Cowboy Confidential Read online

  Cowboy Confidential

  Gigi Thorne

  Copyright © 2018 by Gigi Thorne

  COWBOY CONFIDENTIAL

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only

  All Rights Reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by an means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the written permission of the author, except where permitted by law.

  Edited by www.editing4indies.com

  Book Cover Design by Mayhem Cover Creations

  This book is meant for mature readers who are 18+.

  It contains explicit language, and graphic sexual content.

  To Cowboys

  1

  “Directions written in the language of stupid just have to be the devil’s idea of a practical joke. Connect the top bar, labeled C, to the side bar, labeled X.”

  She grunt-growled in frustration and slapped the sheet of unhelpful, poorly written step-by-step directions on an empty box. The half-built rack for hanging a background that she needed to make her video journal sat in pieces on the ground and mocked her.

  Scrambling off her ass, she got on her knees and searched through the pieces laid out on a tarp. “There is no goddamn piece labeled X!”

  The mental dial that she conjured up in her head to gauge her level of frustration was climbing perilously close to destruction phase. If she couldn’t figure out the stupid, motherfracken, goddamn piece of foreign-made bullcrap in the next few minutes, she was gonna march the whole pile of shit out into the desert and blow it to smithereens.

  “Waste of perfectly good ammunition,” she mumbled in a disagreeable snarl.

  Refusing to let an inanimate object get the better of her and not in any way amused by this hitch in her careful plans, she consulted the ultimate oracle and googled the damn thing. Thankfully, a YouTube video offered a glimmer of hope, and within a half an hour, she had the classy photo backdrop properly hung.

  She surveyed the setup and moved around till her eyes found the best angle to shoot from. Getting it right the first time would make it easier to do next time. And the times after that.

  The pretty backdrop was done in a scene of shades of white. An ornate fireplace surround with lit candles clustered in the hearth and a floral arrangement with flowers in many shades of pink. It was simple, classy, and had a familiar and comforting shabby chic feel.

  Slapping her hands together, she rubbed them till warmth gathered in her palms. She pressed them against the side of her face – an old habit from another life – and took a deep breath.

  “No more thinking,” she announced to the emptiness. “Time for action.”

  Shaking herself straight, she took care of a few more details before heading into the bathroom for one last mirror check.

  The freedom of not relying on a stylist or a whole team of hair and makeup people made her decisions no-brainers.

  Six months of growing her hair out and slowly taking her mane back to a natural shade still sometimes shocked her when she looked in the mirror. The golden girl hairstyle that required an on-call stylist to keep every hair an exact length and color was gone and good riddance. She shook her head and felt the brush of her long silky curls.

  She stared in the mirror. “Butterscotch and champagne.”

  That was how he once described her hair. Piercing pain around her heart forced a harsh whimper out of her throat. “Dammit. Don’t go there.”

  Another reflex habit had her reaching up to fiddle with an earring. Her mom’s pearl studs. They were small but real – one of her mother’s few jewelry pieces worth passing on. They calmed her nerves and made her feel as though Andrea Colton still walked the earth. It had been almost two decades since she and her dad held hands on a cold March morning and watched her mother’s coffin lowered into the dirt, yet even now, not a day went by when she didn’t miss her terribly.

  With one last look at the plain white T-shirt and jeans she chose for this venture, she flipped off the lights and took up her spot in front of the backdrop. Checking for the Bluetooth gadget that controlled the camera, she took a sip of her drink and sat straight.

  “Final touches,” she said with a cough to clear her throat. She pushed the Bluetooth button. “Camera ready, quiet on set, roll sound.”

  There was a short pause, and then she began.

  “Cowboy Confidential. It begins,” she said into the camera with the slightest hint of a smirk. The carefully chosen title came to her one morning in the shower while she was washing her hair.

  “Hi. It’s me, Sami Colton. If you think I look familiar, it’s probably because my face has been plastered everywhere you looked for the past couple of years. Back when I played for sold-out crowds in concert halls around the world and walked quite a few red carpets as Samantha Hayes.”

  She chuckled. The sound had an edge that wasn’t joyful.

  “I’ll give you a moment to process and just have myself a sip of ginger tea.”

  Waving the ice-filled cup, she swirled the drink and used the paper straw with the funky design to give it a stir. No matter where she went or the distance from home, a pitcher of her grandpa’s signature beverage was always in the fridge. Life without ginger tea would simply suck.

  Setting the drink aside, she flipped her long hair behind her shoulders and focused on the camera.

  “I know what you’re thinking. What’s with the hair, right?” She laughed. “Here’s the thing, this is the real me. The public saw a made-up person who fit a mold. Pale Blonde. Busty. Hella talented.”

  Pausing for dramatic emphasis, she continued trying to hurriedly cover the facts so she could get on with the good stuff.

  “I’m sure you all know the story. Fresh-faced, country gal belts out the national anthem at a hometown rodeo. I wasn’t quite twenty, living at home, and going to community college. That day was like every other day when your world is a ranch in Wyoming except, as luck would have it, an A&R guy from Hollywood happened to be in the audience.

  “Fast forward just three months. The setting? Nashville. The backdrop? A singing competition – you know, the one where amateur vocalists compete against each other. By then I wasn’t Sami anymore. People who said they knew what they were doing rebranded me as Samantha Hayes.

  “A split vote between the backstabbing front-runners earned me the golden microphone in the finals because I refused to play dirty. That was when the golden girl with the heart of gold legend was created.”

  It wasn’t acting or dramatic effect when she stopped for a moment to regain her composure. The story she told was real, but so much personal stuff was missing. She’d sacrificed a lot on her journey to superstardom. Until the last year, she’d refused to admit that if she’d known at the time what she’d be giving up, it wouldn’t have mattered what was gained.

  “So anyway,” she said in a lighthearted voice, “the rest is Hollywood fairy tale. Within six months of being a rodeo gal, I was on a movie set in Rome scared out of my wits, trying to hold it together in scenes with some of the greatest actors of our time.” She groaned. “Apparently, the way to score a best supporting trophy is through experiencing free-falling panic on a scale so overwhelming that it made the character I played believable.”

  She fiddled with a pearl earring. “Newsflash – none of that stuff is real. My trophy haul means exactly diddly squat outside of Hollywood. The woman behind the counter at Millie’s Diner doesn’t care how many sold-out shows I did. The guy working on my motorhome’s transmission just wants to do his job and get paid – not pat me on the back for crooning ‘Happy Birthday’ to a president. Celebrity is a bankrupt currency. One day, I woke up in my rented house on
the beach in Malibu, looked around at the carefully styled and meticulously staged home, and couldn’t find a single thing that felt like mine. Something happened that day, and let me tell you, I’m glad it did. After a bucket of coffee and a come-to-my-senses epiphany, I took off the Samantha Hayes mask, pulled a complete fuck it, and cashed in my bucket of chips. It took me way too long to get here, but hey” – she shrugged – “I’m back, I’m ready to kick some ass, and that’s what matters.”

  Pressing pause, she stopped to take a few deep breaths. It felt good to get all that out, but the cathartic release in her voice had raised to near shouting at the end, and she needed to reel it in.

  With a deep breath, she started back up. “Contractual obligations will burp out a film later this year, and I’m currently wrapping up an animated film where I voice the snarky fairy in an adult fractured comedy. Moved out of the beach house and bought a Ford V-10 motor coach! No joke, I’m a truck gal at heart. My home on wheels is small but mighty! I threw in every snazzy extra and high-end finish available. As a matter of fact, I’m coming to you right now from a campground located Somewhere, USA. That’s right! Fake backdrop disguises the power awning over my head and the two folding chairs off to the side.”

  She crossed her legs and leaned into the shot. Time to get earnest.

  “Long, boring story, cut short. I’ve booted Samantha Hayes to the curb and am taking back my life. Bought a truck, packed some bags, and here we are. On the road home. Why? Because at the end of the day, there ain’t nothing like open skies, fresh air, a horse to ride, and cowboy’s ass to admire. I’m ditching the Jimmy Choos for some cowgirl boots, setting up a bar tab at a honky tonk near home, and kicking in the door of a certain cowboy who I guaran-fucking-tee will not know what hit him. Here’s to finding yourself,” she said with her ginger tea offered in a toast. “And to re-claiming that boy who makes you giggle and, most of all, to going home.”

  She took a sip, smacked her lips, and groaned, “Ahh.”

  “And so, as I said at the start, it begins. My Cowboy Confidential. Fingers crossed and scared out of my mind, but Wyoming, here I come.”

  2

  “Dad’s gonna kick your ass, Wyn. He told you not to fuck around.”

  “Shut up, Burke. You whiny twat. Let me handle the old man. You just mind your own damn business.”

  He snarled at his younger brother and slammed the laptop closed with an angry snap.

  “Look, twerp, cut me some slack, okay? The ranch is turning a big profit and last time I checked, you’re the only one with your panties in a bunch. All I’m doing is expanding the opportunities we offer. The more we have, the more money the guests spend and the greater the satisfaction feedback. Win, win, win. Just like my name.”

  “Whatever, Erwyn,” his sullen brother sniped with biting emphasis.

  “Suck my giant dick, Burkey.” Wyn sneered, knowing that the inevitable comeback, the one his brother couldn’t wait to hurl, was on deck and waiting in the pitcher’s hand. When it came sailing at his head, he ducked at the last second and schooled his expression to remain neutral. No way did he want Burke and his goddamn motormouth to know what was going on in his head.

  “So,” the shithead finally drawled, “ran into Sami over the weekend. She was picking up supplies for the shindig Brad’s throwing. To welcome her home.”

  He didn’t move a muscle, and he had to remember to keep breathing while he stared his brother down.

  “You’re gonna go, right?” Burke continued. “I mean, how’d it look if you didn’t? Old girlfriend moves back home. Her whole crowd, the ones left anyway, throw down with a party. You aren’t planning on being a pussy are you, Wyn?”

  The muscle in his rigid jaw twinged. If he wasn’t careful, the force of his clenched teeth might crack his molars.

  When he refused to take the bait, his sibling tried a different approach.

  “You should really stop by before then. Check out her rig. It’s kind of what you’re talking about for the overnight ranch excursions.”

  Checking out Sami Colton’s rig was territory he covered, meticulously, a long time ago. He didn’t care how many skinny assed pretty boys she fucked or how many awards she won because, as the saying goes, you can take the girl out of the small town, but you can’t take the small town out of the girl. At the end of the day, nobody knew her tight assed, big-breasted rig as he did, and on the nights when his longing for what they once shared drove him to the edge, he hoped she choked on that fact.

  Stopping by for a friendly chat wasn’t in the cards.

  He wasn’t in the mood for this shit and let Burke know it. “Give it a rest, dude. Stop trying to get a rise out of me.”

  The little fucker laughed and turned his words around. “It’s not me looking to get a rise.”

  “Fuck right the fuck off!” He growled and gave his brother a terse finger flash. “And while you’re at it,” he yelled, “get the fuck out.”

  Wyn shot out of his desk chair and angrily stomped to the door of the ranch office. Kicking it open with a booted foot, he pointed and demanded Burke haul ass.

  “You know, bro, you’re wound awfully tight for someone who doesn’t give a shit.”

  Burke’s parting shot hit the mark. No surprise. The kid was a champion marksman – even when his ammunition was verbal.

  Slamming the door after he left, Wyn was too keyed up for work. He tried music because rocking out usually worked. It didn’t – not when nearly every damn song reminded him of her.

  It took a full hour of steadily building anger to blast him out of the office. Storming to his truck, he climbed into the massive, growling workhorse and drove like a teenage boy until the pathetic performance made him cringe.

  Wondering what the fuck was wrong with him, he pounded on the steering wheel when the obvious answer mocked him. Burke was right. He was a pussy.

  Driving in silence, he wound his way across the back of the family zone and pulled into the lot next to the stable without screeching brakes and a cloud of gravel but couldn’t bring himself to get out of the truck.

  Goddammit.

  He scraped his fingers back and forth in his hair, digging them into his scalp. The rearview mirror caught his movement. He turned to his reflection and grunted. His face was a mask of anger. Not a good look.

  Sighing wouldn’t help, but he did it anyway.

  Sami coming home permanently was an unexpected kick in the head after a decade of nursing what she’d done to his soul. It wasn’t fair. Why couldn’t she just stay away and leave him in peace?

  It’s not like he wasn’t already committed to being a grumpy old fuck. A single, grumpy old fuck. What purpose did her coming back serve? To see if there was anything left that she could stomp to dust?

  Fuck.

  Grabbing his hat off the passenger seat, he kicked open the door and just as quickly slammed it shut behind him. There was only one way he was going to calm down and get his shit together. He needed to ride.

  The sun shone in a brilliant blue, cloudless sky. An overnight shower made everything smell earthy and lush. He rode along on his favorite mount, a stallion his dad named Buddha. The irony wasn’t lost on him.

  Loving the ranch was in his blood. Generations of his family had worked this land. Changing times saw the Triple T go from a massive working cattle ranch to a much more scaled back operation that took second place to the updated ranch’s primary business.

  With a shitload of hard work, a river of creativity, two tons of passion, his mother’s wicked sense of humor, and a geyser of cash, he, his dad, and his brother had transformed the T into a world-class guest ranch with every recreational activity imaginable. They held their breath for a year and crossed a lot of fingers too before the financials proved their leap of faith a smart move.

  That was back when life had a bitter taste. It took him no less than a full year after his Rome catastrophe to find the ground again. He drank himself stupid and fucked every piece of ass he could on h
is frequent out of town business trips. Anything to blot out the soul-crushing horror of traveling to Europe with his granny’s diamond ring burning a hole in his pocket only to find the only girl who mattered having a grand time with her boy toy co-star. The day he stepped off a plane in a country with a language he didn’t speak was the same day a paparazzi story broke involving America’s favorite fuckstick, Jasper Davies and his co-star, Samantha Hayes. The pictures of them, of her, frolicking in a fountain were worse than a wet T-shirt contest.

  But that was then, and this is now. She’d ripped his heart out, shit all over the promises they made to each other, and proved that women were best handled in small, fuckable doses. The bigger picture stuff no longer interested him courtesy of America’s golden girl.

  He fucking hated gold.

  Her showing up at the Crossroads out of the blue, and declaring she was home to stay was an outcome he never saw coming.

  And of course, every busybody and dumbass romantic in a thousand-mile radius was salivating over the prospect of some real-life drama now that he and Sami Colton were reunited.

  Bah! Reunited? Jesus. He was going to do whatever the fuck it took to avoid her like the plague. She was bad news, and he wasn’t interested in being cast to play any sort of role in whatever story she was telling.

  Nope. Fuck that. He didn’t need or care about Sami. Not one little bit.

  * * *

  “Easy, Dancer. This would be a bad time to end up on my ass.”

  Sami gripped the reins and focused on staying in the saddle. Tearing around the countryside here wasn’t anything like trotting about the equestrian center she frequented in LA. Dancer wasn’t the best choice for careful walking, something she should have considered before riding out alone.

  Her thighs were burning, and she was nearly out of breath half an hour later when she slowed the horse and headed to the creek. She was out of her damn mind for going there, but oh, well.