Killer Beach Reads

by Gemma Halliday Publishing

  Brooklyn was bitching about the stink of horse sweat. It's, like, totally disgusting. It's, like this white foam that just, like, oozes out of them or something and gets on my Stella jeans. She completely ignored Becca's comment that the sweat was, in fact, odorless. What smelled was the horse, which was, Becca told Brooklyn, personally her favorite scent.

  "Ew," Brooklyn replied, wrinkling her nose. "That's, like, effing raw."

  Those words and that malcontent teen, with her surgically-enhanced, pert nose stuck in the air, her Stella McCartney jeans, and her endless stream of complaints, gave Becca the idea. That's when she came up with her revenge plot. It hit her like the first powerful kiss from a man she knew was bad news. So wrong, but yet, so very, very right. Poor Brooklyn was shocked when Becca hugged her ("What the eff-ing F?") and ran off to grab her camera. It was time to get to work.

  * * *

  Mack was in the background, watching with an amused look on his face, perhaps. It was hard to tell under the shadow of that ever-present cowboy hat. The kids were getting horseback riding lessons and Becca was capturing their unblemished joy and respect for the strength and wisdom of all things equine.

  At least, that's what Celia had ordered her to capture while facedown, covered in post-massage hot stones. "Those stones are supposed to be warm, not effing out of the fire!" Celia had barked at the poor masseuse, who'd dropped two rocks on the slate floor. "Now that's an effing peaceful sound. Make sure you add that on the blog, Becca. Relax to the peaceful sounds of crashing rocks. Jesus."

  Becca had given the masseuse a sympathetic look, taking a picture of the nest of smooth hot stones in an azure blue basin. Then she took a photo of Celia with her face buried in the massage table hole, scratching her towel-draped butt. After that, Becca snuck into Celia's "tent," which truly was a stunning and peaceful retreat, all bright white and Indian blankets, dotted with wildflowers in Mason jars. She snapped photos of Celia's bedside table, replete with an empty bottle of Opus One wine on its side beside a single glass. Celia thought of the perfect caption: night one nightcap. She'd also documented the empty, snack-sized variety pack of chips on the floor, something she'd probably made the staff pick up in Bozeman, pretending it was for the kids. Also, clothes strewn everywhere as if she'd needed the perfect outfit for strolling to the lodge, and finally the sleeping pills and prescriptions for God knows what maladies, which Becca decided she couldn't use after all since they had the doctor's name, and she'd be sued. Celia would probably sue her anyway, but what the hell, she had absolutely nothing to lose except her burning desire to see Celia publicly humiliated.

  "The horse won't go," Brooklyn said while her brother's horse cantered obediently around the corral.

  The riding instructor was a teenage girl, Hazel, whom Becca thought was probably the owner's daughter. She was a sweet thing, completely unprepared for Brooklyn, who was scooting her rump across the saddle as if she had worms. The horse swung his neck around, nibbling playfully on Brooklyn's boot.

  "He tried to effing bite me!" Brooklyn screamed.

  "He's just being playful," Hazel said, rubbing the horse's neck as she took his lead. "Aren't you, boy?"

  The horse went willingly with Hazel for a moment, then stopped, spread his powerful legs and let loose with a forceful stream of urine. Hazel jumped back laughing. "Nature calls!"

  "What's he doing?" Brooklyn said in a panic. She hung her head down from the saddle, catching a glimpse of the horse's extended gooey duck member. "What the eff is that thing? That's disgusting. I want off this thing. It's freakin' raw."

  Mack got out of the modified golf cart that he'd been using to carry hay, entering the corral with an easy loping grace. The horse, finished by now, trotted over to him like a dog.

  "Hey, buddy, what's up?" Mack fondly scratched the horse, who rubbed his face against Mack. This would have knocked down most people but didn't budge this splendid male specimen. Becca worried for exactly thirty seconds about objectifying Mack while she drooled but then got over it. Men do it all the time.

  "Get me off this freakin' thing," Brooklyn hollered.

  "First of all, I'm not your servant. Second of all, this is a horse, not a thing. His name is Carnie, short for Carnival. He's a rescue horse that was dragged all over the country with a two-bit circus. Now he's finally found a great home and he doesn't deserve this kind of treatment," Mack said in a surprisingly patient voice.

  Brooklyn peered over her Prada sunglasses, taking in Mack's eyes, his sun-faded flannel shirt, his perfectly fitted Levi's, and his Robert Redford shoulders. "Who the eff are you?"

  Mack offered his hand up to her. "I'm Mack. Do you want a riding lesson from me?"

  Just like that the jaded, worldly, tough-as-nails teen melted like a chocolate left in the sun. "Hell to the yes," she said, practically levitating off the saddle.

  "All right then." Mack was heading to the barn. "Lemme get my horse. Let's take a trail ride."

  Carnie trailed after Mack with his suddenly content, lovestruck passenger. Hazel went back to instructing Dex, who hollered to his sister, "I hope you get eaten by a bear!"

  "Bears hardly ever bother us. That's why we put bells on the horse's harnesses, to warn the bears," said Hazel.

  "That's boring," replied Dex.

  Becca leaned back onto the fence, enjoying the sun, snapping photos of Dex, who, as it turned out, had a natural affinity for horses.

  "Hey, do you ride?" This startled Becca, who had closed her eyes. It was Mack, shouting from atop a graceful and intelligent looking Quarter horse. He and Brooklyn were headed across the meadow toward a trail that led into the forest. Even from this distance, Becca could see the disappointment on poor Brooklyn's face. Although she remembered well what it was like to be thirteen and hopelessly crushing on a much older man, she had her needs. And right now they were sitting atop a beautiful equine, asking her to ride.

  And Becca was a hell of a rider. English, not Western. But still.

  "A little," she said.

  "Hey, Hazel, can Becca ride Lucy?" Mack shouted. He knows my name. He. Knows. My. Name.

  "Sure, her saddle is on the wall," Hazel shouted back without looking, busy with Dex.

  Mack turned his horse around. Brooklyn's horse followed.

  Becca ran for the barn. "If you show me which one it is and where you keep the tack, I can figure it out."

  "I'll bet you can," Mack said in a way that made Brooklyn sigh.

  * * *

  During the ride she hung back, letting Brooklyn have her special time with Mr. All That and a Bag of Chips. It gave Brooklyn time to rebuild her fragile little ego and Becca time to take down the kid's mother a few pegs, visually bringing the world up to date on all things Celia. The real Celia, warts and all. All the dirty laundry. Over the past few days Becca had caught her sucking down Diet Coke from the can, texting her latest boy toy during her official BloomingLife tech fast. Also, while she texted, her kids waited, bored and hot, feeding sticks of Trident to a pygmy goat.

  Lucy was an easy horse to ride without being boring. Becca put her on autopilot up the trail, looping the reigns over the saddle horn so she could work.

  "Hey, get off your phone and look up," said Mack from up the trail.

  When she lifted her head, Becca couldn't believe how far they'd climbed in such a short time. The valley below was spread beneath in breathtaking shades of green, purple, and soft blue waves of softly undulating color. Snow capped the frosty peaks in every direction.

  "Wow," Becca said and meant it. She tucked away her phone and rode over to join Mack and Brooklyn at a craggy lookout near a stream. "What are those mountains?" Even Brooklyn was quiet, seemingly transfixed, her breathing steady and slow. She looks her age, Becca thought. Like a kid.

  Mack was in his element, as proud of the majestic mountain ranges as if he'd sculpted them himself. "Those are the Bridgers. Those ones over there are the Tobacco Root Mountains, which are now classified as an invasive weed. Those are the Gall
atins, and those ones way over there are the Spanish Peaks. They have my favorite name."

  "Very romantic," Brooklyn sighed, which was exactly what Becca was thinking.

  She caught Mack's eye before the moony teenager looked up, blushing. "What? It is."

  Mack winked at her. "It sure is. That's why I like it so much. Makes me think of a pretty, dark-haired senorita, just like you."

  Brooklyn's flush turned into a furious, love-burned hue of scarlet. Right then and there Becca stopped objectifying Mack. She put her hand over her heart and mouthed the words to Mack. "So sweet."

  Now it was Mack's turn to blush, although he ducked under his cowboy hat, busying himself dismounting, taking his horse to the stream. He told the ladies to follow suit. It was hot, and their horses needed a drink. When was the last time, Becca asked herself, she'd been called a lady?

  While the horses drank, Becca gazed off at the mountains, forgetting about the alternate world she inhabited online. For the moment, all that existed was the hot sun, the slight breeze, the tittering birds looping through the trees, and the entire world spread out below as if God had decided to impress the neighbors or, really, his stupidest creatures. Us.

  By the time she was halfway down the mountain, she'd received six texts from Celia asking where the hell she was, what she was doing. She'd better get back right now. Dex was driving her crazy and wanted to show off his new riding skills to somebody named Mack. Find Mack now, read the last text.

  Already found him, mused Becca. And I'm not sharing.

  * * *

  The next four days dissolved into a pleasant routine of successfully avoiding Celia by whisking away her children on long trail rides with Mack, whom she was head over heels crazy about. They talked about nothing and everything. He grew up on a farm, solidly middle class. He seemed to like her but it was hard to tell. He was, at the very least, amused by her and started stopping by her table at breakfast, sitting down with a cup of coffee while the kitchen staff spied.

  At night, Becca would drop the kids, tired and compliant, at Celia's dinner table and settle down with a glass of wine in the lodge to continue her campaign of destroying their mother. Or at least exposing her hypocrisy. And letting all the women striving to look like Celia, act like Celia, and be Celia, off the hook.

  She was normal. Worse than normal, because she lied.

  Slowly but surely the online comments dog-piled on one another in a tidal wave of anti-Celia fury. Those who drank the horrid green drinks Celia swore by took selfies as they dumped the stuff down the drain. People re-posted BloomingLife blog posts about Celia's upcoming technology cleanse in Montana beside a photo of Celia on her phone, Diet Coke in hand. This is the woman who ranted about the evils of diet soda? it read.

  * * *

  "In case you haven't noticed, you're in Montana." After the morning ride, Becca had taken the kids for a swim in the river. Now she was reclined on an Adirondack chair someone had left outside her cabin. She put down her phone, looking up into the glare. It was Mack, still sweaty and in his riding clothes, his straw cowboy hat tipped back.

  "It's part of my job." Becca waved the phone.

  He handed her an iced tea, sweaty with condensation, in a tall Mason jar. "What exactly is your job anyway?"

  She thanked him, offering him a place to sit on the dusty cabin steps. "Did you bring me this chair?" After taking a long drink of the iced tea, she offered it back to him. Bold move, Becca. If he drinks, it's almost like kissing. Almost.

  He drank from the tea so deeply she knew he could down it in a heartbeat. But he didn't. "You're not answering my question."

  Their fingers touched as she took the dripping glass. "Oh, it's all online brand management type stuff for Celia."

  He raised an eyebrow. "Things a stupid cowboy wouldn't understand?"

  She coughed on her iced tea. "I never said that. You said it was a just a summer job, right?"

  "Yeah."

  "So what do you do the rest of the year?"

  "College." He played with a stick, scratching in the dirt.

  "See, you're smarter than I am. I talked my dad into letting me give this acting thing a shot after high school."

  "What about your mom?"

  Becca looked up at the mountains above the darkening trees. A delicate deer stepped from the woods, followed by two smaller deer, not quite fawns but half-grown adolescent deer. "My mother's world revolves around spending her alimony check at all the right places."

  "Ah," he said without judgment. "Keeping the economy alive."

  "Something like that. Where do you go to school?"

  He looked Becca in the eye. "Stanford."

  "Seriously?"

  He frowned. "Why does everyone say that? Do people think knowing how to ride a horse reduces your IQ?"

  "It's the hat. Men that have jobs that require hats: firemen, policemen, construction workers, get reduced to a stereotype."

  He chuckled. "And put on calendars."

  Becca grinned excitedly. "Have you been on a calendar? Do they sell it in the gift shop? The Happily Objectified Men of Oasis Ranch?"

  The deer stepped further into the clearing, nibbling at the flowers dotting the grass. Mack leaned into her, whispering, "You're funny."

  It was the perfect moment to lean in for a kiss. Becca's face was upturned, facing the last rays of the setting sun. No one was around but the deer. God knows what Celia had done with her children. Horses nickered and stomped as someone fed them in the barn. Her stomach growled, but she wasn't going to make a move until she'd finished throwing herself at this highly intelligent, wildly attractive man.

  The moment vanished as his face wrinkled into a disapproving frown. "What makes you think she won't find out?"

  Becca was taken aback. "Who?"

  "I know what you're doing to Celia." He took an iPhone from his back pocket. "I'm not surgically connected to this thing the way you are, but I was curious enough to check it out. What you're posting is horrible."

  Becca felt like one of those Shrinky Dinks she played with as a kid. The kind you put in the oven and watch, with your nose inches from the glass, shriveling into tiny, perfect works of grade school art.

  Except this feeling was a hundred miles from perfect. A panic rose in the back of her throat, fluttering and tight. She swallowed. "You don't understand."

  He shook his head, smiling sadly. "Oh, you'd be surprised. I see Celia's type here all the time. She's horrible to work for. She's demanding and ignores her children. She spends money like it's water and doesn't think twice. But you're better than this. Or at least I thought you were when we were up there."

  He pointed at the hills with the hidden riding trails. The gateway to the most beautiful country she'd ever seen. Places he'd shared with her as though introducing her to his best friends: proudly and with shyness that belied his deep love for the land. And maybe even his growing fondness for her.

  All that was gone.

  Scorn, she realized, was written all over his face. That was it. That accounted for the hardening of his features that had softened, before, when he caught a glimpse of her, said "hey" when their paths crossed in the lodge or near the cabins. Just now it hit her—the way he hung around outside the bunkhouse he shared with the other ranch hands. How they just happened to bump into one another during breakfast.

  Becca stood up, knocking the Mason jar over and onto the ground. She crossed her arms, shivering. Once the sun set here, it got cold. "She blacklisted me so she could keep me. This friend of mine told me that no one in town would give me an acting job. No one. And I know this sounds totally egotistical, but I'm a good actress." Tears stung her eyes. "It's all I've ever wanted to do. She was supposed to introduce me to people." She looked down, unable to meet his eyes. She knew it sounded small and petty, but it was true.

  He scratched his eyebrow, sighing. "So why didn't you confront her?"

  She sniffled. "She would have denied it."

  Mack set his jaw. "You sho
uld have given her a chance. What you're doing is running a smear campaign against your employer." He sighed again. "Behind her back."

  He picked up the jar. "I'll take this back to the kitchen." He wasn't angry. Just sad, which was worse.

  Becca didn't watch him leave. She fell back down into the Adirondack chair and turned to look for the deer.

  They were gone.

  * * *

  She didn't sleep that night. How could she? An owl hooted repeatedly at around one, making the woods feel vast and lonely. She kept hearing her father's voice, telling her to seek revenge. That's the way he lived. He thrived on conflict, loving nothing more than putting the screws to people who had stepped on the toes of not only actors, but directors, screenwriters, and agents. You name it, her father had done it all, and by all estimations, he'd won. He had a pile of money so high, a staff of people so large, the houses, the art, and the cars. For a while there had even been a racehorse before he'd realized he hated any creature more highly strung than himself. It exhausted Becca just thinking about it.

  And her mother.

  God, she didn't even want to think about her mother.

  At about three in the morning she gave up on sleep and went outside to sit on the Adirondack chair. She took her phone, intending to scroll through everything she'd posted about Celia. To take it down before Dex or Brooklyn saw it. Celia made a point of never reading anything about herself online. It was just too painful, she said. This was why Becca had been so sure that Montana was the perfect place to execute her revenge.

  Just then Becca heard a long, low hoot so close it felt like it was in her ear. There was a fluttering noise, then a solid whoosh. She looked up just in time to spot a magnificent great grey owl with a wingspan of four feet gliding over her head, blocking out the speckled sky, sailing with the ease and grace of a hang glider, shocking in its beauty. At the moment it happened, she'd later think, it was like seeing the Grand Canyon or the Statue of Liberty or the Eiffel Tower for the first time, up close. She wasn't prepared for the symmetry, power, and grace of this creature, gliding past on a downward trajectory into the meadow where Celia's large, white tent sat. The owl swooped into the field and, with one swift grab, plucked a mouse from the dark field and lifted it over the trees, disappearing into the dark forest.