Page 3 of Eight Second Hearts

The headlines have finally died down but that doesn’t mean the world forgets. My face had been plastered around the country thanks to my dad. I never knew him, not really, because I learned about him right along with everyone else during his hearing.

Drug trafficking.

Money laundering.

Ties with The Crows.

They’d tried to get him for murder, too, but they didn’t have the evidence for those charges. I expect that the accusations are true though. I’d heard the way he’d threatened the cops who’d arrested him. That man, the one I never knew, seems like the kind to leave a few bodies behind.

I’d been dragged through it all, the entire court case, questioned over and over again, but after a few months, they finally accepted I didn’t know anything and left me alone. Part of me thinks it’s only because Dad took a plea deal that included them leaving me alone when he’d finally accepted things. I’d stillbeen forced to sit in front of a court room and explain my life, what I knew—which was nothing—and look him in the eyes as I revealed I didn’t even know my own father.

To think, the little Asian market I grew up in was a money laundering scheme.

That should have been the end of it. Once they dismissed me as a person of interest, life should have continued on like normal, but the media became obsessed with the former war correspondent and her crime lord father.

War and Crime: How One Family Does It All

Like Father Like Daughter?: The Chen Family’s Ties To The Crows

The Crows Spread Their Wings: Another Family With Ties To The Crime Ring Revealed

The headlines had only gotten worse. No matter where I went, I couldn’t escape them. I’ve read theories that I was somehow part of it all, that I’ve gone to another country to lay low. The conspiracy theories still run rampant, until I’d had to delete all my news apps and all my social media. The sheer number of times I’ve been tagged in yet another conspiracy theory that takes little pieces of my life and put it under a microscope for everyone to see is insane. Hell, I’ve even had old boyfriends contact me, asking if it’s true. Some of them went on the news to talk about how they always suspected there was something off about me because no one loves being away from home that much. People I went to high school with were suddenly experts on my life. No one ever asked me, and when I’d agreed to one interview, I’d regretted it the moment they started to spin it to sound like I was the mastermind behind it all.I’d been disappointed with how I was labeled by everyone, and though it’s finally died down, I can’t get over the fact that there are now whole websites dedicated to solving the mystery of the “Chen Crime Dynasty.”

Every job I applied for after the court case came with a rejection, either because I was a media risk or because they thought I was too close to remain unbiased. Rejection letter after rejection letter came in, if they even sent one at all. Jobs that I was overqualified for, jobs that should have been acceptances, declined to hire me.

No one wanted to have the daughter of a crime lord on their team.

Until one did.

Prescott, Arizona is known for one thing. The Prescott Frontier Days. It’s the longest running rodeo in the United States, still going strong since 1888 when it was just called a Cowboy Tournament. I’d grown up in this town, but never once have I gone to the rodeo. I know nothing about cowboys or livestock shows. All I know is that everyone owns a cowboy hat around rodeo time. . .

. . . and that there are newspapers and magazines that deal specifically with rodeos.

I only applied because I was desperate. Part of me thought the Saddle & Spur magazine was just going to decline me and move on. A war correspondent with civil rights background and a penchant for highlighting the facts whether they’re favorable or not working on a probably conservative magazine? It didn’t sound like a good fit to me, so I expected them to think the same.

I was wrong.

They hired me on the spot without an interview. I should have declined it, but I was desperate and they either took pity on me or lived under a rock. I know jack shit about bull riders and horses, but here I am, sitting in an office decoratedwith a ridiculous amount of horse photos along the walls. I’m surrounded by men in cowboy boots and denim blue jeans and women with rhinestones around their neck and bleach blonde hair. I don’t fit in here, and they make sure I know it. My straight black hair is a sore sight against their bottled blonde. My lack of makeup makes them look at me with disdain. Hell, they don’t even like my combat boots and worn denim jacket that I’ve covered in patches from around the world. I have no friends here, and I know it, but I’m trying my best to just keep my head down and get through this until I can find something better.

Even if I’m tired of writing up rodeo schedules and writing articles about the newest rhinestone trend in cowgirl fashion.

“Fuck my life,” I mumble under my breath as I stare at the pictures of gaudy earrings and ridiculous bedazzled cowboy boots. “Who’s wearing this crap?”

“Hey, Indie,” someone interrupts my doomsday mind spiral. I glance up at Loretta and wince as I realize she’s wearing the exact boots I’d been staring at a picture of.

“Yeah?” I ask. I don’t even have a cubicle here like everyone else. More like a desk shoved into the corner like an afterthought, like a misbehaving kid in elementary school. I get to look at a nice black and white photo of some woman on a horse as it runs around barrels.

“Boss wants you,” is all she says before she stomps away in her ridiculously heavy, bedazzled boots.

I sigh and stand up from my tiny desk, grabbing my latest stolen pen and notebook. I think this pen came from the coffee machine where someone left it by accident. It’s mine now. Finders keepers and all that.

The boss, Frank Campbell, isn’t the biggest hard ass I’ve ever dealt with, but he’s real damn close. As I round the corner, I take in his outfit with disinterest. I’ve gotten used to it now, but it was real difficult not to laugh in the beginning. He’s dressed like arodeo king from an old cartoon, massive shiny belt buckle, ten-gallon hat, golden rings and all. He’s even got the crocodile skin boots and the bolo tie to match.

I knock on the doorframe. “Loretta said you wanted to see me, Boss?”

He doesn’t even bother looking up. “Indie,” he says, his expensive pen flying across his letterhead as he writes out a letter to someone. I’ve wanted to steal that pen so many times, but he keeps it in his pocket any time he’s not using it. Not that I’m a thief. Pens don’t count as theft. Well. . . this one might.

“I need you to write up an article about the newest top five trends in women’s rodeo fashion by tomorrow. Small column.”

---