Page 7 of Tied

“Thank you for attending this weekend. We’ll get the bullshit out of the way quickly. The symposium portion will only take up the early afternoon as we had a cancellation for the later session. But I’d like to see as many of you as possible tonight for the dinner. We’ve been lucky enough to have it curated by a Michelin five-star chef from right here within this hotel. For those of you that’ve never had it, that means it’s not gator or squirrel on a stick.”

Prick.

“Just because I’m from a Southern state doesn’t mean I hunt my meals. Unless it’s dusty Arizonan jackoffs like you,” Fester states rather loudly.

Drawing the attention to our table, the beautiful man on the stage turns his eyes our way. Noting how stunning his eyes are—not Jack’s, Tyler’s—I have a hard time making myself look away.

“I’m sorry. Did I say something wrong?” Jack calls over the loudspeaker, directing his question to Fester.

“Not if you sleep with one eye open,” Fester responds, grinning from ear to ear.

Oh, this shit is going sideways fast.

Jack straightens to his scrawny six foot frame before offering a rebuttal. “Clearly, you forget we can bury you in the desert where only the coyotes will be your friends.”

Jumping in lightning quick, Bullet quips, “Don’t piss off the states that can bury you in the mountains, youngin’.” Smiling at Fester, he continues. “And, I might add, that hold more NRA members per capita than your whole cactus lovin’ state combined.”

Trying my damnedest to stay out of this, I continue to work on the end of my scotch while devouring pretzel after pretzel. This snack of choice is about to cause me hours in the gym, but it’s better than involving myself.

Almost blue in the face with fury, Jack shouts out, “At least I don’t fuck my livestock!”

“That’s it. Someone hold my Colt before I shoot something scrawny.” Bullet, placing his gun on the table, turns his chair and stomps off towards the stage.

“This is going to be good,” Galen clips off. He turns his chair, crossing his feet at the ankles and showcases his pearly whites in a monster grin.

“Bullet, you know this ain’t right.” Fester clips off, shaking his head and rising out of his chair slowly. The older man looks ready to throw down, and I’m wondering if the rest of us at the table will be needed as security detail to the southern gentlemen.

Passing our seats, Fester picks up Bullet’s gun. “A Texan never leaves his gun behind.” Cocking the Colt semiautomatic pistol, he then cuffs Galen on the head in passing. “Get off your ass. This is worth the broken nail, Princess.”

I have a hard time not laughing at the audacity of the older governor and the balls that must be made of hardened steel, as I watch Fester and Bullet tromp across the room still cussing and cursing out Jack.

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