22. Royal

Chapter 22

Royal

Sighing, Royal flumped down onto a bale of straw and scrubbed his hands across his face. What a morning it had been. His intentions when he'd crawled out of Easton's bed had been to sneak to the bakery he'd seen in town and surprise his new lover with a warm pastry. Instead, no sooner than he'd made it to the end of the campers, he'd heard what sounded like a gunshot. It was followed by a flash, and he'd seen an orange glow in the distance.

His feet moved before his mind thought twice about running toward the direction of frantic shouts and frenzied "Old MacDonald" sounds. The closer he'd gotten to the turmoil, the more the air had thickened with a vexing stench of what Royal could only describe as rotten cabbage and skunk funk. From there, all was a blur. His body had moved on autopilot as he sailed blindly through the smoke—hastily grabbing animals, grasping equipment, and even snatching one of the passed-out dumbasses off the ground who later was determined to be the cause.

Now that the situation had calmed, the gravity of what had occurred slammed into his spirit. His eyes stung. His nostrils stung. His skin was covered in soot. He smelled as if he'd been dredged off the bottom of a bayou floor and looked like someone found curled up at 3:00 a.m. in a Waffle House parking lot after a weekend bender. But his mother always said miracles happened every day. He supposed today was one of those days.

In all of his time on the rodeo, he'd never seen or heard of an incident of salicylic acid exploding. How had it even gotten close to an open flame? And why was there an open flame in the holding pen anyway? Had there been an open flame? The more he thought about it, the less it made sense. If he didn't know any better, he'd say the incident was sabotage—arson. However, the cluster of protesting Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum bandits didn't seem smart enough to have pulled off anything so sophisticated. It appeared more like dumb luck—or, dare he say, a curse.

As much as he attempted to consciously suppress the thought, it kept rising to the basin of his cognizance and demanding attention. Goose bumps prickled his skin. That stream of thought led nowhere good. Shaking his head again, he drew another deep breath. As horrible as this ordeal had been, he couldn't let the morning events settle into his mood. He had important things to tend to today, and he'd already begun by tempting fate.

At the fire, he'd seen Marcel, Upton, and Cody. They'd returned from their trip ahead of schedule. A few minutes earlier sans explosion, and he might be having quite a different morning experience. All he needed was those three walking in and discovering Easton and him tangled together in nakedness. He didn't want to imagine that conversation, and thankfully, he didn't have to, especially since he and Easton hadn't had the awkward morning after talk. He hated those types of discussions. They ranked right up there in the top three with the parental birds-and-bees chat and a friend's poor hygiene confrontation. And honestly, he hadn't only wanted donuts when he'd left this morning. He'd wanted some time to take in what had transpired.

He wanted to be cool with what had happened, and for the most part, he was. After all, Easton had initiated it. Royal hadn't pressured or tricked him into the decision. No one had been drunk—well, not that drunk. And Easton had seemed confident in his choice. That gave Royal comfort. But what came next? What were they? Friends? Friends with benefits? Just a semi-drunken hookup? And if Easton wanted something more—something in the range of the R-word—what then? Royal didn't do relationships. They were messy, especially on the road, yet he thought he might want one with Easton because, well, Easton was different. Easton meant something to him. He always had and always would. There was so much?—

The sound of shuffling footsteps and sniffling drew Royal from his ping-ponging thoughts. He looked up to see Jerry lugging a bag of sawdust almost his equivalent in body weight.

"Hey," Royal called. "Grab a sit-down."

"I can't. I have to take this?—"

"It can wait." He patted the straw beside him. "Sit."

Jerry hesitated but dropped the sack, slumped onto the hay, and swiped at his face with his forearm.

"What's with the glum mug? Everyone made it out intact."

A muscle in the boy's face twitched. "My dad said it's my fault for leaving the salicylic acid and copper sulfate too close to the forge."

"Horseshit!" Royal spat before he thought better of it. "Is Gerald out of his fucking mind?"

Jerry's eyes grew wide.

"Listen, it was the fault of the assholes who had no business being there. They knocked it over… or threw it in. Who knows?"

"Yeah, but if I hadn't left it there?—"

"Don't even finish that sentence. How many times have you put those chemicals where they were?"

Jerry bit his bottom lip as he paused to consider the question. "Every night?"

"Right. And how many cities have we visited so far?"

"About fourteen," Jerry hedged.

"Correct," Royal agreed, nodding. "How many days is that?"

"Umm…." Jerry rolled in his lips as he silently calculated. "Forty?"

Not great at math, huh?

"Forty-six," Royal corrected. "For forty-six days, those chemicals have been stored in the same place in the same method. The only thing that made this morning any different was intruders. This isn't on you. Do you hear me?"

Jerry nodded unconvincedly.

Damn Gerald and his bullshit.

Royal stood and stretched. "C'mon," he ordered, jerking his head. "We'll drop that off wherever it needs to go, and then you can help me get ready for a television segment that I'm doing."

"But—"

"No buts. This morning has been shot to shit, and I need someone to help me get back on schedule." He didn't, but if saying so prevented Jerry from being degraded and worked like a workhorse, then so be it. "I'm going to be late as is for this bullshittery I'm scheduled to do. I'd tell Wade to fill in, but with all those LED studio lights, close-ups in HD will highlight his capped teeth and make him look like the shoddy dupe of Dracula. This is a morning show. Can't be scaring the kids this early."

The youth giggled, and Royal hoisted the sack over his shoulder. "Where to?"

Jerry puckered his lips to protest but decided against it. "They set up makeshift pens in an old byre. Over there." He pointed.

" Allons. "

* * *

The more pressed powder was dabbed onto Royal's forehead, the more profusely he sweated beneath the overhead studio lights. The embroidered logo jacket didn't help matters any. He could tell by the makeup artist's heavy sighs that she was becoming perturbed by his need for multiple reapplications before filming began.

"Aw, don't you look adorable," Upton teased, tipping back his hat and propping himself against a high stool.

"Fuc—"

"Royal!" Marcel snapped and folded his arms across his chest.

"We're not live," Royal muttered under his breath. "They can edit me out."

Snickering, Upton continued. "Ooh, you're in trouble now."

Easton nudged Royal with his elbow. "Ignore him. You can slap him later."

"Promise?"

"All right, boys," a studio person whose name and title Royal had already forgotten said. "Just relax. We'd like to get this segment in one take."

"Good luck with that," Royal mumbled and strummed his fingers on the counter.

Easton's brows arched. "You okay? Usually, it's me who's fidgeting around at these sorts of things. I know the morning was a lot."

"More like a whole tree."

"Exactly, which is why I'm asking if you're okay."

"I'm fine."

"You sure? You're seriously edgy. Cody said you were in the thick of it before the firefighters arrived."

"Yeah, we all were. It's no big deal."

"But it is. You're a hero."

"Naw, everyone just did what needed to be done."

"Roy, you carried a man out."

"Only because he was in my way and his roly-poly ass was too fat for me to step over."

"And performed CPR."

Royal shook his head. "I hit him in the chest a few times."

"Stop it. Quit being modest. You saved a man's life."

"You don't know that. He may have been fine without me. Besides, the paramedics did all the real work when they got there."

"Yeah, sure. I don't know why you can't accept credit for what you did."

"It's nothing anyone else wouldn't have done. I just happened to get there first. Doing what you're supposed to never requires you to win any medals… unless you're sitting on a bovine." He traced a design on a potholder with his index finger. "I don't understand why more people can't simply do the right thing."

The lines in Easton's forehead bunched. "Who are we talking about?"

"Gerald. You know he…." Royal shook his head. "Ugh! I don't want to talk about it."

Two women wearing clothes too fancy for anyone doing anything in a kitchen joined Royal and Easton at the counter. Royal had forgotten their names but knew they were the hosts… hostesses… or whatever the stars of the daytime show were called. One of them—the one wearing the violet pantsuit and mauve lipstick—smiled broadly at him. She'd hinted that they go out for lunch after taping and slipped him a business card with her private number scribbled on the back. He had no intention of calling—mainly because he had no idea where that card was now—but he smiled back at her. She was a good—okay, maybe not good , but convenient—distraction from the tornado of thoughts churning in his head.

"Ready to crack some eggs?" she asked.

"Always," he responded.

He felt Easton inch closer to him, and the woman's eyes narrowed.

Oh shit! This could get awkward.

Beads of sweat gathered at his hairline.

"Get ready," someone from the side of the set called. "In three, two, one, action."

"And we're back," the other woman, who was wearing a Barbie pink dress so tight that if she sneezed, it would grant viewers a sneak peek of her snack pack, said. "Here to help us prepare a traditional hobo breakfast are Golden Star Buckle winners Easton Faucheaux and Royal Guérin, two real-life cowboys who will be riding in the Championship Stampede Showcase this week at the Asphodel Fields Arena. They'll be rustling up a genuine, rustic cowboy breakfast consisting of buttery pancakes slathered with lingonberry and kumquat jam, peach sticky buns, molten-hot duck-fat hash browns, gold star sausage, and eggs."

Gold star sausage? Quoi?

Royal darted a questioning stare at Easton, who looked equally as baffled. He leaned toward Easton slightly and whispered, "What the hell is she talking about? We've both poked the kitty?"

Easton rolled in his lips and snorted, suppressing a laugh.

"This hearty meal using plump, stuffed sausages and loads of spices will fill you until you're stuffed and completely satisfied," Violet Woman chimed in.

"Damn. Might as well have said hot and horny." Royal murmured.

Easton rolled his lips in farther but snorted louder.

"Cut!" a male voice yelled. "Gentlemen, I know you're both excited, but I need you to maintain your composure."

"Look who he's calling gentlemen," Upton catcalled.

" Brasse mon tchu. "

"Dat swannit, Royal! I'm about to take a switch to you."

" Quoi? " Royal asked, looking at Marcel innocently. "I didn't say it in English."

"They have closed caption on them so-called smartie TVs—loaded up with the artificial intelligence."

Royal's eyes widened, and he turned to face Easton fully. " The artificial intelligence. What the fuck does someone who says smartie TV know about AI?"

Easton let loose the laugh he'd been struggling to suppress, causing Royal to laugh as well.