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  “And there you go. No more set-ups from my mommy and little sister.”

  “Noa, even you must admit I’ve saved you from some drop-dead gorgeous men this past year.” I glare at my best friend from across the table. Big mouth. If I were more awake and not starving, my death stare would have melted her face off by now.

  “See?” My sister shrieks and throws her hands in the air in frustration. Drama queen. “These dates are not always easy to set up. I’ve had to make some not-so-glamorous concessions to line up these dates for you, and now I find out you’re ditching them on purpose. Well, not anymore. You’re going to have to find your own man from now on.” She squirms out of the booth and waves backward at us as she leaves, throwing her purse over her shoulder.

  “Why the fuck would you say that out loud, especially in front of her? The code is now broke.”

  “It’s not broken.” Myla drops her head in shame. She knows she fucked up, but I can’t stay mad at her for long. We’ve been through way too much shit together to be mad over a minor error in communication. “I claim heat of the moment insanity? Sorry. Sometimes I forget that she’s a drama queen and we have to censor ourselves around her. I’m sorry, Noa.”

  “I know you are. It’s okay. She’s going to run home to mom and tell on me. She fucking owns a $12 million dollar home and spends all of her time at our parent’s place. Pathetic.”

  “But now you’ll have to listen to your mother’s guilt-ridden lecture about it, and that’s what I’m most sorry about.” She squeezes my hand in moral support. “You need to get away from here, and start your own life.”

  Just then, the waitress comes over and after staring at our hand-holding scene for a moment asks “Was that Montgomery Knight sitting in this booth? Do you know her? Why did she leave? I wanted her autograph.”

  We both roll our eyes exasperated. Fan adoration is very old to us. “No, that wasn’t her. She’s just a stand-in for her to fool the paparazzi. Sorry,” Myla snides, throwing her a sugary-sweet smile in apology.

  “And besides, Montgomery Knight is much prettier and nicer than that woman.” We snicker at my words before giving her our orders.

  “Seriously, Noa. You need to get away. Find a job in another city. Join the circus or something. Anything. Just get away from your family. They are choking the life out of you.”

  “But if I leave, that means I leave you too. I can’t do that. I’m too old to start over with a new best friend. They won’t know my quirks, and we won’t have any shared history to laugh at so hard we pee our pants.” She smiles softly at the bonded memories before her eyes go wide with a bright idea.

  “Ooh, I could train her. Teach her all of our stories and what the punchlines are.” Suddenly her shoulders sag and lips purse as realization dawns on her, “Nah, that’s not going to work. It won’t be as funny. I guess I’ll have to run away with you.” Her smile lights up her face again, and I sit in awe staring at her. She’s always been able to do that— smile and instantly change my mood.

  “Oh my god. Are we really thirty-six years old and talking about running away from home?”

  “Yes, we are. Now, who could use a Hollywood seamstress and a sports medicine doctor as a package deal?” She taps her finger against her twisted lips in stern contemplation of her question, making me laugh in the process. She will come up with a plan, and I will go along with it as I always do. It’s how we operate as best friends.

  IT’S BEEN A FEW DAYS since the conversation at the diner about running away, but my mind won’t seem to let the idea go. I do need a change from this city...and Myla’s right— some distance from my family. I love my family, but ever since Monty received her Golden Globe award and subsequent SAG nomination, they’ve become excruciatingly hard to bare. No scandals. No drama. For Christ’s sake, we live in Hollywood. How on Earth do you live without scandal and drama?

  My mother and Monty’s “Mom-ager” picked our clothes, our schools, our boyfriends, our friends, and even our jobs until we were well into our 20’s. Hell, she still rules over Monty, for the most part.

  I was grateful when school chose my internship for me. Marlena Knight is never happy when her power of decision gets taken away. You know what they say when Mom’s not happy— no one is; I believe she found another way to get her way. I’m pretty sure she bribed the governing committee with a donation since I ended up at USC Keck Sports Medicine Center, here in Los Angeles.

  Now I only succumb to the torture of her and Monty’s choices as my dates. It’s usually some up-and-coming actor or director. Every now and again I get a producer. They strut me onto the red carpet to keep it all within the family. If you can’t be famous yourself, you might as well be the 3rd wife of someone who is. In today’s social climate, famous sisters only happen to princesses, and we don’t have those here in America.

  My mom is building an empire, while I’m ready to wage war against it. And my father, well, he just lets her rule with an iron fist. His motto is ‘Happy wife, happy life.’ I think he’s just content that she leaves him alone to study his charts and graphs. He’s a scientist/researcher for Kaiser Permanente and the ultimate nerd; I clearly inherited my nerdiness from him.

  Yeah, I’m a nerd to the largest power of ten. I was a track star in junior-high and high school. I would study the way my legs pushed through different take-offs for the most power and the fastest releases, and I’d study my breathing efficiency with different timing patterns.

  Myla was my timekeeper through it all. She’s been my sidekick for forever and a day, always helping and saving me. Yes, as I mentioned before, saving me from my bad dates.

  Dating. I hate that word, and I love it at the same time. I’m not a homely looking girl. I have attributes that get a lot of wide-eyed, full-smile looks from men. The problem isn’t the men. They are nice, for the most part. Okay, here’s my truth— I fall in love way too easily. I’m too caring. Yep, I’m the sentimental sap that loves love, wearing my heart on my sleeve. I let the men talk to get to know them and undoubtedly, I fall in love.

  It could be the way their hair falls over their eyes creating that sexy mystery that I crave or their open hearts and wallets with their charity work, or the shining passion in their eyes and intelligence of their words when they speak about their next role or movie. Whether it’s physical or spiritual, there is always something that draws me in, and I fall. HARD. Every damn time.

  I always do, until I see the lies veiled behind the insincerity of it all. I don’t know why but God granted me the power of seeing the wizard behind the curtain; some would call it a blessing while others might call it a curse. It usually falls between the middle to end of the second, sometimes third, date. One tiny word or look in their eye sets off my bullshit meter, and with a snap of my fingers, I pull hard on the curtain to see the tiny man behind the megaphone.

  I always dare to call them out on their shit. I may have a caring nature and a soft heart for people in general, but I won’t be served a sack of shit and expect to eat it as a meal. I send the coded message to Myla pre-rant, and by the time I finish, she arrives to whisk me away.

  My cell phone buzzes, and I see Myla’s wide smile light up my Skype. We are kismet together. I bet she felt me thinking about her. “Hey, Sunshine. What’s up?”

  “Nothing. What have you been up to?” I see people milling about and laughing in the background so I know she’s at work.

  “I just got out of a three-hour rotator cuff repair surgery, and I’m enjoying the silence of my office. No beeping, no hissing of the oxygen pumps, and no people milling around me giving me vitals. It’s marvelous.”

  “Sounds marvelous, my dear. Hey, you know how I’ve been preparing for that upcoming western that’s being produced by Jules Signon? You know, collecting chaps, flannel shirts, spurs and belt buckles galore?” Her green eyes sparkle when she says flannel shirts and spurs. Myla has a thing for cowboys.

  “How can I forget? You made me go to Santa Clarita with you to that wes
tern wear store to look at snakeskin boots for hours. Why? What’s happened?”

  She brings the phone closer to her face, and all I can see are the pores on her nose and her bright eyes while she whispers, “Well, the rodeo is in town this weekend, and I scored some tickets. I’m working on a low-budget film and can’t buy more costumes. What I lack in garb, I have to design and make myself.” She holds the phone back out so that I can see all of her face. “So, do you want to go and scout out some hot cowboy clothes with me? Special emphasis on the ‘hot cowboy’ part for you?”

  “You mean special emphasis on the ‘hot cowboy’ part for you,” making sure I use my air quotes appropriately. “Why not. I’m not on call this weekend, and it gives me an excuse to avoid my mother for a few more days.”

  “Great! It’s an all-weekend pass. The bronco-busting is tomorrow night while the bull riding is Saturday night. I need to see both. I’ll pick you up at 3:30 and hopefully we’ll avoid heavy traffic.”

  “Ha. Avoiding heavy traffic in LA is a myth, but I’ll be ready.” I send her an air kiss before she fades off my screen. I open my calendar on the computer and see my last appointment for tomorrow is at 2:00 pm. Perfect; it’s just a surgical follow-up. I love my scheduling team. They know to make my schedule light as the weekend approaches.

  Chapter 3 – Braxton

  MY HANDS GRIP THE 30-pound dumbbells tighter as I extend down on the last rep of my shoulder presses. “Damn that hurts.” My grip is too weak; just like it was last night on Young Gun. That damn bull thought he had me, but I gave my 8 seconds and got the hell off him. It felt like he was shredding my shoulder muscle into mincemeat. I crash landed upside down when I jumped off him, right onto my mangled shoulder.

  I felt that burn for hours after the competition and long into the night; so much so that the pain got me up early this morning. Thinking a nice, long workout might stretch the muscle and soothe the problem before we hit the road today; I went to the gym early. Guess not— it still aches like a bitch. I drop the weights onto the mat and take a seat on the bench. My phone vibrates on the seat, and I look to see my son Rowan’s face on the screen.

  “Hey, Buddy. How’s it going? You heading to school?”

  “Dad. Dad,” he’s breathless on the other end of the line like he’s running for his life, “you gotta help her, but don’t call the cops.” His frantic voice pierces my heart, and I have a sinking feeling that he’s talking about his mother again.

  “Slow down, Rowan. Calm down, and tell me what’s happening?” My mind is racing as I jump up from the bench seat and use the tale of my shirt to wipe the sweat from my face. I pace the floor stopping every few seconds to switch ears to hear him better. It sounds like he keeps repeating her name through his heavy breathing, but it’s all muffled noise coming through the phone. “Rowan. Rowan. Are you there? Talk to me.” Damn it; he must have set the phone down.

  “Dad, I’m here. She’s slumped over the steering wheel, and I can’t wake her up.”

  Jesus Christ. I can hear the panic rising in his voice with every second that passes. He’s only seven for God’s sake. Why does she do this shit to us?

  “Rowan, tell me what’s been going on this morning? Is she sick again?”

  “I don’t know, Dad. She was grouchy when I ate breakfast. Then she was fine right before we left for school. We stopped at the stop sign at the Michelson’s farm, and when we started moving again, we just rolled right into the ditch. I looked up to see why we were off the road and I watched her fall forward. Help her Dad, but please don’t get her in trouble.”

  “Okay, Buddy. Give me a second to find another phone.”

  I race out of the makeshift gym the PBR sets up for us circuit riders to see a mostly empty parking lot that’s full of trailers. It’s breakfast time at least; some people should be up and about. I just pray I don’t run into anyone I dislike at this moment.

  “I need to use someone’s phone. It’s an emergency. Does anyone have a phone I can use?” I holler out to anyone that can hear me. Several people gawk and stare, but mostly they just keep on walking, minding their own business and not wanting to get messed up in my problems. I understand. I don’t want to be in my problems either.

  As I pass Bill’s trailer, he’s the manager around here, he and a red-headed woman come outside just as I finish hollering to use a cell phone again. She turns to shake Bill’s hand, but I approach them a little too quickly and startle her, watching her pull her purse closer to her side. “Lady, do you have a cell phone I can use? It’s an emergency.”

  “Um, sure, but it looks like you have a phone already?” I watch her eyes dart to my phone that I’m holding to my chest. She shakes her head in confusion but reaches into her purse and pulls her cell phone out, hesitating as she opens her palm and presents it to me.

  “Brax, is everything alright?” Bill asks.

  “It will be once I make a few calls. Thanks,” I say, taking the phone from her hand and nodding in kind.

  I lift my phone to my ear and speak softly to ease his fears. “Rowan. Rowan, are you there? I’ve got a phone now. Give me a few seconds, and I’ll call 9-1-1 for help.”

  “No, Dad. Not 9-1-1. They’ll send the cops and arrest her.”

  “Buddy, I have to call 9-1-1 for the ambulance to bring her the medicine that she needs. I promise everything is going to be alright. It may not seem like it now, but I promise it will all work out.” I can hear his heavy sigh and know he’s going to trust me to save her and not cause more trouble.

  “Okay, Dad. If you say so, just don’t let her die.”

  I dial the Collin County Sheriff’s office for what must be the fifth time this year and ask for Trent in Emergency Services. Trent is my long-time school friend and the manager of the county’s emergency services. He’s bailed Julie out of her issues several times in the last decade or so since I introduced them.

  “Trent Maybury, may I help you?”

  “Trent, it’s Braxton. Julie and Rowan are out by the Michelson’s farm on South Maxwell Creek Road in Murphy. She’s apparently passed out and ran them into a ditch. Can you get an ambulance out there ASAP? “

  “I’m on it, Brax. Hold on a sec.” I hear him giving directions to a dispatcher and answering questions in return. He knows all the answers since the tragedy of our life is an open book to him. He should. He’s no stranger to our problems. I hear Rowan’s voice through the phone, calling my name.

  “Rowan, I’m here. Help is coming, I promise. Just keep saying her name in prayer, and holding Mommy’s hand, okay?”

  “Braxton, I’ve got an ambulance on the way for a possible overdose of an unknown substance. What do you want me to do with Rowan?”

  “I’ll call Dale Michelson and see if he can go out and get him. Rowan will need a ride to school, albeit a late one, but if he doesn’t want to go after all the excitement, I don’t want him going to the hospital. I’ll see if Dale can get him to his grandparent’s up in Parker. Thank you, Trent. I appreciate it.” I take a deep breath and pray they get there in time. I don’t want Rowan anywhere near Julie when she’s high, but especially if she’s going to overdose. No one needs to see their mother like that.

  “I’m here if you need me for anything else. I’ve got your back, Brax. You just keep chasing your dream, because you’re gonna need that money, and hopefully not someday soon.”

  The red-head whose phone I’m using is watching me like a hawk but from a short distance; not short enough though. Every word I'm saying vibrates through the air and into her ears no matter if I turn my back to her or not. I only know this because her neck and ears are craning in my direction. When I try to take a few steps farther away from her for privacy, she takes a few steps closer. Damn nosey woman.

  I put my phone back up to my ear, and I can hear Rowan praying.

  “Dear God, heal my mommy. Take away whatever is making her sick all the time. She used to be a fun mommy. Please make her be like that again; the laughing and wrestling m
ommy that could find an earthworm in the knee-deep grass so we could go fishing. Make her the mommy again that cooks macaroni and cheese and dinosaur chicken nuggets instead of peanut butter on broken crackers. Please make her better God. I won’t ask for any Christmas presents on Jesus’ birthday this year if you can do this for me.”

  I look up Dale’s number in my contacts while Rowan prays and dial it into the lady’s phone. Hopefully, he answers an unknown, long-distance number calling.

  “Hello, Michelson’s Farm.”

  “Dale, it’s Braxton Ryder.”

  “Well, hello Braxton. It’s been a while. How ya doin’, man?”

  “I’m well, thank you. I’m riding the circuit this season. Hey, Dale. I need a favor, and I hate to ask, but it’s an emergency.”

  “Sure, what can I do for you?”

  “Well...Julie’s gone and done something, umm, something really bad, and she had Rowan in the car. They are out at the stop sign on the south end of your farm in the ditch. I’ve called 9-1-1, and an ambulance is on the way. I’m hoping you can go out and get him?” I stop blathering and give him a moment to take in my request. It’s a lot to ask of someone, especially once you explain you’ve had to call 9-1-1.

  I put my phone to my ear and listen for Rowan, but my heart plummets when it’s silent on the other end of the line. “Rowan, are you there, buddy?”

  “I’m here, Dad. I was just listening to you talk to someone else. Mom still won’t wake up, but her breath is warm on my hand.” I hear him whimper in his small voice.

  “Everything’s gonna be alright, little man. I’ve got help coming. I won’t let you down.”

  “Dad, I can hear an ambulance siren. They’re coming,” he bellows with excitement. “Help is coming, Mama. Just hang in there with me. Dad, there’s a silver pick-up truck pulling up. What do I do?”