Page 14 of My Cowboy Freedom
Chapter 5
Sky
Just stay away from him. He doesn’t concern you.
Probably true. I shouldn’t be around a nice guy like him.
But he was easy on the eyes. He had a well-developed, football player’s body wrapped in creamy, freckled skin.
Because of that, I shouldn’t spend a single second anywhere near him alone. Far from cock-blocking me, Julio and Tad were going to be my new best allies in the war to keep from losing my job over a dude.
The walk back to the bunkhouse was real pleasant, and I found the picnic area right where I remembered. Wooden tables were set up in the shelter of some Spanish oak trees, probably planted generations ago to serve as a windbreak.
There were horseshoe pits too, and railroad-tie planter boxes, where all us kids used to sit and spit watermelon seeds. Spitting was a cherished pastime of mine back in the day—one my Momma would have blistered my ass for in any other circumstance. Sterling Chandler himself lined all the kids up and watched to see who could spit the farthest. It was never me. We’d left before I could ever win.
I unwrapped my plate. Elena’s cooking was better than any memory of it could ever be: creamy refried beans, baked chicken, crisp pickled vegetables, homemade tortillas, and salsa cruda. Simple food but delicious.
I had really terrible table manners from keeping company with fuckers who’d steal my food and let me starve just for the fun of it. Those same assholes would probably get extra mileage out of betting on how long it would take me to die. Even Nando, the one man inside I’d trusted with my life, would have stolen from me if he thought he could get away with it.
Despite my lack of class, or maybe because I was a scrub, I always tried to come up with three things to be grateful for. Being out, being employed, even the breeze lifting my sweat-soaked hair and cooling my scalp made that resolution an easy one. I closed my eyes and continued making a list. I don’t time myself when I’m being grateful, but depending on how things are going, it can take a while.
A shadow fell over my plate and I glanced up. It had rained earlier, so I thought a cloud had drifted across the sun, but no. Rock stood there, holding a glass of milk in one hand and a plate in the other. He set his things down and sat across from me with aplop, drawing napkins, silverware, and even a bottle of water from his pockets.
I didn’t see his minders. Where were Tad and Julio now?
“I’m sorry I called everyone’s attention to your tattoos. I didn’t know they came from prison.”
“It’s nothing.”
Rock mixed his beans and pickled vegetables, added chicken, and slapped the whole mess on a tortilla. He covered this with salsa and folded it up before taking a massive bite.
I winced ’cause that was sort of visually disgusting, but he grinned happily.
“Do you think I could see your ink again?”
“I don’t—”
“Just the crow.” His gaze rested on my forearms. “That one is so cool.”
I hesitated before rolling up my sleeve to show him. I reckoned everyone had tattoos these days. But maybe Rock came from one of those families who believe it’s a sin to mark yourself. I had tattoos inside my wrists and up both arms. They weren’t sleeves. Not yet. Maybe not ever. I’d only been doodled on by a bored amateur for a lot of long years. Maybe they’d have connected up if I’d done my whole stretch.
“I have ink on my legs and back too.” It was almost like I could feel the burn right then. Like I could hear ’Nando’s crappy makeshift battery-operated engine punching the needle into my skin. “We had a lot of time on our hands.”
“How come they’re all black?”
“I guess we could have made colored ink. People do. ’Nando likes gray-scale images.”
Rock nodded.
“Tattoos tell you about people and it can pay to know what they mean,” I said.
“Like the spiderwebs?”
“Signifies I’ve done prison time.”
Again, Rock’s head bobbed. He studied my arms carefully. “Your friend is a really good artist.”
I nodded. “When his hands weren’t shaking from drinking pruno, yeah.”
