Page 25 of Eight Second Hearts

The tension I hadn’t even realized I’d been carrying eases. Oh. Not something sinister. Just the bronc rider.

I go over to the door, slide the deadbolt away, and open the door. “What are you doing here? You should be at the arena.”

“I got worried when you didn’t show up,” he says, a crooked smile on his face. “Can I come in?”

I glance around at the shitty room and wince. “Sure. I guess,” I say as I open the door wider.

He steps in, his eyes tracing the relatively bare room, and looks as unimpressed as I had when I’d first seen it. He holds out a white box as I close the door behind him. “I brought donuts.”

I stare at the box in surprise. “That’s. . . really nice of you. Thank you.” I carefully take the box from him and set it on the scratched up tv console. “So, you just came to check on me?” I ask.

“Sí. You’re always earlier than us. You’ve been getting later and later, and then today, you weren’t there,” he admits. “I was worried considering I knew the shitty motel we dropped you off at.”

I frown. “And how did you know my room number?”

“The lady at the front desk told me. Didn’t even take much asking.” He points to the door. “I hope you keep that thing deadbolted.”

“I do, yeah,” I nod, amazed with just how terrible this motel is. I guess the one-star reviews weren’t lying. “Well, I’m fine. Seems weird to come check on the reporter you want nothing to do with, but I appreciate the donuts.”

The corner of his eyes crinkle. “It’s easy to forget we’re just your little project and that I shouldn’t even be talking to you.” He shrugs. “I guess you’re just so easy to talk to.”

I snort. “I’ve been told I’m not easy to talk to at all. I’d argue I grate on most people’s nerves.”

“Those people weren’t listening, is all. Not everyone is for everyone, you know?” He glances around the room again, taking note of the made up bed and the duffel bag sitting on the stained chair in the corner. “So, what’s up with the limp?” he asks, focusing back on me. “Really.”

“It’s nothing. Just?—”

“I’m many things, Indie, but I’m not a liar. I’d appreciate it if you weren’t one either,” he says, crossing his arms.

I take in his stance, the way his forearms bulge with his arms crossed, and throw caution to the wind. What do I have to lose really? Does it matter if he knows why I hurt? It changes nothing, but at least I can explain the situation and reassure him that I’m fine. Maybe he’ll share something in return with me and I can finally get this interview.

Sighing, I take a seat on the edge of the mattress and pat beside me. When he sits down, he grunts at how hard it is, clearly not realizing. “I wasn’t lying when I said it’s the mattress,” I murmur. “I just didn’t explain why it’s messing me up so much.”

“Well, go on then. Explain,” he encourages.

“There really isn’t much to explain,” I reply honestly. “I spent a lot of time in war zones, crouching, crawling, sleeping on the hard ground with soldiers. It was fine. Aches and pains were normal. But at some point, a pain in my hip didn’t really get better. It would just get worse the more I used it, and I was unable to ease the tension there. When it gets real bad, I get shooting pains down my leg and sometimes my foot falls asleep. At my worst, I can’t even stand up straight. It’s been like this for a few years now.”

“Have you gone to the doctor for this chronic pain?” he asks.

“Of course I have,” I says with a shrug. “But I’m a woman. They tell me it’s either anxiety or all in my head. I had one tell me to do water aerobics when I explained exercising makes things worse. I’ve had x-rays, MRIs, cat scans. I’ve ruled out cancer, autoimmune disorders, as far as I know, and bone spurs. They don’t know why it hurts. The last doctor I went to told me I’d just have a baseline of pain for the rest of my life.” I shrug. “I took that seriously, and I live with it. But sometimes, things compound the problem. Like this fucking brick of a bed.”

He scowls. “Then why stay in this shithole? Doesn’t your company pay for it? Surely they can afford something a little better.”

“They’re not paying for it,” I admit. “I am.”

“What? Why the hell not?” he demands. “That’s how being a journalist works.”

“I’m not supposed to be here. The magazine is already paying for two others on these circuits, and this is more of a proving I can get the interview with The Crimson Three gig so I can write more important articles in general. He told me that they wouldn’t be paying, and I agreed. I’m just trying not to go completely into dept chasing you three around and trying to convince you to give me an interview.” I smile. “It’s fine. Really.”

He grimaces and stands, before starting to pace back and forth. “The bed is making things worse?”

“Don’t worry about it,” I tell him. “I have pills I can take and?—”

“Are the beds in these shitty motels making things worse?” he demands, his expression hard as he faces me.

I hesitate, confused where this line of questioning is going. “Well. . . yeah.”

He nods, seemingly deciding something. “Pack your things.”

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