Page 1 of Buck ’Em Cowgirl

1

Fable Morris

“How much longer are you going to be in there?” my fiancé, Mike, called from the other side of the door.

“I’m washing my hands,” I singsonged back.

Damn it. I’d lost track of where I was and had to start over.

Happy Birthday to you. Happy⁠—

“Fable, you’ve washed your hands three times today. Let’s go! We’re going to be late.”

I groaned, knowing I’d have to start over. If I didn’t nail the rhythm perfectly, I’d spend the whole day spiraling. I’d be worrying about germs, convinced I’d somehow caught norovirus or something worse. And that would mean throwing up, which was my absolute worst nightmare. Worse than that, it might mean a trip to the hospital—a place I couldn’t even bring myself to set foot in.

“I’m leaving for the rehearsal,” Mike shouted as I focused back on the sink.

Happy Birthday to you, happy birthday to you, happy birthday dear Fable, happy birthday to you.

Grabbing a washcloth, I dried my hands, wincing as the coarse fabric scraped over my raw, calloused skin. Winters in Chicago were bad enough, but scrubbing my hands raw in the name of staying—okay, obsessing over being—clean made it so much worse.

I yanked open the door, and Mike was standing right outside with his arms folded across his chest.

“The fuck, Fable? We talked about this. You have to stop worrying about washing your hands all the time.”

I looked down and realized my hands were trembling. The cracks on my palms throbbed with pain, and as I glanced at him, I felt an overwhelming urge to scream. I wanted to shout that all I wanted was to stop washing my hands, to stop this endless cycle. I wanted to tell him that I knew, logically, that what I was doing wasn’t normal, but I couldn’t stop. The fear of ending up in that hospital again—alone—was enough to crush me.

“I-I’m sorry,” I stammered, my voice barely audible.

What else could I say? I stood frozen in the doorway of our shared bathroom.

“Do better, Fable. I told you, you need to be better. If I’m going to get famous, I need you to look the part and act right. Nobody wants a fiancée who’s a freaking weirdo about germs.”

“If . . .” I mumbled under my breath, but the words barely escaped before his hand shot into the air.

He raised it high, pulling back like he was about to bring it down hard. My heart leaped as I realized the only thing between his hand and me was the force of the blow.

I flinched.

We both stood there, locked in place. Time seemed to stop as I waited to see what he would do next. He never actually hit me, but he did this over and over, using the threat like a weapon whenever he thought I was “misbehaving.”

“Fuck it. I gotta get to rehearsal. You drive yourself to work.”

“I’ll get a ride from Harleigh,” I said as he turned around and slammed the door to our apartment.

I closed my eyes and inhaled deeply, trying to steady myself. I couldn’t help but wonder if my fear—this constant worry that no one would ever truly understand me—was still the biggest reason I hadn’t left him. After everything that had happened to me . . . I wasn’t sure I’d ever recover.

When my anxiety over staying healthy began, Mike had told me no other man would ever love me because I was broken. And I believed him.

I still believe him.

With a heavy sigh, I stepped into our bedroom, the morning sun seeping through the window, and began rummaging around for my phone. Our place wasn’t anything special—small, cozy, and tucked into the heart of Wicker Park in Chicago. It was a few blocks from the music studio where Mike recorded and close enough for me to get to work.

“Where the heck did I put it?”

I threw off our dark blue comforter. In truth, the apartment looked exactly like Mike’s style. It was basic, boring and probably an ad for a department store. It had no personality or pizzazz, but Mike insisted that my style was too loud, and as an adult, we needed to tone it down.

“Aha!” I grabbed my phone, with its sparkly pink cover, and dialed Harl’s number, hoping she hadn’t left for the office yet.