“If Calgary 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 Chestnut 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.
Kip Hamilton 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.”
The line of people finally starts to move toward the exit, and I shuffle toward the aisle of the plane, only to feel a firm poke in the middle of my chest.
When I peer down the bridge of my nose, I’m met with furious blue eyes and a pinched brow on a short frame. A woman well into her sixties glares up at me.
“You should be ashamed of yourself. Insulting your roots that way. Insulting us all who work so hard to put food on the tables of our fellow Canadians. And then assaulting a man. How dare you?”
This part of the country prides itself on farming and rural life. Calgary is home to one of the biggest rodeos in the world. Hell, some people call the city Cowtown for how tightly tied the ranching and farming community is to the city.
I grew up on a massive cattle ranch, I should know. I just never knew not liking milk was a crime.
But I give her a solemn nod anyhow. “No insult intended, ma’am. We both know the farming community is the backbone of our fine province.”
She holds my eyes as she rolls her shoulders back and sniffs a little. “You’d do well to remember that, Rhett Eaton.”
All I offer back is a tight smile. “Of course,” I say, and then I trudge through the airport with my head down. Hoping to avoid any more run-ins with offended fans.
The interaction sticks with me throughout baggage claim and out to my pickup truck. I don’t feel bad about punching that guy—he deserved it—but a spark of guilt flicks in my chest for potentially hurting my hard-working fans. That’s something I hadn’t considered. Instead, I’ve spent the last several days rolling my eyes over my milk hatred making the news.
When my vintage truck comes into view in the covered parking garage, I breathe out a sigh of relief. Is it a practical vehicle? Maybe not. But my mom gave it to my dad as a gift, and I love it for that alone. Even though it’s currently got rust spots and is painted with mismatched grays.
I have big plans for having it restored. A treat to myself. I want to paint it blue.
I don’t remember my mom, but in pictures her eyes were a steely color, and that’s what I want. A little nod to the woman I never really got to know.
Just need to find the time first.
Bag in hand, I hop into my truck. Cracked brown leather seats creaking slightly as I heave my tired body into place behind the wheel. It fires up to life, billowing a bit of dark exhaust as I pull out onto the freeway, heading straight to the city center. My eyes are on the road, but my head is somewhere else.
When my phone rings I take my eyes off the road only momentarily. I see my sister’s name flashing on the screen and can’t help but smile. Violet never fails to make me smile, even when everything around me is total shit. She’s calling me before I even had the chance to dial her.
Stopped at a red light, I slide the button to answer and tap for speaker phone. This truck definitely isn’t equipped with Bluetooth.
“Hey, Vi,” I answer, almost shouting to project my voice at the phone on the seat next to me.
“Hi.” Her voice overflows with concern. “How are you holding up?”
“Fine, I guess. Heading in to Kip’s office right now to find out what sort of damage I’ve done.”