Slack: A Day in the Life of Ford Aston
Page 6
We spend almost an hour in the rig room getting the deets on who may or may not be inside the ‘compound’ in the desolate hills between Cheyenne and Laramie, where this girl has apparently run away to. Just as we’re walking out, Merc asks the question I’m sure has been on his mind since he got here. “So what’s behind door number three?”
He gives me a knowing grin.
“Books,” I deadpan. And guns. I say to myself. Spencer has a stash here. For some reason, that paranoid f**ker insists on having weapons in every place I inhabit.
“Yeah?” Merc says with interest. “Like I actually believe you have books in that f**king room, Aston. Please.”
“Believe what you want.” We descend back down the stairs and head to the Bronco. I know what he thinks is in there. Same thing that Rook thought was in there when she first questioned me about the apartment last fall. They both think I bring pets here, but that’s not why I got the apartment. I got it to bring dates. Regular dates. Like—normal girls.
I never even came close to bringing a normal girl home. Not even close.
We get in the truck and I head back towards the I-25 and get on going north. Merc is studying the notes he took back in the rig room, so I’m left with thoughts of my sorry attempt at a normal love life last October.
I gave it a shot. Thirty days. One solid month of trying. I went on eight dates. Hell, I had a shitload of inquiries on my Match.com account. I was even featured on the home page a few times. Under an assumed name, of course. Ford Aston is infamous in these parts. A one second Google search brings up thousands of hits and four years’ worth of questionable shit.
No. These girls went in blind. Which speaks to the stupidity of online dating. You just never know who you’re getting. Of course, I have credit cards under assumed names and most people don’t. But every one of those women wanted to have sex with me after our date. Two of them made very convincing arguments with their provocative dresses and dirty mouths as we got drunk at a local bar.
A threesome sorta defeats the purpose of the whole experiment, right? I can get two pets for a threesome and never have to exert an effort at conversation. So those two were a dead end the minute they walked into the bar together.
But the truth of the matter is, all those women were established. They were my age, they had degrees, they had jobs, they were looking for sex, sure. But they were also looking for all that other shit. Houses, and rings, and kids. And maybe they were just hiding their freak because it was a first date, but somehow I doubt it. Every one of them was respectable.
Every one of them was boring.
I ended four dates early, the two-for-one lasted until the bar closed, but that was all drinking and bull riding. Yes, FoCo is quite the rodeo town. There are no urban cowboys here, they’re all one hundred percent real. And these two cowgirls took me to the only bar I know of that has bulls out back for the cowboys to ride. It was one of the most entertaining nights of my life.
But none of those girls were for me.
I gave up after thirty days and admitted defeat. I’m a freak looking for a freak. A freak that can relate to me. And the pets are the closest thing I’ve come to so far.
Besides Rook, of course. She’s not a freak. Her sick ex tried to make her into one, but she’s not a freak. She wants the fairytale—I’d go for that if I could have Rook. I would. I’d give her the fairytale if she wanted it. I’m not against the fairytale. I’m not against marriage and all that shit. I’m just picky. I want what I want and I refuse to settle. I’d rather be alone than settle.
But, I sigh, there is only one Rook and her heart belongs to Ronin.
“So…” Merc tries for conversation as we head north. Cheyenne is only forty-five minutes away and there’s no traffic on Christmas Eve. Hell, there’s no traffic on any eve. Or any day for that matter. It might be the capitol of Wyoming, but I’m not sure Cheyenne even qualifies as an urban center. In fact, I think Fort Collins has double the population of Cheyenne in every season except summer, when the college students go home. “How’s life, Ford? You keeping busy?”
“I’m busy today, and today is the only day that matters.”
“Your date tonight is your mom, right? Midnight mass and all that shit.”
I laugh a little. “Please, do not even mention it. I’ve been avoiding her calls all f**king week.”
“But she’s your date, right?” he prods.
“How pathetic do you think I am?” I roll my eyes at him. “A pet I’ve used for a while. She agreed to come, so why not? Keeps me out of church and takes my mind off the holiday at the same time.”
“Yeah, hear ya, dude. That’s why I took this job, ya know? I f**king hate Christmas. Fucking hate it.”
“I’m just the ride? Or you counting on backup? Do I need to call Pam and cancel the pet?”
“When we get up there, hang out for a few while I discuss the details, if that’s alright. I’ll let you know if I can use you. If you want in, of course.”
“What if she didn’t run away?”
He takes a long drag on the cigarette and blows it out the crack in the window. “That’s what the weapons are for. But I think this girl ran away. One of the members is a guy she dated on and off for a while. Only makes sense.”
“But, on Christmas? I mean, we hate Christmas, but sixteen year old rich girls generally don’t. They like big boxes wrapped in bows.”
He gives me a knowing grin.
“Books,” I deadpan. And guns. I say to myself. Spencer has a stash here. For some reason, that paranoid f**ker insists on having weapons in every place I inhabit.
“Yeah?” Merc says with interest. “Like I actually believe you have books in that f**king room, Aston. Please.”
“Believe what you want.” We descend back down the stairs and head to the Bronco. I know what he thinks is in there. Same thing that Rook thought was in there when she first questioned me about the apartment last fall. They both think I bring pets here, but that’s not why I got the apartment. I got it to bring dates. Regular dates. Like—normal girls.
I never even came close to bringing a normal girl home. Not even close.
We get in the truck and I head back towards the I-25 and get on going north. Merc is studying the notes he took back in the rig room, so I’m left with thoughts of my sorry attempt at a normal love life last October.
I gave it a shot. Thirty days. One solid month of trying. I went on eight dates. Hell, I had a shitload of inquiries on my Match.com account. I was even featured on the home page a few times. Under an assumed name, of course. Ford Aston is infamous in these parts. A one second Google search brings up thousands of hits and four years’ worth of questionable shit.
No. These girls went in blind. Which speaks to the stupidity of online dating. You just never know who you’re getting. Of course, I have credit cards under assumed names and most people don’t. But every one of those women wanted to have sex with me after our date. Two of them made very convincing arguments with their provocative dresses and dirty mouths as we got drunk at a local bar.
A threesome sorta defeats the purpose of the whole experiment, right? I can get two pets for a threesome and never have to exert an effort at conversation. So those two were a dead end the minute they walked into the bar together.
But the truth of the matter is, all those women were established. They were my age, they had degrees, they had jobs, they were looking for sex, sure. But they were also looking for all that other shit. Houses, and rings, and kids. And maybe they were just hiding their freak because it was a first date, but somehow I doubt it. Every one of them was respectable.
Every one of them was boring.
I ended four dates early, the two-for-one lasted until the bar closed, but that was all drinking and bull riding. Yes, FoCo is quite the rodeo town. There are no urban cowboys here, they’re all one hundred percent real. And these two cowgirls took me to the only bar I know of that has bulls out back for the cowboys to ride. It was one of the most entertaining nights of my life.
But none of those girls were for me.
I gave up after thirty days and admitted defeat. I’m a freak looking for a freak. A freak that can relate to me. And the pets are the closest thing I’ve come to so far.
Besides Rook, of course. She’s not a freak. Her sick ex tried to make her into one, but she’s not a freak. She wants the fairytale—I’d go for that if I could have Rook. I would. I’d give her the fairytale if she wanted it. I’m not against the fairytale. I’m not against marriage and all that shit. I’m just picky. I want what I want and I refuse to settle. I’d rather be alone than settle.
But, I sigh, there is only one Rook and her heart belongs to Ronin.
“So…” Merc tries for conversation as we head north. Cheyenne is only forty-five minutes away and there’s no traffic on Christmas Eve. Hell, there’s no traffic on any eve. Or any day for that matter. It might be the capitol of Wyoming, but I’m not sure Cheyenne even qualifies as an urban center. In fact, I think Fort Collins has double the population of Cheyenne in every season except summer, when the college students go home. “How’s life, Ford? You keeping busy?”
“I’m busy today, and today is the only day that matters.”
“Your date tonight is your mom, right? Midnight mass and all that shit.”
I laugh a little. “Please, do not even mention it. I’ve been avoiding her calls all f**king week.”
“But she’s your date, right?” he prods.
“How pathetic do you think I am?” I roll my eyes at him. “A pet I’ve used for a while. She agreed to come, so why not? Keeps me out of church and takes my mind off the holiday at the same time.”
“Yeah, hear ya, dude. That’s why I took this job, ya know? I f**king hate Christmas. Fucking hate it.”
“I’m just the ride? Or you counting on backup? Do I need to call Pam and cancel the pet?”
“When we get up there, hang out for a few while I discuss the details, if that’s alright. I’ll let you know if I can use you. If you want in, of course.”
“What if she didn’t run away?”
He takes a long drag on the cigarette and blows it out the crack in the window. “That’s what the weapons are for. But I think this girl ran away. One of the members is a guy she dated on and off for a while. Only makes sense.”
“But, on Christmas? I mean, we hate Christmas, but sixteen year old rich girls generally don’t. They like big boxes wrapped in bows.”
