CHAPTER ONE : BOURBON & BELLBOTTOMS
The day that I met you, I started dreaming .
(Kingston, Faye Webster)
SUNDAY
ALICE
Our van rocks to a stop against the thick, gravel road we've been riding along. It seems a relief, at first, but then I glance out the tinted window to see exactly where we're being let off. All around us are fields — for as far as the eye can see — grass, grass, and more grass. Dotting the area are the thick, black bodies of cows, standing still as statues. Maybe they are statues - like the charging bull that sits at the foot of Wall Street, I think. There's literally nothing else. No buildings, no trees, not even a cloud in the sky. Something moves in the distance, faster than I expect to see. I furiously try and follow the movement, craning my neck to see past the limits of my stupid little window. It was a horse, I think. Topped by a human.
We're not in SOHO anymore.
"Alright, ladies, welcome t' Whitlock Ranch," our bus driver announces, the rattle of the machine's engine silenced with a turn of his keys.
I glance at our photographer — the one man in a group full of women — and I shoot him a sympathetic smile. He offers the same in return and I can see — I know clear as day — that he's not even aware he's been misgendered. James is preoccupied with our surroundings, face twisted with uncertainty. I know, I want to say, I know. This level of middle-of-nowhere is not what we were expecting. I can't fake enthusiasm with James, but for the girls I know I'll have to.
I suck in a breath, the hot, dry air uncomfortable in my lungs. I try again, but my chest never fills. Texas is already getting the better of me, and I haven't even stepped off the van. Instead of letting myself fall deeper into my anxiety, I stand tall. I smile. I look over my group of six perfectly chosen models and mentally prepare to play mother for the next week.
"Okay," I say, moving out from my seat at the front of the van. I wiggle my way into the aisle, keeping that too big smile on my face all the while. I'm sure they can all see right through me.
"So, here we are!" I say, echoing the driver's point from only a minute before. "I know we're all excited to be out of the city," I lie, "but we're here to work. To be respectful. To get these looks shot and get back to New York before too much country rubs off on us," I joke. Mostly. Laughter trickles through the van. I lift my face into that smile again, adding my own chuckle for good measure.
Behind me, the bus driver clears his throat, indicating not-so-subtly that he needs me to move it along. My hand flies to the top of my head in a nervous, desperate attempt to fix the mess that was once a ponytail. I run through my practiced speech as fast as I can. "So, uh, it'll be two to a room in the cabins, and James — you've got a room to yourself. Days start at eight am sharp. No wiggle room, no sleeping in, no vacationing." For good measure, I stare the girls down and add, "no cowboys. Got it? We've got a lot to do." I actually manage to sound authoritative. I raise a stern eyebrow for good measure, watching as seven heads nod back at me in return.
Then my face explodes into the first genuine smile I've had in days. This is it. Finally. After years of endless, back-breaking work, I'm here. I'm shooting my own damn line. Excitement courses through me. Everything inch of my body is alive, aware, ready to get outside despite our extremely rural locale. My excitement pushes past my lips, coming out as an enthusiastic, "Okay then — let's get going!"
I'm off the van before anyone else.
One foot on the ground, and my newly found excitement dwindles. My white sneakers — brand spankin' new — are already turning beige. The ground around us is no longer made of pebbles, but sand? Dirt? Beige. Just beige. Each gust of wind stirs the beige up around me. It sits on leggings, my skin, my hair. I feel dirty before having even lifted a finger. Calm, Alice. Calm. It's just dirt. If you can't handle that, it's going to be a very long week. I force my eyes away from the ground and up, to take in the sprawling estate I'd missed from inside the van.
Oh, thank God. It's beautiful.
The house is grand. It's built of stone and logs, with an unbelievably colourful garden curling around its exterior. Something about how the home is settled into the ground seems ancient — like maybe the building just formed out of the earth once, just the same as the rest of this nowhere place. Smaller cabins lie in the distance, along with never-ending lines of log fencing. It's breathtaking, really. The sky is bluer than I've ever seen, stretched for miles above the horizon line without another house, building or plane in sight.
My phone is buzzing incessantly in my pocket, my laptop sits heavy in my purse, and still — still — part of me wonders if I've fallen back in time.
"Guys, look!"
It's Kate — one of my models. I turn in the direction of her bubbly voice, seeing that she's pointing towards a field on the left of the property. It's fenced in just the same — with old, cylindrical logs — but standing only feet away are a group of real, living, breathing horses. I can't remember the last time I saw one so close. Not since I was a kid, most likely. The rest of the girls swarm over, phones out to capture a picture of the animals. Truthfully, I can't blame them for being so excited. We've been stuck in the concrete jungle far too long. Usually I'd join them, capturing the day for the sake of social media, but I don't. I'm supposed to be in charge. I'm the grown up. I'm the example. It sounds ridiculous — I'm likely the youngest of the bunch. Still, I know the girls will follow my lead. If I act professionally, they will follow suit.
Someone comes up beside me, breaking my reverie. I look over to see James towering above me, wearing his usual cocky smile. He's got his camera bag slung over one shoulder, his backpack over the other.
"They're going to spook them," James says, his words meant only for me. He juts his chin out towards our models.
"The horses?" I clarify, brows furrowing.
"The ranchers," James shoots back.
I laugh a little too loud. James is smiling like an idiot beside me. We both know he's right. The group of women we've brought along are all intelligent, beautiful, compassionate souls. They're also boisterous. Spoiled. Angels sent down from high-fashion heaven. They seem completely out of place here in Butt-fuck, Texas. It's the exact juxtaposition I want, but I'm not sure the ranch hands will be just as pleased.
Still, I argue, "could be a good change of pace for them. And for us," I add.
Cynical James begins to grumble again, but I'm not paying attention.
There is a pair of men approaching us, from down towards the house. I can hear their voices, both deep and booming like they've never been indoors and rich with southern twang. They must be our hosts. One of them is noticeably taller, but other than that, the men look identical. Boots, Wranglers, brown belts, and plaid shirts up top. Both of them are wearing cowboy hats, like - real, unironic, cowboy hats. Idly, I wonder if this is a ranch-wide uniform, or Texas' idea of a look.
I turn myself fully around, and lift a hand to block the low hanging, deep gold sun. Standing like this, I can make them out a little better. One is blonde, one is brunet. They're both obviously built for manual labour, and as they grow nearer I can tell they sport even, matching tans. Something churns deep in my gut. These men are unmistakably beautiful, unlike anyone I'd come across in dreary New York.
The brunet approaching our group copies my actions, hand lifting into the air. To my complete embarrassment I realize he's waving wildly at me. My face runs hot with blush, my hand falling fast out of the air. I've been caught staring. Great first impression.
"Howdy!" The brunet man shouts. He's the shorter of the two, but makes up for it in muscle. He's striking, even after adjusting to the impossible blueness of his eyes. I have to smile when he does, like my mouth has been tugged upwards by some invisible, charismatic string. I'm charmed — and frankly, surprised to hear someone say howdy in real life.
Once they're close enough, I reply with a quick (and much less enthusiastic) hello.
The blonde stays behind while the other saunters forward. With one hand, he moves to remove his hat, and with the other, the man reaches out to me. "Peter," he introduces.
I take a nervous step forward and offer my hand in return. It disappears in his thick, meaty paw. I force another smile on my face. This one through gritted teeth. His hello might just translate to my broken bones. "Alice," I manage to respond. "You must be the Peter I've been e-mailing with."
"Yes ma'am," Peter replies, his thick lips still locked in a grin. "The very same. Welcome to Whitlock Ranch."
"Thanks."
Behind me, the girls are a flutter. I can hear them mumbling amongst themselves, loud enough that I make out the word attractive from ten feet away. What they don't see is the tarnished gold ring on his left hand. I'd shoot them a glare if it wouldn't draw more attention to their behaviour. Instead, I give a hard clear of my throat and continue speaking, a little louder this time.
"This is James," I introduce, using my free hand to motion the photographer over. Peter lets me go and I flex my fingers out, glad for the relief. They shake hands and share niceties, and cynical James starts smiling, too. Peter's won him over.
" 'N this man over here is Whit," Peter proudly states. He glances over his shoulder at the blonde man, who finally decides to join our interaction.
"Jasper," the man corrects. His voice is soft now. Even. Like slow, dripping honey. Nothing like the booming bark I heard only minutes before. "Whitlock."
My eyes pull away from beautiful, beautiful Peter. The very same Peter who now seems dull in comparison to the human before me.
Jasper is tall. Lean. His hair is too long and wavy, caked in mud and in good need of a brush. His face is splattered with the same dirt, like freckles running from cheek to cheek. The man's nose is a hard, straight line, placed evenly between two round, warm hazel eyes. With the sun setting directly behind his figure, casting a halo of bright orange around him, Jasper looks as though he is made of the very same stuff. Fire. Light. Power.
I'm more than content drinking this Apollo in, but for the second time since our arrival I've been caught staring. Peter is chuckling. I glance away from Jasper's face to notice the hand he'd been holding out to me. I must be red from head to toe.
"Sorry," I stammer, hurriedly shoving my hand into his. I breathe out a laugh, racking my brain for any excuse. "Just — you said Whitlock? Like —"
"Like the ranch," Jasper replies, sounding almost annoyed by the attention. In that good, honey voice, Jasper drawls, "so don't let Peter here trick you into thinkin' he's in charge of anythin'. Y'all have any issues and I want you coming to me."
Any confidence I had in my leadership skills has evaporated. Jasper knows how to command a room unlike any man I've ever known. He speaks and I'm dumb, focusing all too hard on the satisfying hum of his voice. With that drawl and that presence, the man could easily be a politician. After a good bath, that is. Then he'd certainly have my vote.
As bright as Jasper is, I feel sadness oozing from his every pore. It washes over me, overwhelmingly dense and impossible to avoid. The longer I hold his hand, the longer I stare into those golden eyes, I sink further and further into waves of his despair. I have to drop him like a hot iron.
"Thank you," I say, making myself busy with fixing my hair.
Jasper moves without speaking, heading past me to greet the van driver. He and Peter begin to unload suitcases, and James hurries in to join them. I feel obligated to do something, so I join in, trying to tug a case out from the back.
Peter comes up behind me, two big hands taking hold of the luggage and easily hoisting it out. "Now," he chastises, "you ain't half as big as a minute. Let me get that for you."
James laughs. Much to my dismay, so do the girls. I go red from head to toe, suddenly too aware of my short stature and bony arms. There it goes — my one molecule of confidence. I'm too small — too bug-eyed, too delicate, too shapeless — to be seen as anything but a child. I don't need the reminder. The half-dozen Amazonian models beside me don't need reminded, either. My appearance certainly doesn't breathe an air of authority.
I brush it off as southern hospitality, and patiently wait until one of the men bring me my belongings. How very modern of us all.
When everything is unloaded, the van takes off in a cloud of dust. We each take a bag and make way towards the main house. Peter begins a long-winded history of the estate, his voice weighted with pride.
"Now I been workin' here since I was fourteen, but this place has been 'round since the eighteen — "
" — Eighteen-forty-four," Jasper interrupts. "My great granddaddy built this place with his bare hands, from the foundation up. Laid every fence post in our first hundred acres. Been workin' just the same since then, with a few modern updates, I guess."
"Electric light, indoor plumbing, WIFI," Peter adds. His tone has Jasper smiling again. The rest of us collectively sigh in relief.
I'm charmed by their back-and-forth. The way they talk, the way they walk — it's like they're brothers, not co-workers. Jasper and Peter are two halves of the same whole.
The tour we receive only includes the immediate area surrounding the house. We're shown pastures, an older, red-painted barn, and the stables. We eventually land on the expansive wooden porch, where we're able to walk around to the back of the house. Out in the distance, Peter points out the settlement of cabins I saw before, maybe a five minute walk down the plain. There are five of them — one for James, three for the girls, one for me. He explains that off to the right, following a wide, dirt path, is where the cattle graze. Where the cowboys live, too. To the left are wide open fields dotted with wildflowers, blooming as far as the eye can see. A ridge of mountains interrupts the space where green meets sky. I wonder if Jasper's property could possibly stretch that far.
"Down there's the swimmin' hole and the fire pit, but both are uh, out of commission for now."
I raise a brow in question.
Luckily one of my models — Carmen — asks the question before I have to. "Why?"
"Drought," Jasper replies. He turns away from the view to face us, expression turned stern. "It's been dry 'round here for weeks now. One little spark could take this whole place down. So please — just keep the lighters in your pocket, if you can. 'N if you really gotta smoke, no butts on the ground."
That's sure to ruffle some feathers.
We're led down the stairs attached to the back of the porch. Suitcase wheels knock the wood with a cacophony of loud thumps. It makes my skin crawl. Any noise that's not fully natural — the breeze, the sound of horses braying in the distance — sounds twenty times as loud here.
The sun beats hard down on the back of my neck. I lift the bag I'm holding up onto my shoulder and reach up, pulling my choppy hair out of its ponytail. It'll make me hot, I know, but at least I won't spend the week with a dark red patch on my neck.
I swear it — the world is closer to the sun in this place. Technically it is, I know that, but just a few hours further south and the difference in environment is astonishing. The hottest day in a New York summer couldn't even dream of being this bright. Or dry. Or hot. Maybe the drought's got something to do with it.
The models have started to relax into their surroundings, vigorously chatting with each other and our hosts. One of them asks about trail rides — another is going on about getting a tan. James has taken lead with the men up front. There's even a smile on his face.
I unclench my jaw. Drop my shoulders. This going to be a good week, I tell myself. Look at how relaxed they all are. Maybe we all just needed a little nature.
Group by group, we're shown to our lodgings.
James goes first. His cabin is closest to the main house, but not by much. The building is a perfect square, and when Peter opens the door, I see that it looks just about the same on the inside. There's a bed, a chair, a desk, a rug, and a window. Not much else. There's a door off to one side, which I assume is a bathroom. James harrumphs in gratitude, immediately dropping his bags of camera equipment on the long, quilted twin bed. He follows along as we head for the girl's cabins.
Theirs look much the same as James', but are fitted with bunk beds. The girls' reactions range from excited to mortified, but I might be the most excited of the bunch. I wonder if my cabin has them too. I hope it does. Ever since I was a kid, the only material thing I've ever really wanted was a bunk of my own.
I'm shit out of luck. I mean — I should be grateful — my cabin is the largest of the group, fitted with a double bed and a couch, and a table with chairs off to the side. There are two windows, and light pours in heavy. It'll do just fine. Still — no bunk beds.
Everyone has dissipated except for James, Peter, and Jasper. I turn around to find them lined in a row, wearing similar nonchalant smiles. Suddenly I feel like I'm on a very southern season of the Bachelorette. "It's great," I say, "thank you guys again for everything." I'm sorry, Peter. No rose for you, today. I just can't get over that ring. James, Jasper — we'll see you next week for the one-on-ones. It's hard not to laugh.
They all start to talk at once.
"No problem —"
"I'm glad you like —"
"What time did you —"
Dear God.
"I'm just going to get my stuff settled away and we'll all meet up to figure out dinner, okay?" I say, chuckling despite how hard I try not to. "Do you guys have any suggestions for where we should go?" I ask, turning my attention to the ranch hands. I flash them a toothy grin.
"I think I do, ma'am," Jasper answers, face pulling exploding into a devilish smile.
... Ma'am?
Dinner is unconventional. We're invited to 'grub in the mess hall with the boys' for our first night, which ends up being a rather accurate depiction of eating any kind of meal with a dozen honest-to-God cowboys. It's grub, not food. It's less a mess hall and more a mess. The cowboys? Rowdy boys. The whole lot of them. I still manage to have more fun than I can fit on a plate.
Jasper never shows up to dinner, which I find odd. But Peter does, and much to my delight so does his wife. The woman — Charlotte — must be a saint. This place is her home too, I learn. Her and Peter live in a home right on the edge of the property and work alongside Jasper to keep the estate afloat. She smiles nonstop, despite biting, often sexist comments from the cowboys and eight extra mouths to feed. I aspire to be that giving. That calm.
We play darts and drink bourbon with the cowboys. James beats my ass again and again and again, until I have to convince myself to retire for the night. A person can only lose so much in one day. I stumble all the way back from the mess hall, my only guide the porch light from the big, main house. Jasper's house.
Back in my cabin, I'm finally able to relax and digest the day that's just unfolded. It's only eleven, but the sky is pitch black. The world has gone silent. Twelve hours ago I was still packing a suitcase in my New York studio apartment. Twelve hours ago I didn't know that silence this complete even existed. I breathe in deep. The air tastes like dust and wood and is thick with humidity, but unlike this afternoon I can actually swallow it down.
I think I could get used to Texas.
I'm lulled by the night, slow in my actions as I pull out everything I'll need for the next day. I settle on an outfit for myself and lay out everything I've got for the girls. Seeing my clothes — my designs come to life — spread out across the rustic little room, it all feels too real. My chest constricts. Tomorrow is the start of my career. My dream. The only thing I've ever wanted. I could cry. Instead of doing that, I shoot out a few texts. One to my parents, one to my brother, and one to Bella. I let them know that I'm safe and settled, and promise to send pictures once I'm done with our first shoot day tomorrow. Bella is the only one to respond. I'm not surprised. It's already after midnight in New York.
Go get em :) we're all cheering for you Al.
I hug my phone to my chest. Bella has always been on my side. Even when my idiot brother - her idiot boyfriend - acts like an idiot.
I've had an idea floating around in my head all day, one I want to try and get down on paper before the tired takes over. I pull out some paper and stretch out on my bed. I sketch furiously under lamp light, charcoal chipping off on the page. First, I work out the curve of hips, then the long lengths of thighs and calves. Once I've got a basic figure down, I start to design overtop, detailing something classic — blue jeans. Bell bottoms.
Now that I'm reclined in bed, I realize how exhausted I really am. It's been a crazy long day, and the cool night air is just strong enough to breathe white noise all around me. I relax against the pillows I've been given. Goodness, they're comfortable.
...
I'm standing in a wide, open field. The sky above me is dark purple, churning with an angry storm. I know it's going to rain. I can feel it, like an electric current licking through the air. Thunder rolls, the echo reverberating in my bones. My clothes stick to my skin. Everything is damp - even the dead grass surrounding me.
When the rain finally starts, it's unrelenting. Water smacks the ground, knocking mud up with every plunk, plunk, plunk.
I start running.
The rain comes down harder now.
Harder.
I must be underwater. I'm drowning. I can't open my eyes against the onslaught of water. I can't part my lips without rain invading my mouth. My body is drenched. My shoes are heavy. I can't run anymore.
There's nowhere to hide.
The downpour continues unrelentlessly. I've never been so cold. I hug myself tightly, trying to contain any warmth that might still exist inside, and abandon any hope in finding comfort.
All that I know is drip, drip -
Drip.
My eyes peel open. A single, weighty drop of water splashes against my face. Then another. And another. Thunder sounds in the distance, sharpening the edges of my consciousness. Now I'm wide awake.
The roof of the cabin creaks above me. Then, without any warning, it gives.
A/N: stay tuned for chapter two! pictures of the whitlock house and surrounding ranch can be found on my prof