Lisa.
Mason: Pick up your phone, you pretty motherfucker.
Lisa: You think I'm pretty?
Mason: I think you picking that one specific detail out of my text means you're an idiot.
Lisa: But a pretty one?
Mason: Answer. Your. Fucking. Phone.
Mason: Or be here at two p.m. so I can shake you in person.
The plane touches down at the Cheyenne airport, and I'm relieved to be home. Especially after the clusterfuck that was the last couple of days. The guy I punched isn't pressing charges, but I'm not sure how much money my agent, Mason, offered him to make that happen. It doesn't matter. If anyone can make this all go away, it's Mason.
He's been trying to call me, which is a clue he's losing his mind because we have more of a texting relationship. Which is why when I power my phone up before I'm supposed to, I'm not surprised to see his name lighting up my screen.
Again.
I haven't answered because I'm not in the mood for listening to him yell at me. I want to hide. I want silence. Birds. A hot shower. Some Tylenol. And a date with my hand to ease some tension.
Not necessarily in that order.
That's what I need to get my head back in the game. A quiet break at home while this blows over. The older I get, the longer the season seems, and somehow, at only thirty-two years old, I feel old as hell.
My body hurts, my mind is overfull, and I'm craving the quiet of my family ranch. Sure, my brothers are going to annoy the fuck out of me, and my dad is going to talk to me about when I'm planning on quitting, but that's family. That's home.
I suppose there's a reason us boys keep coming back. We're co-dependent in a way our little sister isn't. She took one look at a bunch of grown-ass men living on a farm together and got the hell outta dodge.
I make a mental note to call Minnie and check up on her all the same.
My head tips back against the cramped seat while the plane rolls to a stop on the runway.
"Welcome to beautiful Cheyenne, Wyoming."
The cabin fills with the flight attendant's voice and the loud clicking of people undoing their seatbelts before they're supposed to.
I follow suit. Eager to get out of the small seat and stretch my limbs.
"If Cheyenne is home for you, welcome home . . ."
You'd think that after over a decade of playing this game, I'd be better at booking my flights and hotels. Instead, I'm constantly scrambling to grab a last-minute spot, which suits me just fine. Even though I'm feeling a little claustrophobic. When the person beside me files out into the aisle, a sigh of relief whooshes from my lungs. I can't let myself sink into that intense tiredness yet. I still have to grab my truck and drive an hour outside the city to Big Springs.
"Please remember that smoking is not permitted inside the terminal. . ."
And before that, I have to go meet with my pit bull of an agent. He's been barking at me since last night about not answering my phone.
Now, I'm going to have to face the music for my poor behavior.
I groan inwardly as I reach up to grab my duffel bag from the overhead compartment. Mason Park is the man I have to thank for my current financial situation. Truth be told, I like him a lot. He's been with me for ten years, and I almost consider him a friend. I also dream about punching his clean- shaven face pretty regularly. A double-edged sword, that one.
He reminds me of an older, more debonaire version of Ari Gold from Entourage, and I fucking love that show.
"Thank you for flying Air Acadia. We look forward to hosting you again."
