8. Royal

Chapter 8

Royal

Abilene's nimble fingers drifted down Royal's spine and halted at his waistband while her other hand massaged his chest. "I have to leave early in the morning to be in Tucson tomorrow, but I have time tonight if you want to go to my room now."

A wave of discomfort churned in his belly, and he trapped her roving hand beneath his on his chest. "Not tonight, doll. I just remembered I have some paperwork to complete."

"Paperwork?" Frown lines deepened on her forehead. "At this hour?"

"Yeah. Some sponsorships and business stuff I need to get taken care of."

"And you have to do it tonight?"

"I need to, yeah. I've been putting it off." It wasn't a whole-ass lie, just a bit of creative fabrication. He had been dragging his heels for days about the paperwork but had buckled down and finished it all earlier in the afternoon. All that remained was a brief look-over before uploading the documents to his shared drive, and that would take all of ten minutes. Additionally, there was no rush to get it sent tonight. He had until noon, and even then, he could request an extension if needed. But he didn't need it, and it wasn't pressing. So, what was his hesitation to accept Abilene's offer? No, not hesitation. Rejection. He'd turned her down. His mouth had opened and blurted a ridiculous excuse to avoid being with her. But why? Why had he done it? Nothing about Abilene's abilities was unappealing. She'd certainly satisfied him in the past.

He eased back and shook his head. "I know. It's a bummer, but you know how some of these companies can be." And still, his mouth continued doubling down with the lie. "If you don't jump when they want, they move on to the next person."

"Yeah, but?—"

"Now, didn't you just rake me over the coals about how you never complain about my job?"

Her mouth formed a seductive pout. "Oh, all right. If you're determined to be no fun tonight, I'll have to find someone else to play with."

Royal didn't doubt the blogger would have any trouble in that area. She had an entire bar of horny cowboys who would delight in her talents.

"My loss." He smiled and stroked her cheek. "Next time." A few seconds later, he was out the door and standing in the newly paved parking lot, alone with the fetidness of asphalt and his unwelcome thoughts.

For a moment, he stood motionless, taking in the long rows of pickups, trailers, and campers. Ironically, compared to the inside of the bar, the silence and stillness were deafening and allowed the strident screams of his subconscious to barrel to the forefront. These thoughts were so violently blaring and swift that they failed to register in his consciousness long enough to make sense. And at this point, with a basket of trepidation mamboing a jig on his shoulders, he didn't care to explore the meaning. He wanted silence. He needed silence. He needed the world to shut the fuck up, if only for a nanosecond.

"Hey, what you doing out here, creeping around in the dark?" Marcel asked, stepping from between two double-cab trucks.

So much for his wish for silence being granted. Apparently, his fairy godmother had resigned. He sighed. "Being one with nature, I suppose."

Marcel's eyebrows knitted together. "What the Sam Hill is wrong with you, boy? You've been acting more peculiar than a bee-stung gelding ever since we left the arena."

Royal contemplated his response options. The truth wasn't happening—not that he was exactly sure what that was. Being glib would have been his usual go-to, but Marcel was wearing his serious face and would light into him. Royal could do without that battle. He could lie and deny it, but he doubted he could be convincing. Besides, he didn't like lying to Marcel, or to anyone, for that matter. But hadn't he done that minutes ago with Abilene? His bologna had a name: h-y-p-o-c-r-i-t-e. Therefore, he settled on trying his luck with being ambiguous and sidestepped with an immaterial half-truth.

"The closer it gets to the end, the harder it is to celebrate. I want to win, but I don't want to jinx anything."

Marcel approached and slapped Royal's shoulder. "I know you do, and you have a good chance this year. Having a few celebratory drinks has nothing to do with your riding. It's pride that's the sin. But you've always been cocky, so you've nothing to worry about. God has forgiven you for being who you are, and the rest of us don't pay you any mind."

Royal smirked. "What the frickety frackerty frick kind of comfort speech was that?"

"Well, I didn't know I was supposed to be swaddling you." Marcel allowed his palm to slip from Royal's shoulder and flashed him a paternal smile.

"You crusty ol' coot," Royal muttered with a grin. "I'm going to head back to the hotel—get my money's worth. I got coupons for free bottled water at the front desk."

Marcel grinned back and headed toward the entry. "Knock yourself out with that. But Cody told me there's a better band playing on the other side of town. We'll probably head over later."

Success. Conversation averted. Hi ho, back to the hotel I go. No more delays.

He began walking but faltered after a few steps when he heard a crunching sound. He spun around to the source of the sound, peering toward the rear of an F-150 hitched to a travel camper, and spotted one of the new rodeo hands leaning against it. Royal recognized him as Gerald's—one of the stock contractors—kid.

"Whatcha doing there hiding?" Royal inquired.

"The same as you. Being one with the night."

Royal smirked. "Eavesdropping, eh?"

The scrawny boy stiffened. "I was doing no such thing. You were out here in the open, talking all loud as everything. Anyone could hear you."

Royal's smirk widened. He recognized—and appreciated—the youthful condescension masking insecurity. "What's your name, kid?"

"Jerry. Gerald Junior."

"Well, Jerry, Gerald Junior, a honky-tonk parking lot is no place for someone your age."

Jerry puffed out his chest. "You're not much older than me."

"Yeah, well, I'm old enough to be legal, and you're not. How old are you, anyway?"

"Fifteen."

"Fifteen," Royal repeated with a grunt. The boy didn't look a day over twelve. "I remember that age. I won my first junior rodeo."

"I know. You rode Rumpy. He's one of our best sires now. He sired El Diablo, Tomorrow's Promise, Onyx Alpha, and Future Dismay. You rode Future Dismay a few weeks back in Topeka."

Royal's jaw dropped. "I'll be damned. I knew there was something familiar about that bull. I even told Easton it felt like I'd ridden him before. Bulls are like popping your cherry. You don't ever forget."

Jerry giggled, drawing Royal back from the memory and to reality.

Oops. "Don't tell your papi I said that," he continued, remembering he was talking to a minor.

Jerry's gaze dropped to the ground, and a soft chuff escaped his lips. "He won't care."

"I highly doubt that."

"What do you know about it?"

Ew! The amount of bite in the youth's words caught Royal off guard. "Nothing. Just that fathers care."

And who is this, challenging from my mouth like Dr. Benjamin Spock?

Jerry's contrite gleam darted from the ground to Royal. "Oh, is that why you let your old man speak to you the way he did just then?"

"First, Marcel isn't my old man. Second, what do you mean, the way he talked to me?"

"He called you a boy. Don't you find that offensive? Racist?"

"Not coming from Marcel, I don't. He calls anyone younger than forty ‘boy' when he gets riled up. It doesn't matter their color. It's the way he talks. And if I said something to him about it because it bothered me, he'd stop or, at least, try to. Hell, he's been doing it so long, I don't know if he can. He'd probably choke on his tongue." He envisioned the image of prying Marcel's tongue from his throat and shuddered. "I wouldn't want to have to explain that to anyone. But this isn't about me. Does Gerald know you're out here?"

"Yeah."

Royal arched a suspicious brow. "Now, why don't I believe that?"

"You should."

"Gerald said it was okay for you to wander around?"

"Well, no." Jerry shuffled. "But he didn't say it wasn't okay."

"Uh-huh. So, what did he say?"

"To wait for him in the camper."

"Then that's what you should be doing." He jerked his head toward the Airstream and folded his arms across his chest. "Go on. I'll wait until you get inside."

"I could wait until you leave and come out again."

"But you won't."

"Why not?"

"Because you're going to give me your word that you won't."

"My word?"

"Yep. It's the most important thing a cowboy has."

Jerry shifted his weight and glanced at the ground again. "I'm no cowboy."

"I've seen you taking care of the stock, rounding 'em up and all. Hell, those animals get taken better care of than most people—the best fortified feed on the market, prompt veterinary care, and stalls clean enough to eat off the floor, although I wouldn't recommend going that far. Seems to me you have the right fine makings of one. Besides, being a cowboy means doing things—sometimes hard, other times not so much—even when you don't want to, but you do it because it's the right thing. We have to look out for each other because out here, we're all we got. That's cowboy code. If something happens to you, we're all responsible. My head will be in a guillotine as fast as your papi's. And well, I kinda like my head connected to my shoulders. It looks good that way, and I paid fifteen whole dollars for this haircut."

Eyes bright, Jerry grinned a genuine smile, and Royal returned it.

"Okay, then," Jerry replied, walking to the door of the camper. "Night."

Royal tipped his hat, waited for the door to close and click behind Jerry, then began walking. He glanced over his shoulder at the bar entrance. "What a dick," he muttered, thinking about Gerald. Fathers are supposed to care. What kind of father leaves his teenager in a travel trailer in a bar parking lot while he gets drunk inside? Yet Royal had defended him. What kind of hypocrite—for the second time—did that make him? Was there even more than one kind, or was a hypocrite just a hypocrite? He was the last person who should have been lecturing anyone about the goodness of fathers. His mood sank from bad to worse.

Yeah, it was fair to identify his mood as foul. He certainly wasn't happy. He hadn't been happy since Easton had been slung off his bull.

Easton. Royal quickened his step, determined to return to the hotel. He wouldn't be deterred again, except…

"Mr. Guérin?"

Royal spun around. " Oui , Jerry?"

"Do you think you could get me a cheeseburger or something from inside? My dad said he would when he finished eating, but that's been over an hour ago."

That son of a bitch!

"I'm getting pretty hungry." The boy reached into his pocket and pulled out a fistful of crumpled bills. "I got money."

Royal shook his head. "Sure, c'mon. I saw several burger joints up the street a ways." He waited until the boy had jogged up beside him before he spoke again. "Put that away." He nodded toward Jerry's extended hand. "Your money's no good with me. Text your papi and tell him you're with me."

"Yes, sir."

"And it's not sir or Mr. Guérin. I'm Royal. All my friends call me Magnificent Supreme Emperor, but for you, I will make an exception. You may call me Your Majesty."

Jerry laughed, and Royal chuckled in return.

The hotel would have to wait a little longer.