Flawless （Chestnut Springs #1）
Elsie Silver
1
Summer
“You got one angry motherfucker here, Eaton.”
The handsome cowboy on the back of a huge bull scoffs and shifts his hand around the rope before him. His dark eyes twinkle on the screen, all the hard lines of his face peeking through the cage of his helmet. “The harder they buck, the happier I am.”
I can barely hear what they’re saying over the din of the crowd in the vast arena with music blaring in the background, but the subtitles at the bottom of the screen clear up anything that might otherwise get missed.
The young man leaning over the pen chuckles and shakes his head. “Must be all that milk you drink. No broken bones for the world-famous Rhett Eaton.”
The easily recognizable cowboy grins behind the cage over his face, a flash of white teeth and the wink of an amber eye from beneath the black helmet. A charming grin I know from spending hours staring at a glossy, still version of it.
“Beat it, Theo. You know I fuckin’ hate milk.”
A teasing grin touches Theo’s lips as he speaks with a lightly accented voice. “You look cute in those ads with it painted above your lip though. Cute for an old guy.”
The younger man winks and the two men share a friendly laugh as Rhett rubs a hand up the rope methodically.
“I’d rather get bucked off a bull every damn day than drink that shit.”
Their laughter is all I hear as my father pauses the video on the large flatscreen, redness creeping up his neck and onto his face.
“Okay . . .” I venture cautiously, trying to piece together why that exchange requires this impromptu meeting with the two newest full-time hires at Hamilton Elite.
“No. Not okay. This guy is the face of professional bull riding, and he just skewered his biggest sponsors. But it gets worse. Keep watching.”
He hits play again, aggressively, like the button did something wrong in this whole affair, and the screen flashes to a different scene. Rhett is walking outside of an arena, through the parking lot with a duffel bag slung over his shoulder. The helmet is now replaced by a cowboy hat and a slim man in dark baggy clothes is taking quick strides to keep up with his target while the cameraman follows and runs tape.
I don’t think the paparazzi usually follow bull riders, but Rhett Eaton has become something of a household name over the years. Not a paragon of purity by any stretch, but a symbol of rough and tumble, rugged country men.
The reporter takes a little skip step to get far enough ahead that he can line his microphone up with Rhett’s mouth.
“Rhett, can you comment on the video that’s been circulating this weekend? Any apologies you’d like to make?”
The cowboy’s lips thin, and he tries to hide his face behind the brim of his hat. A muscle in his jaw flexes, and his toned body goes taut. Tension lines every limb.
“No comment,” he bites out through gritted teeth.
“Come on, man, give me something.” The slender guy reaches out and presses the microphone against Rhett’s cheek. Forcing it on him even though he declined to comment. “Your fans deserve an explanation,” the reporter demands.
“No, they don’t,” Rhett mutters, trying to create space between them.
Why do these people think they’re owed a response when they ambush a person who is otherwise minding his own business?
“How about an apology?” the guy asks.
And then Rhett decks him in the face.
It happens so fast that I blink in an attempt to follow the now shaking and swiveling camera angles.
Well, shit.
Within seconds, the pushy paparazzi is on the ground clutching his face, and Rhett is shaking out his hand as he walks away without a word.
The screen switches back to news anchors sitting behind a desk, and before they can give any input on what we just watched, my dad flicks the TV off and lets loose a rumbling sound of frustration.
“I hate these fucking cowboys. They’re impossible to keep in line. I don’t want to deal with him. So, lucky for you two, this job is up for grabs.” He’s practically vibrating with rage, but I just lean back in my chair. My father flies off the handle easily, but he gets over things quickly too. I’m pretty nonplussed by his mood swings at this point in my life. You don’t last long at Hamilton Elite if you can’t withstand Kip Hamilton.
Lucky for me, I have a lifetime of learning under my belt to brush off his moods, so I’m immune. I’ve come to think like it’s part of his charm, so I don’t take it personally. He’s not mad at me. He’s just . . . mad.