Ready for Wild

by Liora Blake

  Shocked by the nerve of it.

  Entirely confused.

  “Was he joking? He knows where we’re from, right?” Colin continues, prompting only a shrug from Teagan and a questioning headshake from me.

  Because if there’s one thing we Texans readily unite behind, it’s our barbeque—the belief that no matter how you smoke it, baste it, or slather it, no one else does it the way we do. We do it right. Everyone else does it wrong.

  And to claim otherwise is blasphemy.

  (Amber)

  “When a man hits a target, they call him a marksman. When I hit a target, they call it a trick. Never did like that much.”

  —ANNIE OAKLEY

  True Grit BBQ does not disappoint. At least not in the way the three of us expect, because we’re snobs. Total barbeque snobs.

  Snobs who pulled into the parking lot and sat in the truck, took a good look at the outside of the restaurant Braden recommended and groaned in unison, then shook our heads sadly when we stepped out and sniffed the air like bloodhounds. Not a trace in the air of post oak, or mesquite, or pecan wood. And a joint that has barbeque or barbecue or BBQ—I don’t care how you spell it—in its name should reek of wood smoke because there should be multiple offset smokers out back, perfuming the air for miles.

  Still, we went inside. Curiosity and all. The sort that killed the cat—and his taste buds.

  “There should be a law,” Colin grumbles, giving the pile of sauce-drenched brisket in his Styrofoam container another accusing poke with his fork.

  Teagan nudges her plate Colin’s way when he continues to grouse, claiming he’s going to write his congressman about this supposed law he wants.

  “I told you not to order that, but you didn’t listen. Here. Stop torturing yourself and just eat some of mine.”

  Teagan proved herself the smartest of our bunch, ordering a mixed plate of sides. Her container is piled full of cheesy corn, smashed red potatoes drizzled with an almost obscene amount of melted butter, some braised greens, and a very respectable-looking sweet potato casserole.

  I give my container of pulled pork another sad look and think longingly of getting back home, where I can hit up Franklin Barbecue for a proper fix. Hopefully, no one else standing in line there will be able to smell the oversauced scent of my disloyalty.

  If only people like Braden understood the religious experience that proper barbeque can bring about. We’re talking about not-too-thin-not-too-thick slices of beef brisket with a beautiful smoke ring, encased in a near-black crust of salt and pepper, still tender and moist despite hours on a smoker. Served on an old-school lunch tray lined with a humble sheet of brown waxed paper, with nothing but a few pickle slices and rounds of raw onion on the side. Maybe a slice or two of white bread. No sauce needed or recommended.

  Such a pity. Braden looks like he can put away the groceries, and he’s all for making sure it’s quality stuff. And he’s been eating this. Poor Jolly Green Giant doesn’t know any better.

  My phone vibrates in my back pocket, distracting me from the decision whether to go hungry tonight or consume what’s left of the so-called barbeque on my plate. A quick glance at the display and any appetite I had disappears, replaced by a ball of nerves. I stand up with the phone in one hand, grabbing my coat in the other.

  “It’s Jaxon. I should get this.”

  Colin doesn’t offer any reaction, still busy glowering at his brisket. But Teagan’s brows rise a bit, because she knows that every call from my manager these days has been either bad news or what feels like impending bad news.

  I make it outside just before the call rings over to voicemail. I answer on a huff, my breath visible in the cold night air.

  “Hey, Jaxon.”

  “Hello, Annie Oakley. How are you, doll? Is the state of Colorado treating you right?”

  Jaxon calls me Annie Oakley, and has since the day when we met four years ago at an invite-only party for the new Filson store in Austin. I was trying to decide if a seven-hundred-dollar field coat could possibly perform in any way that would justify the price, when Jaxon sidled up next to me.

  He was barely my height, with features chiseled and strong in a way that seemed out of place on a man his size, but with his pale blue eyes and gingersnap hair it all made sense somehow. He was decked out in an unapologetically green tweed suit and using the toothpick in his hand to gesture at the field coat with a sneer.

  “Only Tom Hardy could make that coat attractive.”

  Then he gave me a once-over and, from around the toothpick, asked who I was. I introduced myself, then offered my recently crafted pitch about starring in a new show on the Afield Channel. He listened, advised that my spiel needed some work, and handed me his card. “Call me if you ever need a professional who will always tell you the truth, Annie Oakley.”

  Since then, Jaxon Metcalf has become my friend, my lawyer, and my manager. I’ve also tried to explain to him all the ways in which I’m not like Annie Oakley, how what I do as a hunter has nothing in common with a trick shooter from the 1900s. But he thinks it’s charming and adorable, and I think he’s charming and adorable—which is the main reason he gets away with continuing to call me Annie Oakley.

  I work to tug my coat on as I answer.

  “Well, let’s see. I spent the day with a game warden who hates hunting shows, called me a mountain sprite, and declared the fact we both survived the day alive, to be the only redeeming quality of our time together. He then recommended a fine local barbeque joint to us for dinner. I’m now standing outside said restaurant, which is named True Grit, I kid you not. And I’d much rather eat grit. Not grits, mind you. Grit. Like dirt. I’d rather eat dirt.”

  Jaxon is quiet, but I can hear him typing away on his laptop. After a few more keystrokes, he makes a sharp sound of discovery.

  “John Hickenlooper. He’s the governor there in Colorado. I’ll call his office in the morning and demand this game warden’s head on stick. And a formal apology. Otherwise we’ll sic the Rangers on him. Send you to a barbeque joint? These are the sort of grievances that demand action.”

  I let out a laugh at what I know is his trumped-up, lawyerly attempt to put me at ease.

  “All right, let’s calm down. I don’t feel the need to lawyer up; it wasn’t that bad. And the game warden’s head is too pretty to end up on a stick. Not to mention it would be a waste of a very fine body, all headless and such.”

  “Yeah? Would I like him?”

  I consider Jaxon’s preferences when it comes to guys. He likes his men more on the featherweight side, lean forms earned by way of barre classes and strict Paleo diets. The sort of guys whose smiles are blindingly white, whose artfully disheveled haircuts cost hundreds of dollars, and whose shoes cost twice as much. Braden, with his lumbering, glowering form and his rough-edged everything, simply wouldn’t tick any boxes for Jaxon.

  “Nope,” I offer casually. “He’s too big.”

  “Oh, doll, be serious.” He lets out an appreciative sigh. “We both know there’s no such thing. But I’ll assume you mean that he’s just not for me. Does that mean he’s for you? Were you two playing the hating game, but what you really want is to play the let’s get naked game?”

  I return his sigh with my own, but far more frustrated in comparison. Is Braden Montgomery for me? No. He can’t be.

  At least I don’t think so.

  “I’m taking the fifth on that one. But it’s Friday night, which means there’s a Weather Up old-fashioned waiting for you, and I’m out here standing in the cold. So why don’t you tell me why you really called. Did you hear back from Smeltzer?”

  The head of programming at the Afield Channel, Bud Smeltzer, was my biggest ally for years. By “ally,” I mean he practically has his nose up my back end for all his efforts to keep me happy. He also insinuated how happy it would make him if our working relationship included me in his bed. That did not happen and will not. Because, among other reasons, he’s old enough to be my father.

>   Regardless, his admiration for me and Record Racks was steadfast—right up until my ratings stalled out. And when they started to slide, he was suddenly nowhere to be found. Now I’m without a contract for next year, filming episodes on spec and crossing my fingers it will all work out once Smeltzer sees this Colorado elk hunt come together.

  “No. Smeltzer is still incommunicado.” Jaxon lets out an irritated grumble. “I’m giving him another week, and if he hasn’t called me back I’m going to show up at the Afield offices dressed in a Speedo, crooning a very inappropriate singing telegram. That should get his attention.” He pauses. “But I do have other news.”

  “ ‘Other news’? Care to be more vague?”

  “I got a call from Bona Fide Media in LA. They produce adventure reality shows. You know, beautiful people stranded somewhere they shouldn’t be. A remote island, the Alaskan bush, Area 51, the Ozarks, the fucking North Pole. Think Surviving Santa’s Sexy Workshop or, like, Seven Amish Brides for Seven Hipster Brothers: The Iditarod Edition.” He snorts. “Those aren’t real shows. Not yet, at least. But you get my drift, right?”

  Of course I get his drift. I own a television and I don’t live under a rock, so I’ve sometimes landed on a show like what he’s describing. What’s more is that I don’t need Jaxon to tell me why these cats at Bona Fide called, because offers for reality shows have come my way before. Usually, it’s for a glorified dating show, one where securing a D-lister like myself might help garner a green light. I always pass, but the offers do provide material for the two of us to mock relentlessly over drinks and tapas.

  “Am I going to be the gun-toting Amish bride? Or perhaps I’m one of Santa’s scantily clad elves?”

  “Neither. The concept is a reality show set in a boutique resort down in Los Cabos. You’d come on as the sport fishing guide for the guests. The staff will be the focus, partying hard and looking hot. Insert a bar fight here, a cat fight there, plus plenty of time on the beach, and you’ve got yourself a show.”

  My initial reaction isn’t a word—it’s a sound. Blech.

  Jaxon keeps on, doing his best to highlight the positives.

  “The pay sounds promising. You’d be the big name and they’re willing to offer all the money because of it. Six weeks in sunny Mexico, nice digs, surrounded by guys who look good in board shorts and flip-flops.”

  My answer sound rises again when I picture those sorts of guys. The tans they spend far too much time on, the big white sunglasses, the puka-shell necklaces. And the flip-flops. That nonstop thwack-thwack-thwack as they shuffle around looking for their surf wax.

  Blech.

  Jaxon registers that I’m unmoved by the potentially lucrative payday or the notion that I’d be the big pescado in the house. His tone turns wry.

  “Now, yes, you may be prompted to yank out someone’s hair extensions while you call her out as a supposed slut. Likely because whatever flip-flopped dude manages to catch your attention on the first night will then stick his tongue down her throat on the second night.”

  Double blech.

  “You may also be asked to do something topless. Sunbathe, fish, vacuum, or cartwheel down the beach.”

  All the blechs. All. Of. Them.

  I decide to add a few words, just so we’re both clear on exactly how much I hate this idea.

  “What about hijacking a yacht in order to escape this whacked-out Fantasy Island nightmare? Would the studio execs be into that? I mean, I’d be topless, obviously.”

  “They would so be into that,” Jaxon deadpans, then sighs. “Let’s not slam the door on these guys just yet. Keep our options open, yeah?”

  I focus my eyes on the already quiet Main Street of downtown Hotchkiss, doing my best to steady a rise of anxiety inside. Jaxon doesn’t speak the hard truth, but I hear it nonetheless. That I don’t have the luxury of casting off these offers so callously as I once did. If I do, I might regret it.

  “Sure. Keeping the door open. Topless as I do,” I mutter.

  My gaze tracks up and down the empty street corridor, on the lookout for anything that might distract me from this unnamed feeling, the one I want to shake off before it takes root.

  “Smeltzer is playing possum for a reason, doll. But you just need to keep your head down, get your Annie Oakley on out there in Colorado, and come home ready to make things happen, no matter what.”

  Standard Jaxon—no pep talks with reassurances he can’t back up, just a candid directive before we say goodbye. I tuck my phone into my back pocket and stare straight ahead. As much as I’d known my brand needed a reboot, losing my show still felt like a far-off and unlikely disaster, and one I had time to elude. Like a tornado watch that suggested I keep an eye on the sky, but didn’t yet require bolting the cellar door. Now it felt like the skies were too dark, the air was too dense, and it was time to seek shelter in something sturdy.

  I scan the area again, looking for anything that I might use as an escape, but there’s nothing. No neon lights of a bar, no drifting smoke from the doorway to a club, not even a movie theater or a pool hall.

  One more deep breath before giving up my search, only to catch sight of a figure across the street, lumbering toward a truck parked in front of a liquor store. And as much as I shouldn’t know that shadowed sight at such a distance—I do.

  My lips curve up. If I walk over there, he might very well cuss up a storm at the sight of me or grumble like the enormous grouch that he is.

  He may also be just what I need tonight.

  I head that way almost without thinking, a sudden spring in my step, rounding the side of his truck and stopping just shy of my target.

  “Hello, Braden.”

  (Braden)

  “Praise her endlessly. It’s wonderful what a compliment does to hearten us girls.”

  —THE SIERRA CLUB WILDERNESS HANDBOOK, “ESPECIALLY FOR MEN,” C. 1971

  This is what I get.

  I should have known better. You can’t obsess over a woman like a fucking teenager and expect that shit to go without consequences.

  You also cannot have a seriously insane conversation with your dog about the object of your obsession, complete with you showing your dog a picture of her on the internet, then blathering on about how in person she’s pint-sized, but her hair is even shinier, and she smells like strawberries. Fresh strawberries muddled up with honey and oranges and … just other things I want to suck, lick, taste, and otherwise make use of my mouth on.

  All of this happened; all of this was discussed. In detail.

  With. My. Dog.

  It was weird and pathetic, and inappropriate, really.

  And I may not believe in luck or fate, but I do believe in willing what you want. So spending the last few hours rehashing every detail of my day with Amber must have sent a siren call out into the universe, only to conjure her up in front of me. Right here, standing near enough that her strawberry scent is impossible to ignore. I dare myself to look her way, completely, to take her in without accidentally owning up to that earlier conversation with my dog.

  She’s traded in her gear from earlier for an entirely new outfit: dark jeans the color of red wine that hug her every curve, some little boots with heels, and a sweater that’s oversized but cropped, revealing how low those jeans sit on her hips. Her hair is down, loose and wavy around her face. When she flips it back over one shoulder, I get hit with a strong wave of strawberry. It’s her shampoo, I realize. Which may mean she’s showered since I last saw her.

  Either that or I’m just like all those other guys who drool over her and we all like thinking about her naked. And wet. And soapy.

  Fucking hell. I’m such an asshole.

  “What’s with all the ice, Superman? Doing some renovations on your broody little ice castle in space?”

  I swing the two bags of ice in my left hand into the bed of my truck, then follow with the two over my right shoulder, and start to stack them with the others.

  “It wasn’t an ice castle. That m
akes it sound like the Superman version of a Barbie Dreamhouse.” I slam the tailgate shut. “It was his Fortress of Solitude. And it’s not in space, it’s in the Arctic. But it’s not always made of ice—depends on what incarnation of Superman you’re talking about.”

  Amber lets her lips quirk up on one side.

  “I don’t like the way you just implied that a Barbie Dreamhouse is somehow inferior to your little Superman Ice Capades Wonderland or whatever. Also, serious nerd alert there, Braden.” She lowers her voice, growls a little. “ ‘But it’s not always made of ice—depends on what incarnation of Superman you’re talking about.’ ”

  Another pathetic growling sound. I crook an eyebrow.

  “Let me get this straight. I don’t give the right props to some plastic piece of crap that looks like a Pepto-Bismol factory exploded on it—and I’m an asshole. But you can mock me and that’s OK?”

  “Yes.” She steps closer, lazily dragging her fingertips across the top of my tailgate before she tips her head. “Haven’t you noticed? I play by my own rules.”

  Reflexively, I lean back. When I realize what I’ve done, I can’t decide if I’m losing my mind or if I’m just rusty when it comes to this stuff. Because I haven’t done this in a while. The flirting, chasing, wanting, and craving. Any of it.

  But when you come home one day to find all of your fiancée’s belongings packed up and loaded into the back of some other guy’s pickup, it’s easy to end up shell-shocked when it comes to women. No man in their right mind should want to go through that again, which made it simple for me to settle on a life alone. And this is the first time in three years that I’ve wanted anything different—with Amber Regan, of all people. A woman I was convinced couldn’t possibly hold her own in the field, only to figure out quickly that she knows her stuff. Once I acknowledged that, I realized how easy it is to typecast people into roles they don’t necessarily belong in. This—seeing Amber as more than an obnoxious trophy hunter clad in hot pink camo—takes more thought.

  Hours of thought, if my afternoon is any indication.

  Amber’s phone beeps and she pulls it from her back pocket to scan the face. Then she rises up on her tiptoes and gawks across the street toward the True Grit parking lot, giving a wolf whistle in that direction. Colin and Teagan emerge from behind one of those God-awful decaled trucks and head our way, Colin taking Teagan’s hand when they start to cross Main Street. Safety first, kid. Because the traffic here is so treacherous.