Page 40 of Downpour

“Right. My aura.” I stabbed the straw into the cloud of whipped cream. It was delicious. “It’s fine,” I grumbled.

“You like it!” she sang. “Our auras match! This is great. I knew we’d get along.”

The truck idled on the curb. I managed to get up into the seat again, and buckled in as Brooke put my wheelchair in the back.

I missed driving.

I did a lot of it when I was traveling the rodeo circuit. I’d go from state to state, fueled by gas station coffee and radio shows. I liked the solace. Rodeo culture erred on the side of ‘work hard, play harder.’

When I was winning, the money flowed like the booze did. Women were attracted to that.

The fact that I had a few men’s underwear campaigns under my belt didn’t hurt.

But my truck had always been my place to be alone with my thoughts.

It was my place to get away from the chaos and get my head right. This truck cab was my church.

“Do you want to get lunch or something before we go home?” Brooke asked.

Hearing Brooke call it home, like it was hers, did something funny to my chest.

Honestly, there was a little Mexican place around the corner that I had been craving.

I didn’t go out in public unless I had to. I hated navigating places that were accessible to get into, but a crowded maze once I got through the doors. It was more hassle than it was worth.

“Nah.”

“You sure? I mean, you just had a workout. I’m always starving after I exercise. Do you want take out? Or I can make us lunch when we get back to the ranch.”

The thought of her cooking was enough to convince me to go the takeout route.

A few minutes later, we had food wrapped up in plastic bags and were headed back to the ranch.

I wanted to eat, shower, and take a nap. In that order.

Brooke brought my chair around while I eased down and sat on the edge of the floorboard.

It had been a good session, but I was fucking tired. I got up on my feet and worked on my joint stability using the parallel bars, but it had drained me.

We sat out on the deck and ate while Mickey hung out at our feet and caught the crumbs.

Brooke was unusually quiet.

“What’s the matter?” I muttered as I shoved my used napkins back into the paper bag.

Brooke’s eyes lifted from her aluminum container of chicken, rice, and cheese. “What?”

“You’re quiet. What’s wrong?”

She tilted her head curiously. “Did I do something wrong?”

“What do you mean?”

“You didn’t want me to come up with you.”

“It’s not you. I don’t let anyone go up with me.”

Her brows furrowed. “Why not?”

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