on the breakfast bar and watch without speaking.

“You want a whiskey?” he asks finally.

“I wouldn’t say no.”

He takes a bottle from the cabinet and pours two glasses, sliding one over. “So how are things?”

I shrug. “Same old. The record company is off my ass. I made a new contact at -Best Records, and I’m thinking I’ll pitch this new client.”

“Huh, you think Houston-Best would be a good fit for country?”

“She’s country-pop.”

“Ah, that could work then.”

I study him. “You can always hit me up if you want to co-produce.”

He shakes his head. “I can’t take on anything else right now.”

“I get it.”

“But, send me the songs and I’ll give you a round of edits, on the house.”

“I owe you one.”

That’s another big problem—Coen Taylor is the absolute best in the business. Our long-standing relationship meant that I’d sign a client, pass them off to him, and together we’d make the next star. We were a money-making machine, the dream team everyone wanted. Coen’s still taking on writing clients on a case-by-case basis, but he won’t take the same volume as before. I don’t want him to either. We both almost worked ourselves into the grave before he hit his breaking point. But what this all means is…I need to find myself another writer with a golden touch.

I could do it.

But I won’t, it’s not ethical for agents to be that close in my book. There needs to be a team. The more input, the better.

“Well, good luck at Houston-Best,” he says, lifting his glass.

“I think it’ll be good, but I will have our best eyes on that contract.”

He nods. “Make sure it’s short.”

“Yeah, that’s my priority.”

We both fall into silence. I don’t like how we have less and less to talk about now that his days are filled with things that aren’t work. Not because I’m jealous, but because it reminds me that I should be more like him.

“You seeing anyone?” Coen says finally.

I shake my head, but don’t answer. No, it’s been a long, dry year of nothing. Not a hookup, not a date, in sight.

Everytime I do, my brain drags me back to how it felt to touch . How, for a brief time, my head was quiet and I didn’t feel the urge to run-run-run. Is that what peace feels like? I wouldn’t know anymore.

It used to be easy to just talk. Now there’s a whole year of separation between us. We finish our whiskey in silence. I get up, tapping the counter.

“I’m pretty tired, gonna get some sleep,” I say.

He nods, going to load the glasses in the dishwasher. I climb the stairs, moving down the dark hall. ’s door is slightly ajar, her bed with messy sheets visible. Pausing, I stare through the tiny sliver. Everything that happened those few days churns in my head, so vivid I can’t stop it this time.

Why did I do that?

I should have turned my ass around and went home the second I laid eyes on her and my brain decided I just had to have a taste. Now, I’m fucked up and I can’t shake the need to go in for another round. Then…maybe it would help if I did. It’s possible we could fuck one last time and I could get it out of my system once and for all. We could talk about it, maybe argue just enough that I was over her, and leave without looking back.

No, that’s a terrible idea.

I head to the guestroom and strip for bed, lying on my back. My phone has forty-seven missed texts and five missed calls. I check them briefly, then turn it facedown and plug it in. I’m too tired, too burned out, to respond right now.

Instead, I lie there in silence and think about how I can’t spend long here. She might have escaped me by an inch, but traces of her are all over this house. I’m not interested in being reminded by every half-open door that I fucked up and made a mess with my best friend’s future sister-in-law. They haven’t gotten engaged yet, but they will. And that means Serena will always be in my life.

I played with fire. Now, I’m both burned and burned out.