WANDERLUST: MONTANA - Chapter 1
CHAPTER ONE: NO U-TURN
The Cowboy Corral, outside Boca Raton, Florida: Sunday 12:20 am
The band is packing up. The drunk mom’s-night-out ladies are waiting for their minivan by the saloon doors at the front. Dolly sings I Will Always Love You as I wonder how her hair and boobs fit inside the jukebox. I’ve had enough Mike’s Hard Lemonade to open my own stand. Not my fave, but I don’t like beer and The Cowboy Corral is the sort of place where you want to see the bartender open your bottle. It’s a country dive with boots above the bar and sawdust on the floor. The neon Budweiser and PBR signs on the walls are starting to blur and the dance floor has thinned out, leaving only the very drunk, barely moving couple in the corner who might be getting pregnant at this very moment if it weren’t for all the denim, and Freddy and Ginger Anne. That’s what I call the older couple with matching rhinestone belt buckles and cowboy boots who know every line dance and can two-step circles around anyone else in the bar. I think they’re from Texas and their horses just took a wrong turn following the scent of Cuban food toward the big city lights of Miami. Only, like me, they ended up here, at Boca Raton instead.
Laurel, Paige, and I are seniors at Everglades University. Laurel, a marine management/bio major, is the one currently leaning over the bar just far enough that her boobs look like they’re being served up on a wooden platter for the bartender, a cute redhead in a miniskirt and bedazzled Stetson. “Just trying to get some free drinks!” She’ll say later. “My tuition’s not paying itself and Youtube pulled my ‘Farm to Face: Make your own makeup’ videos because that one chick was allergic to raspberries!” But Perfect Paige and I know better. The nonchalance and sardonic southern, farm girl humor that make Laurel fun and easy to be around are just layers of her armor. The real Laurel is under there somewhere. We get glimpses when we’re lucky.
Perfect Paige is the one with the tight jeans, dancing by herself in the center of the dance floor, while the three older biker guys with beards watch from a booth and the drummer keeps dropping pieces of his kit. “I just love dancing,” she’ll say later. “Even if there’s nobody to dance with.” True. She does. But what Paige loves more is being watched. And you will watch, trust me. With that long hair and perfect ass, she’s the girl you can’t stop staring at. Just don’t try to talk your way in. Paige is a double major in biochemical engineering and mathematics. I can’t even pronounce the names of some of her classes. Plus, she speaks French and even knows how to make those tiny, crunchie sandwich desserts- maroons? There’s a reason I call her Perfect Paige. She hates it.
Me? I’m the one in the vintage red leather jacket with fringe down the arms, my latest find at the thrift store. After much online research, I’m fairly certain it must be the exact one Janis Joplin wore for her final concert. This badass jacket is the sole reason I made the girls get on their boots and drive twenty minutes to the middle of cow and horse country just to hear an Alabama cover band. Okay, maybe not the sole reason. The other reason just might be that adorably sexy bass guitar player now smiling at me as he packs up his amp whom I just may have met in traffic court last week. Apparently, we both have issues with ‘No U-Turn’ signs.
Now Dolly’s singing Tight Fittin’ Jeans. Another of my favorites. Ok fine, I’ll admit it. I’m the one currently feeding the jukebox every last quarter from Laurel’s “laundry only!” cup, lining up a Parton playlist long enough to close down the bar. I’m a fan. And not just of her tunes. Here’s what you may not know about this influential woman of country music:
Her father paid the doctor who delivered her with a bag of oatmeal and she grew up in a one-room cabin in the mountains of Tennessee.
She has sold over a hundred million records worldwide and won gold, platinum and multi-platinum awards and 11 Grammys
She’s had 25 songs reach Billboard’s number one spot.
She’s composed over 3,000 songs, including I Will Always Love You.
She’s started her own record label, ice cream, and lifestyle brand
Her theme park, Dollywood, draws over 3 million visitors a year
Her Dollywood Foundation works to improve literacy and education
Her Imagination Library provides a free book a month to kids from the time they’re born until they head to school
The FBI gave her an award for the aid she gave to victims of the Gatlinburg fires.
She donated $1M to a children’s hospital, donated and raised $1M for LeConte Medical Center Women’s Services, and donated $1M to Vanderbilt University Medical Center to fund research for a coronavirus cure
I have to admit I love her movies too. Dolly always has just the right witty comeback and leans into her own brand of comedy that walks a delicate line between self-deprecating and self-confident. Right now, I’m wishing I had one of her witticisms ready for Mr. No U-Turn. We’ve been watching each other all night, over his bass guitar, from the stage, through the crowd. I feel like we’ve already had several secret conversations. Those hazel eyes of his always seem amused. He’s also got faint freckles, a perfect jawline, and an adorable boyish grin. I’ve been checking out his butt as he packs up his gear and, ohhh shit- here he comes.
“Last woman standing!” I hoot, with a victorious arm in the air like an Olympic athlete who’s just won gold. “All the other girls you invited tonight must have had early curfews or been slipped roofies by those dorky Amazon drivers that always hog the pool table.” Mr. No U- Turn laughs and shakes his head.
“I hope not.”
“Yeah, curfews suck,” I say. He laughs again. Yes! I think. Off to a good start.
“Actually, you’re the only one I invited, Marina” he admits, as the faint freckles on his face are lost in a sea of blush.
“Oh,” I smile. Now it’s my turn to feel self-conscious.
“Thanks for coming.” He adjusts his cowboy hat nervously.
“Your band is great,” I say. “Although, I didn’t hear you singing.” He smiles again.
“Sing? Oh no. I just play bass. I don’t really sing in public, or private, or in the shower.”
“Your showers aren’t private?”
“Yes. Wait, what?” He blushes again, this time really embarrassed. Crap. Too much, Marina! I tell myself. Reign in the female forward thing.
“You want a drink, Mr. No U-Turn?” I ask. His real name is Brady.
“Yes, yep I do,” he says, “I really do. But I can’t. I’ve got to take the first shift driving.”
“Two waters then,” I smile.
“Perfect,” he nods. “I’ll finish loading up.”
As I get our waters, I watch a beefy looking guy in Levi’s help Perfect Paige up onto the mechanical bull. She grabs his hat and uses it as a prop as she pretends to rodeo ride and he snaps photos with her phone. Paige is putting on quite the show, turning backward in the saddle, then standing up, then--- OMG! Paige is suddenly catapulted into the air as the bull springs to life hurtling forward. I look over and see Laurel at the control box laughing so hard she’s dropping quarters all over the floor, probably about to. . . yep, she’s running for the bathroom, past Freddy and Ginger Anne who are now waltzing to Rockin Years.
Outside, the Florida air is moist and cool, gently kissing my warm skin as I follow Brady to the band’s RV. I carry sound cables and waters as he hauls out the last of the heavy drum cases. The RV and trailer are parked at the far side of the Cowboy Corral’s parking lot, across from the hitching post. That’s right, an actual hitching post for tying up your horses. Seems ridiculous, but I guess you can’t really get a DUI on a horse.
“Do you always have to pack up the other guys’ gear?” I ask, looking around. The rest of the band has conveniently vanished.
“Well, Jimmy and Scootch are getting tacos from that truck in front of the strip bar next door and Matt’s probably in the strip bar. I’m the low man on the totem pole. Been playing with them less than a year. I think the only reason they asked me was they wanted my granddad’s RV for a tour.” Brady lifts a heavy music case into the trailer and then I get a first glimpse of his strong arms as he peels off his plaid flannel shirt, sweating. He sits down to rest, taking the water I hand him, drinking it thirstily. When he catches me staring I look quickly up at the RV.
“Well, it is a total rock star ride,” I say as I sit on the case next to him and slip off my Janis’ jacket. The RV is clearly very old, with a giant picture of a screaming eagle painted on the side, talons gripping the neck of an acoustic guitar.
“Jimmy got drunk with this street artist guy in a kilt and dreadlocks when we were in New Orleans and they painted that. Gramps is gonna kick my ass,” Brady laughs. “He’s a tough old vet.”
“Just change the guitar into a gun and he’ll love it. RV or no, I think your band is lucky to have you. You’re a pretty good guitarist Mr. No U-Turn. Probably because you have these fantastically long fingers.” I pick up his warm hand and put my palm against his. He blushes again.
“That No U-Turn sign was completely hidden by a tree limb. I never even saw it. Is that what happened to you?”
“Oh no. I totally saw it. I just don’t believe in them.”
“What?” He laughs. “They’re the law.”
“No they’re criminal. Who says you can’t change your mind? There are so many paths to choose in this life, and so many roads to explore. Straight is so uninspired.” Brady smiles, and those hazel eyes seem to be looking right into me. His fingers curl around mine.
“And did the judge agree with you?”
“He did not.” We both laugh.
“I wish I’d met you sooner, Marina,” Brady says, then shyly looks down. My brown western boots fidget in the crunchy gravel and I cross my legs nervously under my denim mini skirt. “You’ve got great… boots,” he says staring right at my legs. He takes his finger and traces little circles on my bare knee, sending tingles through my body.
“Well, where’s your next gig? Maybe I’ll come,” I suggest. Brady laughs.
“Then you’ll need one of these,” he smiles and tips his cowboy hat. “It’s at the Livingston Round Up.”
“Maybe I’ll take this one,” I smile, taking his hat before he can stop me. I put it on my own head as his hand goes self-consciously to his thick, unruly brown hair. “Wow, you were not kidding about your hair when we met, were you?” I smile.
“No, I was not,” he says, embarrassed.
“I think it’s adorable,” I say. “Where’s Livingston?”
“Montana. That’s where I’m from. This was the end of our tour. We played our way through eight states and now we’re heading back home. Tonight.”
“Yeah. That’s where I’m from. This was the end of our tour. We played our way through eight states and now we’re heading back home. Tonight.”
“Tonight?” I say surprised.
“Got to. Or we won’t make it back in time. We’re opening act for the Round Up.”
“Which is?”
“A rodeo. It’s pretty fun.”
“I’ve never been to a rodeo. Or Montana.”
“Beautiful country. You’ll never see anything like it. The sky’s like this never-ending upside down ocean stretching from one horizon to the other.”
“Well, we got plenty of not-upside-down ocean right here in Florida.” I say. Brady nods, looks up at the foggy, cloudy night sky.
“True. But the stars there, they’ll take your breath away, Marina.”
“My dad taught me celestial navigation when I was eleven. He’s a yacht captain.”
“But you can’t sail to Montana.”
“Nope,” I laugh.
“Then I guess all we have is tonight. This moment,” He looks back at me and the sweetness of his smile, the desire in his eyes, that’s what takes my breath away. I feel his arm slide behind my back and his hand under my knees as he gently pulls me onto his lap. Our faces are close. I put my hand on his chest and feel his heart beating, fast. I smile and he tips his hat back on my head, leans in toward me, our lips inches away---"
“Marina!” Shit. Brady looks up. I look up. Across the parking lot Laurel is yelling for me, waving wildly. I want to kill her. “Paige is stealing Ginger Anne’s horse,” Laurel shouts. Sure enough, Paige is on one of the horses, no longer hitched to the post, and doesn’t seem to know how to control it.
“Your friends?” Brady asks.
“Unfortunately,” I reply. Freddy and Ginger Anne have emerged from the bar, not happy about the scene unfolding.
“I’d better go,” I say. I give him a quick hug, and reluctantly jump off the best seat I’ve had all night. I grab my jacket and take off his hat.
“Keep it,” he says. “Looks better on you.” Brady blushes again. Adorable. “You can give it back to me when you get to Montana.”
“Right,” I laugh. “Drive safely, Mr. No U-Turn.” I smile and take off across the parking lot, toward the hitching post.
“Hey Marina,” he calls, and I pause, turning back.
“I’ll save you a Round Up ticket. Just in case.”
The hot tub, Paige’s Apartment Complex, Sunday 2:28 am
“That’s insane,” Laurel snorts, “It’s like three thousand miles.”
“Twenty-five hundred” I correct.
“That’s at least… (doing math in her head)… thirty-seven and three-quarters hours of driving, if you’re going the speed limit,” Paige calculates.
“But Marina drives ten miles over the limit and you drive five miles under, and I like to set the cruise control and smoke a joint, so…” Laurel likes to fuck with Paige’s performance complex. I give her a look as Paige stares off into space. Then--
“So, presuming we’re taking rotating shifts, that’s forty-one hours, twenty-two minutes,” Paige boasts.
“Marina, are you seriously considering chasing some guy you just met across the country?” Laurel asks. The contempt in her voice is clear.
“No. He invited us to a rodeo concert. I’ve never been to a rodeo. And I’ve always wanted to see Montana. Haven’t you?”
“No,” says Laurel.
“Yes,” says Paige.
“You love road trips,” I remind Laurel.
The three of us stare at each other through the steam rising from the water. Our western wear lie in abandoned piles on the cement and we’re soaking in our underwear passing around the bottle of champagne Paige’s mom sent for her birthday that’s not until next week. If you’re counting, that’s four complex rules we’ve broken, including the fact that we jumped the pool fence and Laurel started the tub the “professional way” (with a screwdriver).
“Your mom’s Volvo wagon wouldn’t make it to Kentucky and my car’s got a boot,” Laurel says.
“As if this is even a question?” I reply with a smirk. We both look pointedly at Paige.
“Oh no. It’s brand new! There’s like three hundred miles on it,” Paige protests. She’s the last one of us to turn twenty-one, (next week) and her early birthday present from her Aunt Poppy in Houston was a new, silver Tesla. The old bat was loaded.
“You’ve been wanting to test Nick’s range,” I cajole. I can see her mind calculating.
“We’ll have to carefully plan an exact itinerary and stick to it.”
“Of course. Straight and narrow,” I smile. “No U-turns.”
“But, I’ve already got a spa treatment and massage booked on Wednesday for my birthday,” Paige says.
“Wouldn’t you rather be getting that massage from a cowboy in Montana?” I ask. “Big strong hands and--”
“--Dirty nails. Calluses rubbing you down like a horse,” Laurel laughs. I glare at her. I need her help if we’re gonna convince Paige.
“Laurel, they have like fourteen endangered species in Montana,” I say. Laurel can’t resist any kind of science expedition or safari. I smile as I see her thinking it over.
“I’ve got a big test for advanced analytical organic synthesis in ten days,” Paige worries.
“Then we better leave tonight,” Laurel is onboard now. “I’ll bring the munchies.”
“This is crazy,” says Paige.
“This is something we’ll never forget,” I say. We all stare at each other. Are we really doing this?
“Last one to get packed and get to the garage takes the first shift driving!” Laurel shouts as she jumps out of the water.
“C’mon Perfect Paige, you can learn to ride a horse in Montana”
“I know how to ride a horse!” objects Paige.
“No. No you don’t!” Laurel and I shout as we grab our clothes. Paige pushes past us, still in her underwear, heading for the fence. She’s halfway up when Laurel yanks her panties down from the back and Paige screams. Laurel steps up on the picnic table and easily scales the fence. And me? I’ve pulled out my phone, staring at Brady’s Instagram. I smile, quickly typing him a message…
Race you there, Mr. No U-Turn.
