Page 38 of Wrangling the Orc Cowboy

Chapter 13

Gracie

My parents called as I was leaving the bathroom the next morning. I was so tempted to ignore their call, but they weren’t above sending the police to check on my “welfare”.

The first time they’d done it, I’d chewed them out and told them never to do it again. They’d scolded me for not answering my phone, for not letting them know I was alright, and they made me promise to always answer.

That lasted all of about three months. After another whining, torturous call where they wouldn’t let up about the reunion show, I’d ignored their next call. They’d sent what looked like a private S.W.A.T. team, complete with weapons and grim-faced wannabe soldiers.

Since I wasn’t keen on them sending the military to make sure I was alive, I grabbed a clump of tissues from the box and slouched on the bed, answering their call.

As I tore the first tissue in hold, their voices chimed in tandem, a synchronized performance they’d perfected over years of reality TV.

“There’s our star.” Dad’s upbeat pitch was as forced as ever, filled with fake energy he couldn’t possibly be feeling at this time of day.

“Our sweetie,” Mom lilted.

“How’s our favorite girl today?” Dad asked.

I sighed and carefully set one half of the tissue on my lap, bracing myself for whatever they were about to unveil. They always had a reason and a plan before they called. “Good morning to you too.”

“We were really hoping you might’ve thought things over.” Mom tone came out carefully coated with honey but faintly edged with disappointment. “After all, we’re only trying to help you, darling.”

Help me. Right. The way they had “helped” me by turning my childhood into one long episode of emotional exploitation after another. But you couldn’t say that to Freda and Jimmy Weeks. Not without an argument that would last hours. I'd give them ten minutes and then I was ending the call whether they liked it or not.

Bits of shredded tissue floated down to land on the bed around me, and I grabbed the other half of the first.

“I don’t need help,” I said as evenly as I could, trying to focus on the faint scent of pine wafting in through the open window instead of the weight pressing against my chest. “I’ve told you. I’m working, and I’m happy with what I’m doing now.”

“But are you really happy, Gracie?” There was Dad, his voice the picture of fatherly concern. “Living paycheck to paycheck? We know you're proud, but this can’t be easy for you. We only want what’s best. We always have.”

“And we sacrificed a lot to give you that,” Mom added quickly. “So many sleepless nights, so much effort building a future for you.”

It always circled back to this. The Sacrifices. Capital S. As if their decision to put me on TV, to parade me around like a prized pony, and to lock away my financial independence had been a selfless act of love rather than a relentless pursuit of fame and money.

“Yeah, well, some of us didn’t really get a choice in those sacrifices, did we?”

Mom ignored my jab, rushing ahead as if I hadn’t spoken. “And the trust fund, Gracie. Let’s not forget how much we set aside for your future. We’ve always prioritized your wellbeing.”

And yet, here they were with me well into adulthood, still teasing me with a meager stipend they controlled like it was charity instead of the earnings I’d worked nearly my entire life for. My throat tightened around the ball of frustration lodged there.

“You stole all the interest.” Leaving only the principle behind. I’d read there were laws about that. They’d only invested the money because they were forced to. If they’d had a choice, they would’ve squandered it like they had all their own earnings.

Which was why they were so determined to drag me back to the show. They needed more.

“Our investments. Our money.” Dad’s low chuckle rang out. “You could call it room and board.”

“I was your child, not your employee.” The words tasted like chalk.

Dad jumped in, his tone razor-sharp. “How long do you really think this influencer thing is going to last? It’s not reliable, and you know that.”

“And the brands you work with,” Mom cut in. “Sweetie, some of them seem a little... I don’t know, silly for you.”

I nearly laughed at the irony. My brand, the one I’d spent years building from scratch, made me more myselfthananything I’d done on their show. But of course, they couldn’t see that. They didn’twantto see it.

I lifted another tissue and started shredding it, adding bits to my growing pile. “I’m perfectly capable of taking care of myself.”

“No one’s saying you aren’t capable,” Dad said. “You’re strong. We raised you that way. Resourceful. I’ll take credit for that one myself, Freda.” He laughed again, but it came out a touch shrill.

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