Present Day: Two and a half years later-Early November
Ava Marie
I’m four hours, and two pints of ice cream, deep in a binge session of my favorite reality show, The Rich, Bored Housewives of Paris, when my phone starts ringing.
Again.
I can’t tear my eyes from the TV screen, my hand fumbles for the phone, and I press dismiss.
Again.
Haven’t people heard of texting?
Lulu, my favorite of the overly made up Paris housewives, just smashed a croissant into the face of her arch nemesis, Coco. I made it through three sets of teasers for this scene. Seeing the look on Coco’s face as the flaky pastry flattens against her Botox filled skin is so satisfying, I’m personally vindicated and tell myself it was totally worth the commercial breaks I had to sit through.
I’m not a spiteful person, but Coco had it coming. While visiting Lulu’s private country estate, Coco cornered Lulu’s husband, Sir Jaren, in the butler’s pantry for a romp amongst the baguettes and wheels of expensive cheeses.
Lulu found out from the gardener, who found out from the nanny, who found out from the maid, and five episodes later, all hell breaks loose.
Coco deserves much more than a pastry slapping for sleeping with her hostesses’ husband.
Having just been scorned myself, I can totally understand Lulu’s fury.
Last week, I dumped the latest star-crossed lover in my long line of pretentious city boyfriends. Peter the Cheater is the heir of Great Foods, a ridiculously overpriced grocery chain, by day, and a wannabe DJ spinning records by night. I’m taking the breakup harder than usual, which is pathetic considering the jerk was just another flavor of the month and meant nothing to me.
I’d just finished up at the spa and wanted to surprise him with my freshly highlighted hair and bright red fingernails. Almost every hair on my body had been waxed off my polished and moisturized skin. All for him.
When I called to see what he was up to, Peter said he was at home, taking it easy. I went straight from the salon to his penthouse apartment. Let myself in with the hidden key. Tiptoed across the hardwood floors expecting to see him lounging on the couch.
Instead, I heard some strange moaning noises coming from the back bedroom. I crept through the living room and peeked around the partially open bedroom door to find Peter laying splayed across his bed with a platinum blonde, playboy bunny riding him like a jockey rides a prized racehorse, headed for the finish line.
I turned on my Christian Louboutin’s and marched out of there, heels clicking loudly as I went. Peter chased behind me, sheet wrapped around his naked body, begging me to come back. Promising this was just a one-time thing.
He followed me all the way through the hall. Hopped into the elevator with me, pleading as we sailed thirteen stories down to the lobby. He followed behind me, sheet flapping in the breeze all the way onto the sidewalk of Park Street.
His blue eyes locked on mine as he pushed his dark hair back from his face. “Please, Ava. It was just a one-time thing. Don’t do this. You have to forgive me.”
I smiled. “I forgive you, Peter.”
A look of relief washed over his handsome features. “Good. I knew you’d see it my way—”
“But we’re still done.” I snatched the sheet from his waist in one, slick move, like a magician removing a cloth from a table set with china service and not upsetting single teacup. I took off down the street with his only covering.
Leaving him buck-naked and locked out of his building.
I smile at the memory but am jarred back to the present by my phone letting out an unfamiliar, angry buzz. It’s a sound I’ve never heard it make before, and it’s finally getting my attention. I lick the melted chocolate from my fingers and pick up my Cellie—the latest, greatest…and most expensive cellphone on the market. Just released last Thursday and only kids like me—those propped up by their billionaire daddies—can afford it.
Since leaving my backwards hometown of Cedar Creek and moving to the city, I’ve acquired a thing for collecting the best in tech and this little pink phone is no exception.
I glance at the screen, reading the message to myself, Due to the high number of recent voicemails you have received, we are alerting you that you may want to check your call record. The amount of people contacting you is much higher than your usual average at this time of day. “Huh.”
Weird. Slightly creepy that my phone is keeping tabs on me. But I’m impressed that it can. It reassures me the couple grand and some change I dumped on the thing was money well spent.
I click through to see the call log. Twenty-five missed phone calls…in the span of three hours.
Oops.
These housewives have a greater hold on me than I realized. How could I have ignored so many calls? I heave a sigh and press my thumb to the home screen. Cellie starts to play my messages.
The first one is my dad. He sounds worried. “Baby, you’ve got to come home. Things could get bad out there. Call me back. Love you, kiddo.”
Strange.
I’ve no idea what he’s on about. He loves to listen to the weather on the radio, constantly leaving me messages, updating me on the climate. Home is five hours away. Are we expecting storms where I am?
The second one is also my father. This time his voice sounds thick, panicked. “Sweetheart…did you get my message? Really need you to think about coming home, darling.”
The tension in his voice raises the hairs on the back of my neck. What could he be talking about?
The third message is from my best friend, Jules. We’re from the same hometown. Both moved to the city when we turned twenty-one. Her to work in the fashion industry, me just to get the hell out. “Hey Ava, it’s Jules. Sorry to bug you. I know you are having your latest breakup binge session with the housewives and too much ice cream, but have you checked the news? Um…like…things are getting weird. I hate to say it but…do you think we should go back to Cedar Creek?”
The next one is her as well. Her voice has risen at least an octave and I can hear clear panic in her voice. “Okay, I’m packing my bags, like…right now. You should too. I’m coming to get you. Call me back.”
A feeling of dread settles in my stomach. “What on earth is going on?” I hit pause on the messages and click the remote from Entertainment Now to National News Today to see what everyone is talking about.
The no nonsense anchor holds her face in a mask of indifference. She’s wearing a navy blazer over a crisp white shirt. Her bulletproof strawberry blonde hair doesn’t move an inch as she shakes her head back and forth. “I know some of you Westerners laugh when you hear a winter storm warning. We know all you city slickers take pride in your ability to drive on icy roads. But this is like nothing we’ve seen before. A blizzard is headed straight for the city. A historic amount of snow is to be expected. Don’t let this unseasonably warm fall day fool you.” She continues to talk, repeating her message emphatically.
As she speaks, I read the red lettered words that scroll across the bottom of the screen. “Find supplies. Take shelter. Be off the roads and in your house by tomorrow morning. Prepare for the storm.”
The newscaster stops speaking for a moment, pressing her finger to her earpiece. “One moment, folks. We just got word in from the National Weather Service. Once this storm hits, the snow could last several days—even up to a week. This blizzard is predicted to break records.”
“Blizzard?” I know what I’m reading, what I’m hearing must be real, but it’s still fall. It’s been incredibly warm and I’ve been enjoying wearing short dresses out at night with no coat to cover up how cute I look in my latest couture. I glance out the window and the weather is beautiful. I switch the channel to the local news to see what the city officials are saying.
The face of the governor comes on the screen. He’s smiling but his tone is firm. “Heed our words. Get out of the city if you have somewhere to go. Or, get your supplies ready to be snowed in for a few
days, maybe even one week. We are expecting up to ten feet of snow to fall over four to five days. You’re going to need a lot of hot chocolate.”
I shut off the television and go back to my voicemails.
The fifth on is my eccentric Aunt Betty, my father’s sister, swearing that her clairvoyant predicted this storm seven years ago while having her tea leaves read in a basement apartment in Brooklyn.
My hot bod, gym owner neighbor telling me he knocked on my door but I must not have heard because my TV was so loud, and he’s calling to tell me I’m one of the last people still in the building. Everyone who has somewhere else to go has left. The others are going to the building next door to get snowed in together and party.
Jules telling me she’ll be here in an hour, which, judging by the time she left the message, the bossy redhead will be bursting through my door about twenty minutes from now.
A few more messages from family and friends, urging me to get back.
The next recorded voicemail I listen to sends a shiver through me.
The last person I’d ever thought would be calling me.
Though I haven’t heard from him in over two years, I recognize his low, somber timber, instantly—Buck Jones. My alpha male protector, turned friend, turned boyfriend, turned enemy. The man who was always riding my ass when I lived in Cedar Creek.
Who probably never forgave me for leaving my family, or him, behind when I moved to the city.
His voice comes out in a deep, growling rumble. My body tenses as he lashes out his fury. “Ava Marie Redmond, get your ass home. Now.”
It’s not a suggestion. It’s a command.
Laced with threat.
Of all the desperate voicemails begging me to pack my bags and leave the city, it’s his that I’ll respond to first.
First off, because he was so pissed at me when I left, there’s no way he would bother contacting me unless this was serious. He’d made it clear he didn’t want to speak to me again, and yet he’d called.
Secondly, if Buck Jones refusing to call me hasn’t changed over the past two years, then this voicemail was just a warning. If he doesn’t get word within the next hour that I’m on the way, he’ll be loading up his shotgun into his dusty red truck and hightailing it the almost four hundred miles it takes to get from Cedar Creek to the big city, to drag my ass back home.
And what if I don’t want to go?
I know exactly what will happen. My short, little, haven’t lifted a weight a day in my life, frame, is no match for his six-foot-two body, full of bulging ripples of muscles from running our town’s ranch. If I put up even the slightest bit of fight, he’ll have me over his knee, installing his old-fashioned style of firm discipline onto my backside until I’m begging him to let me up and escort me home.
No thank you, very much.
Buck is controlling. Commanding. And a bit old-fashioned. Some women may even say archaic. In simpler terms, the fact is this-- in the effort to save my ass, he will spank my ass.
And so to avoid the pain and humiliation the towering cowboy will most likely cause me, he will be the first one I contact.
I heave a sigh, scrolling through my contacts till I find him. He’s listed as Call Buck for a good…you know what, and the picture is him, bare chested and tan, laying on the grass by the creek.
A little joke from Jules.
The picture was taken on my old phone, years ago, when we were dating and spent our weekend afternoons swimming and hanging out by the crystal-clear waters. Jules hilariously amended his name when she did me the solid of transferring my contacts to my new phone. She’s tech savvy whereas I’m not, and so she’s installed this little gem and I have no idea how to change it.
I lean back on my massive stack of pillows. Take a deep breath. Hit the mic button and record a voice text for him. “Calm down, cowboy. Jules is on the way to get me right now. No need to get your Wranglers in a twist.” I hit send.
I’m surprised by how quickly his reply pops up. He must be glued to his phone, waiting for my response.
Still sassy I see. Guess two years in the big city didn’t do anything in the way of maturing you.
Who is he to call me immature? Anger burns in my chest. Heat rises in my face. He always knew how to get to me. My fingers fly over the screen of my phone as I type back my snarky reply.
I’m plenty mature, thank you very much. Looks like life in CC has you maturing at an even faster rate than usual because you sound like a crotchety old man.
His second reply comes back even quicker. An old man that can still take you over my knee, young lady. You’d best watch yourself.
That familiar funny feeling flutters through me. Anger mixed with a strong wanting to defy his orders yet laced with the confusing feeling of…submission. No matter how I fight him, deep down there is a sense of protection he has over me that suddenly makes me desperate to see his face. And obey his wishes.
I type back, Calm down. We’re leaving. Soon.
Be safe.
Alongside this jumble of feelings I’ve ignored since leaving Cedar Creek is the reaction fresh contact with Buck is having over my body. Just one voicemail and a few text exchanges later, and the flush is rising in my cheeks. The pace of my heartbeat is quickening.
And a slick sense of arousal is pooling between my legs.
Damn him.
Damn him for having me squirm in my seat, pressing my thighs together in an attempt to stop my throbbing pussy from pulsing.
Damn him for being so bossy. For knowing that I know that what he says, goes. That if he tells me to get my ass home, I will.
Damn him for still having a hold on me after two long years. And for turning on feelings in me I’ve tried to ignore—the deep, buried ones that respond to a strong man taking me in hand. A strong, loyal, hardworking, grown-ass man. Not like these superficial party boys. Sure, they look like models but all they care about is boosting their own ego.
I have no real clue what’s going on in the world, just the few bits and pieces I’ve gathered from the news. But I know one thing for certain.
I’m going back to Cedar Creek. And he will be waiting.
I’d best start packing.
Ten minutes later, Jules flies into my apartment, keychain jangling in her hands. “Ava! Where are you? What have you packed?” Her head frantically turns right and left, searching for me. Her gaze finally lands on mine. I’m sitting cross-legged in the center of my living room, heaps of designer clothing surrounding me.
I shrug. “I can’t decide what to take?”
Her blue eyes widen at my chaos. Her perfectly blown out shiny red hair, recently cut in a shoulder length bob, bounces as she shakes her head. “You haven’t packed a thing? We’ve got to get out of here. Now! They have absolutely no idea when this thing could hit. For all we know, if we don’t leave the city in the next hour, the storm could close off the roads and we’ll be stuck in this apartment indefinitely. And knowing you, there’s only Pop-Tarts and iced tea and that’s not going to sustain us.” She opens the junk drawer in my kitchen island, sorting through it and stuffing papers in her purse. She knows that’s where I keep all my important stuff.
Her documents are neatly filed in her home office. I’m sure she has a bright pink collapsible file folder tucked away in the trunk of her convertible right now, all her documents in alphabetical order. I rifle through a pile of colorful cashmere sweaters. “How long will we be gone? Should I bring my fall wardrobe, or my parka? Is this storm expected to reach Cedar Creek?”
“It doesn’t matter. Just pack.” She accusingly holds up a half-eaten granola bar she found in the bottom of the drawer. “Really, Ava?”
It’s too much to process. I toss the clothing back on the floor, giving up. “I don’t understand why we have to leave? Can’t we just hang here until this all blows over? Getting snowed in could be fun. We could do a Bored Housewives marathon. Paint our nails.”
“Haven’t you been watching the news? I’ve bee
n glued to it ever since I found out. They’re saying it’s a blizzard, Ava. It could shut down the city. You’re not going to be ordering takeout and the power could go out. We’ve got no way of heating this place. We’ll be much more comfortable at home. They’ve got everything prepared for a storm like this.”
“No takeout?” The horror shudders through me. Just a few short hours ago, I was indulging in chocolate cherry ice cream, lamenting my breakup. Watching dramatic housewives create chaos and mayhem while wearing my comfiest sweats. In the matter of one hour, my lush lifestyle is in jeopardy. “Are you sure it’s going to be as bad as they’re saying?”
“No idea. But we aren’t waiting around to find out. Now get up and start throwing some things in a bag. Just take what is most important. Think practical—not fashion. Contact lenses, glasses, vitamins, that kind of thing. You still have your bedroom closet full of clothes at home, right?”
I think of my old wardrobe and cringe. Jeans, cutoffs, boots, tee shirts. Even denim jackets. Yikes. Everything I wore back when I was just a small-town sweetheart. Before I traded in our quirky little isolated life for big city drama and excitement. Jules sees my face and it makes her laugh.
“Please don’t make me go back to wearing that backwoods stuff.”
Her arm shoots out, pointing to my room. “Go in the bathroom and get packing. I’ll do the rest.”
I jump up from my mound of colorful fabric and cross the room, following her directions. I pause, hovering in the doorway, catching her eye. “Thanks, Jules. You know I’m terrible in these situations.”
“Hence the reason I followed you to the city, to keep an eye on you.”
“You don’t regret it, do you?”
“Not at all. I wanted to try my hand at working, earning my way in life. And being here has offered me that opportunity.” She gives me a smile, then disappears from my sight as she starts rummaging through my lower kitchen cabinets as she speaks. “There’s no way my fashion vlog would be attracting viewers if I was doing it from the Creek. The connections I’ve made here have been awesome. Besides, I’d have missed you too much. And how would you have gotten on without me?”
Tamed by Her Cowboy Page 2