Page 1 of July's Bad Boy: Blaze
CHAPTER 1
BLAZE
My first thought, waking up in the back seat of Jensen's pickup truck, is that I'm dying. My second thought is that death might be preferable to whatever fresh hell awaits me at the end of this dirt road.
"Rise and shine, superstar." Jensen's deep voice cuts through my hangover like a chainsaw. "We're almost there."
I crack one eye open, immediately regretting it as the Montana sunshine assaults my eyes. The truck bounces over another pothole, sending a fresh wave of nausea through my already fragile system.
"Could you find more bumps?" I mutter, pulling my designer sunglasses from my jacket pocket. "I don't think my head's quite split open yet."
Jensen chuckles, the sound grating against my eardrums. "City folk. Always so delicate."
The truck crests a hill, and suddenly there it is--the ranch I've been banished to sprawling across the valley like something from a tourism brochure. Rolling pastures, weathered wooden fences, mountains jutting up in the background like they've got somewhere important to be.
"That's it?" I ask, unable to keep the disdain from my voice.
"That's it," Jensen confirms, sounding way too cheerful. "Home sweet home for the next three months."
Three months. Ninety days of exile, courtesy of my management team. They decided that after my third tabloid scandal in as many weeks, what I really needed was "perspective" and "manual labor" and all the other bullshit euphemisms for punishment they could dream up.
The truck pulls up to a rustic log cabin that I assume passes for a main house out here. A man about my age with dark hair, in worn jeans and boots, stands waiting on the porch with his arm wrapped around a curvy brunette.
"That's Shane," Jensen says. "Owner of this slice of paradise and his wife, Caitlin."
"Paradise," I repeat flatly. "No VIP passes. No after-parties. Just cow shit and empty space."
"You'll learn to love it," Jensen says, clearly not picking up on my sarcasm.
I grab my duffel. It’s the only bag my team allowed me to bring, another part of my "rehabilitation.” When I slide out of the truck, my designer boots hit dirt, and I swear I can hear them crying.
"You must be Blaze," Shane calls out, descending the porch steps. He's wearing a flannel shirt with sleeves rolled up, revealing forearms corded with muscle. "Orville's told me a lot about you."
"All lies," I say automatically. "Especially the true parts."
Shane's laugh is genuine but brief. "He said you had a mouth on you. I'm Shane and this is Caitlin. This is our spread." He gestures to the vast emptiness around us like he's showing off a penthouse suite.
"Thrilled to be here," I deadpan. "Really. Can't you tell by my face?"
"You look like you went three rounds with a bottle of whiskey and lost," Shane observes.
"Four rounds. And it was tequila."
Shane nods, unimpressed. "Well, once you've settled in, we can talk about your duties."
I nearly choke. "Duties? I was promised a quiet break. Not forced labor."
"Nobody sits around eating bonbons in Mustang Mountain," Shane says, his tone hardening slightly. "You can sulk, or you can work. Up here, we pull our weight."
I'm about to unleash a carefully crafted retort when a phone rings. Shane pulls a cell from his pocket, frowning at the screen before answering.
"Yeah?" His expression shifts immediately, brow furrowing. "When? How bad? Anyone hurt?" A pause. "I'll be right there."
He hangs up, turning to me with a grim expression. "Change of plans. A concrete truck just wiped out on the main road into town. Full blockage, supplies scattered everywhere."
"Tragic," I say, already thinking about which of the buildings might house a decent Wi-Fi connection. "I'll just get unpacked while you--"
"Grab those work gloves on the porch," Shane interrupts, already striding toward a mud-splattered pickup. "You're coming with me."
