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“Sounds like the place to be. Give it a try!”
“Auntie—”
“Vivica, put on something that makes you feel good and go have yourself a drink. You love live music. You don’t have to talk to anybody or stay out all night. Just remind yourself you’re still alive and living to the fullest.”
My eyes close, and I lean my head against the back of the couch, turning over the very different versions of my evening that have materialized.
One where I’m comfy at home with my food and book and throw blanket. The other where I’m dressed up at a bar, sipping on a drink and listening to live music.
My force of habit gravitates toward the first option. But curiosity gets the best of me.
Maybe mixing things up could be a nice change of pace.
“One drink,” I say begrudgingly. “Then I’m coming back home to my PJs.”
“That’s my girl. I want to hear all about it tomorrow.”
We hang up, and I pull myself off the couch to get ready.
Half an hour later, I’m heading out the door in a pair of fitted jeans, a low-cut top that teases enough skin to feel a little bit sexy, and my old signature-red lipstick.
Here goes nothing.
TWO
Rhett
Some people wake up looking for purpose. I wake up looking for pain killers.
Two of them to wash down with lukewarm water before my boots even hit the ground.
By the time I’m dressed and heading outside, my lower back has downgraded from a solid eight to a manageable five on the pain scale.
Pain I can work through. I learned a long time ago to grit my teeth and bare even the worst of it. Most would say that’s crazy.
The doctors told me to take it easy. The Air Force told me to go home. But I’ve never been good at doing what I’m told.
I did call in sick this morning—or tried to—’til Buck reached out to let me know Buttercup wasn’t doing well. Apparently she was sluggish, with a low-grade fever. She hadn’t even eaten her breakfast, and Buttercup always eats breakfast.
They brought in the new vet to look at her. From what I understand, the prognosis is that she’s going to be fine, but “fine” still troubles me.
I need my girl to be in good health. One of us has to be.
Joaquin spots me before I even make it to the stables, leaning against the beamed fence with his arms crossed and a glint in his brown eyes.
“Thought you were dying today,” he says.
“Can’t yet. Not if my girl’s feeling bad.”
He shakes his head and falls into step beside me. “Go back to bed, Dawson. You look like shit.”
“Yet still prettier than you, Estrada.”
He snorts out a laugh as we round the bend and come up on the stalls.
We’ve known each other since our days in the Air Force. Well enough to give each other shit then and now.
Joaquin was security forces. Another term for military police.
