Page 23 of Wrangling the Orc Cowboy

Yesterday?

“You’re a natural in front of the camera,” he said. “You always were.”

I hummed noncommittally. Behind my calm façade, a flood of irritation surged, hot and sour in the back of my throat. I set aside the now shredded tissue half and started in on the other. Bits rained down on the floor, but I could clean them up later.

“Of course, you’re doing fine on your own now,” Mom added breezily. “We’ve kept up with your…influencer thing. It’s so creative, so modern. But it must be exhausting, isn’t it? Constantly creating content, keeping sponsors happy. Traveling to those…Well, you know I don't like to put anyone down?—”

Yes, she did. All the time, and including me.

“But you knowthosepeople,” she said. “They're nothing likeus.”

Us? Stars, she meant. People who were the same as everyone else in my opinion. Never hers.

“I can’t imagine this job of yours pays very much,” Mom said. “But you’ve always been a hard worker.”

The familiar barbs were soft, but no less sharp. I clenched my teeth and turned my gaze to the room’s freshly painted walls, the new but authentically appearing western-styled furniture. Quaint and cute. The guests were going to be stunningly happy here.

And I grabbed another tissue from the box.

“I'm successful,” I said, forcing my voice to stay steady. I mean, I would be successful, eventually. I only needed a little more time to solidify the rest of my contracts, and the success of this orc ranch venture, and I'd be turning potential clients away. “I really enjoy what I do.”

“Of course, sweetie,” Mom said, Saturday-morning talk show warmth cranked up to ten. “But for a moment, imagine… What if you didn’t have to just get by anymore?”

“If you hadn't locked my money up in that trust—” I bit my tongue to keep from spilling any more of my irritation. I'd be thirty in a few years. The money was there, waiting for me to collect it. I'd verified that fact myself. In a few short years, I wouldn't have to rely so much on their stipend.

“The producers have offered you an incredible payout for the reunion special,” Dad said in a tempting voice, something he did very well.

“I told you I don't want to do the reunion special. At least three times. No means no.”

“But Gracie,” Mom said, “it would be enough to really build your brand or start a new one, if you wanted. This could set you up for life. You wouldn’t have to scrape by anymore.”

Scrape by. Interesting choice of words from two people who’d locked away every dime I earned in a trust account and handed out only enough to keep me dependent until I’d finally rebelled.

“One time,” Dad said. “That’s all we’re asking for. A single reunion series.”

“Series.”

“Twelve shows. We'd film them over a few months and then you'd be done.”

For now. There would always be more cajoling, more telling me that I only had to step beneath those lights “one more time”.

“You wouldn’t have to commit to more than that,” Mom said. “You could treat it like a farewell tour. Closure for all those fans who loved growing up with you.”

“I don’t think the fans are losing sleep over me,” I said dryly, and a part of me wished I was that important in my current career.

It was coming. I was gaining more views all the time. I needed to be patient.

My mother’s laugh tinkled down the line. “Oh, nonsense. They adore you. Besides, it could be good for you. Getting closure, that is. Leaving the show the way you did was so abrupt. You never got to say goodbye properly.”

Closure. Right. Because smiling through a fake engagement and a round of staged “where are they now” montages would be healing. I balled a new tissue before I started shredding it.

“You mean the same closure I tried to get when I left at twenty-one?” My voice came out clipped, and frankly, that was the best I could do. “The one you talked me into with promises you never kept?” The one where they’d set up the contract sotheywere paid, not me. Oh, my share was there, but still under their control.

I would not blindly sign a contract ever again. I’d just wanted them to back off and stop harassing me to do yet another show.

Silence. Then, my father chuckled, a low sound meant to smooth over anything unpleasant. “Oh, Gracie. We did what we thought was best for you. And look at you now. You turned out more amazing than we could’ve imagined.”

“That’s because I’m doing this my way,” I shot back before the words could stick in my throat. “I’m happy now. I’ve moved on from all of that. The show, the cameras, Gregory. All of it.” My parents too, actually. I'd be happy if I only saw them during the holidays, and maybe not even then. We could meet up at a restaurant. Neat and clean and with fake air kisses by theircheeks as I said goodbye. “I have no desire to go back to all that.” My voice wavered, but I kept my spine tight. No means no, I reminded myself, even if they refused to hear it.

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