Kitty
“Come here, Pumpkin.”
My dad pulls me in for a hug as my mom shuts up the livestock transportation carrier box attached to the back of the truck. He’s Scandinavian decent, his parents French Canadian, and being wrapped up in his arms is like Olympic wrestling with the Terminator. He’s six-three, weighs more than some of our farming equipment, and, to top it all off, his name is Hardy.
A more appropriate name I cannot imagine.
On the other hand my mom, Marie Hanson Lu, is fairy-limbed and thimble-sized. Her parents emigrated to the States from China, and my dad was smitten from the second that he laid his eyes on her. With long onyx hair and big sparkly eyes, Mama is my own personal doppelganger.
When the final molecule of air is squeezed from my lungs Papa releases me and then gives me a smack on the back for good measure.
The gesture is meant to be comforting. It almost has me flying international.
“You’ll be good whilst we’re away?” My mom gives me a mock- concerned look and then clutches me into an embrace of her own. Although she’s acting as if she’s joking, I know that she also sort of isn’t, so technically what she’s giving me is a mock-mock-concerned look. It’s meta as hell.
And it’s not as if their worries are founded on any tangible evidence – I am the model child. I actively participated in high school. I got good grades. I only dropped out of college when they collectively decided that it would be more financially expedient for me to go straight into admin at the ranch, instead of paying for a qualification that a career working my parents’ pastures didn’t require. Compared to my brother Kaleb, whose family participation goes no further than a monthly text to confirm that he’s still breathing, I am Saint Kitty.
Also unlike Kaleb, I am not on the road for ninety-nine percent of the year, touring with a tough sweaty rock band. I should get double points for
that one.
“She’s always good,” my dad beams.
Thank you, Papa. I reward him with my most dimply smile.
“I know,” my mom placates soothingly, “but it’s dangerous out here is all.”
End Of The Road Ranch, simultaneously our home and our livelihood, is located Far Far Away from basically everything. We live at the farthest point of Phoenix Falls, and my mom isn’t kidding about the potential dangers out here. Located just before the thick forest that trickles its way up into the back mountains, this land is known to home all kinds of wild animals that you wouldn’t want to come across, ever. Plus, there’s the fact that we have a lot of land, and not every Average Joe is happy to accept that. Rural territory is a big deal here, and my parents aren’t afraid to enforce that reminder by occasionally flexing their constitutional rights.
I glance into the passenger side of the truck. My Papa’s pistol winks back at me.
“I’ll check the locks every night,” I reply. Which predator I’m keeping locked out, who the hell knows. At this point, there are too many to count.
“I know you will,” my mom says, smiling, although there’s another emotion that I can’t quite put my finger on twinkling behind her pretty eyes.
Whilst my mom is making the most of the summer’s American quarter horse competitions, it’s all up to me to maintain our land and our livestock. I know that it’s doable – I’ve spent every single summer feeding and rotating the animals, and priming the harvest – but to do it on your own is not exactly a sensible feat. Forget coyotes and rival ranch-hands, you can get chopped up by your own machines. Hurricanes, wild fires – if you can name it, it’s out for blood.
Which is another reason why I’m side-eyeing my parents so suspiciously right now. They’re really going to leave me – barely out of her teens, weighs-less-than-a-sack-of-grain Kitty – to protect the land all on my own? Personally, I love the idea of a female lone ranger – I mean, it’s about time – but even I’m getting little nervous butterflies fluttering around in my belly. Originally my mom was going to be travelling solo but, at the last minute, my dad decided to accompany her, therefore entrusting me to watch over everything until they return.
It’s all highly suspect.
“Stock up those cupboards as soon as we’re outta here. Card’s on the counter,” my dad instructs as they give me a final parting compression, making me the filling in a squishy pumpkin sandwich.
Papa gives my cheek a pinch as my mom dips into the passenger side of the truck, and then he’s hauling himself into the driver’s seat, ready to chauffeur his prized cowgirl across the country.
“Call you later, Pumpkin!” he shouts over the rev of the engine, eyes on the gravel pathway up ahead but still waving to me with his free hand. The sound of my mom’s favourite The Mamas and The Papas CD starts to infiltrate the air as they roll down their windows, but in seconds all that remains are the thick tire tracks in the dirt and the sandy particles that the wheels kicked up, twinkling gold in the hazy June air.
I squint at the vehicle until it’s out of sight, and then I take a moment to let the sun sizzle my skin like a little steak cutlet. My eyes wander across to the fields ahead, separated by wooden fencing and metal twine, and I mentally itinerate my tasks for today, tomorrow, and the coming weeks ahead.
Then the dust settles. And I’m on my own.
*
About a minute after I put my foot on the pedal, already light-years away from the supermarket lot, I realise what I’ve forgotten.
Novelty cereals – the type that when you pour them into your bowl you feel like you’re on an acid trip – are my favourite vice. Tame enough that my parents always indulged my infatuation, but with just enough E- numbers to really spice up my mornings.
Irritated by my lack of focus, I get a bit heavy-heeled as I pull away from the town square, fingers twiddling with the radio dial.
I’m going to have to ration my last box of Teddy Grahams. One teddy a day for the rest of the week.
Once I’m safely returned to the ranch I park up in the garage, grab my bounty from the back, and then make my way up the porch steps, arms laden with sun cream and bags of candy. A thousand new freckles later, I fish out my key and let myself in.
Our family home is an open-plan two-story wood and stone cabin, snuggled up between the garage, the shop, and the livestock barn and stable. It overlooks the land that we use for the animals and crop cultivation, and behind it sits one section of pasture, inclining gradually before you reach the bushy green forest and dark mountains beyond. In the winter it’s a sparkling gingerbread house, loaded with thick sugar-icing. In the summer it’s a sun-trap, and as desiccated as a coconut.
I stock up the cupboards, wash my hands, and then strip down to my underwear, throwing my clothes straight into the machine. I’ve sweat so much that I need a hosing, so I pad up the stairs to the gallery corridor and I treat myself to a fully-submerging soak. I rest my phone within arm’s reach, lazily scrolling through my music library as I recline in my pouf of bubbles. I marinate, roll over, and then give myself one luxurious minute to stretch the muscles in my back, sore from all of the manual shit that I had to do this morning.
It’s only mid-afternoon by the time that I’m out and dried but I slip into a clean pair of summer pyjamas anyway. The shorts are white with a black and red check, and the tank is a dainty cropped number. They’re as girly as emo clothes go and I think that they’re cute as hell.
I’m about to tread downstairs for a meeting with my candy haul when a much better idea suddenly appears in my mind.
My eyes slide over to Kaleb’s bedroom door.
I back-step, flick the handle, and the door lazily wanes open. Would you look at that. I give it some extra encouragement with my hip until I have the full visual of his two-years-untouched teenage bedroom, and my heart-eyes instantly zone in on the object of my desires.
Kaleb’s Fender.
I pad into the room and then drop down onto the floor, curling my feet up under my butt as I rest the guitar in my lap. Kitty’s Fender. I stroke it with my fingers, thinking about how much better it would look in my room, and then I start strumming out a couple of chords, singing along with it.
I purse my lips when I reach the end of the song, my thumb a little sore because I don’t have a guitar pick. Yet. I glance around the room, sure that there’ll be a stray one somewhere in here for me to smuggle.
I mean, is it even stealing? Kaleb left it here, so obviously it’s currently of no use to him. Plus, I’m not exactly stealing. It’s more a case of borrowing.
The thing is, dropping out of college was a total freaking blessing. My parents were right – I didn’t need to do a management course if my intention was to work full-time on the ranch.
And I would need to do one even less so if my intentions were to be a
singer.
It’s not something that I’m particularly vocal about with my parents, and even less so with Kaleb. I don’t want to let them down and I don’t want a bollocking for being a copycat sibling, so for the most part I just do my duty.
But if no-one’s going to be around…
My mind flicks back to a poster that I saw on the pin-board outside the bar in town a couple of weeks ago. Every year just outside of Phoenix Falls there’s a small town talent contest called the Barn Bonanza, which takes place in front of the giant barn at the back of the colonial hotel that hosted my high school prom, a night that was eventful to say the least.
The event is for people with huge musical talent – I’m talking the kind where you can sing, yodel, and ukulele at the same time. It’s kind of an excuse for a big community get-together, but the winner gets a sponsorship with a nearby recording company, studio time, and the potential opportunity to get signed by Christmas.
Long story short, my parents are out of town, I have an abandoned guitar in my arms, and – oh yeah – I can sing. I couldn’t believe my luck when Papa said that he would be leaving me solo these next few weeks instead of staying at the ranch with me. If everything stays according to schedule then there is no way that I am not competing in the Barn Bonanza this year.
I’ve already got in with the doorman from the bar in town so that I can have practice time on their stage, getting used to the equipment and maybe even a live audience. I’m a little nervous but I want to push myself, so I stay seated on Kaleb’s floor for another half-hour, twanging out an acoustic version of the song that my parents were listening to before they left the ranch.
When I finish up my little jamming session I return the Fender to its previous place, although I’m thinking that it’s about to have a three-week rendezvous in my room, and then I head back to the staircase, ready to hike up my blood-sugar with E-numbers.
That’s when I hear it.
The gravel crunch. The soft serenade of window-muted metal music. A bellow of laughter followed by loud door slams.
My heart lodges in my throat and my body stills.
Then I sprint the remainder of the steps and run to the kitchen window, blood pounding as I peep outside.
When I see the car that has just pulled up below the porch my brain goes blank as if I’ve just experienced a trauma. Which is accurate. I feel colour instantly rise to my cheeks, and my neck heats up despite the shower I just had.
Suddenly I’m eighteen again, it’s the end of May, and the boy from all of my forbidden teenage fantasies is holding my hand as we escape my senior prom. His guitar is slung over one broad shoulder and every few paces he glances my way to make sure that I’m not out of breath. He knows that I won’t be, track star and all, and my cheeks turn pink with secret pride.
We’re heading towards his Wrangler. He’s going to take me to his SUV, the car most coveted by everyone in my high school, and he’s going to kiss me.
Suddenly one of the doors from the hotel creaks open and he quickly pulls me to the side of the barn, hiding me with his body in case it’s my brother. His chest is flush against mine as he peers around to check, and he entwines our free hands whilst we wait.
“Coast is clear,” he whispers, the tips of his cheekbones sheathed in moonlight.
There’s a soft fuzzy glow in the air and it only intensifies as he bows slightly forward, the curves of his lips millimetres away from my own. Heat flushes up my chest, sizzling every nerve ending, and then Madden flexes his fingers, reminding me that he still has a hold on me.
I definitely don’t need reminding.
I turn around so that my back is to the ledge, facing the refrigerator and counting to ten. Then I turn back to the window to see if I’ve been hallucinating. Sadly not the case.
Madden Montgomery’s Wrangler glints in the sunlight, its two occupants joking as they make their way up to the porch.
I stumble backwards, trying to work out what to do. Little electrical bolts are shooting up and down my arms, which probably isn’t a good sign. I
scamper to the small mirror hanging on our living room wall and do a quick appraisal. Flushed cheeks, crazy eyes. I swipe my hands over the top of my hair, trying to smother the flyaways, but I’m pretty sure that I just created more static. I try to calm my breathing as I listen to the thud of their boots mounting the steps outside, the soundtrack to my impending heart attack.
Thud, thud, shuffle, silence.
And then they knock.
“Kit!” Kaleb’s voice bellows through the wooden pane of the door. “Open up! We’re gonna fry out here.”
I contemplate letting them.
“Kit!” Thump, thump, thump. No respect for his knuckles.
I walk to the door like I’m wading mud – hesitant, reluctant, and in major fear of falling. When I reach the interior side, I rest my hand on the lock, my head swimming with all sorts of questions.
Why is Kaleb here? Why is Kaleb here now? And why the hell is he not
alone?
“Kitty.”
I instantly still, because this voice is deep and low and not my brother’s.
Madden. “Open up.”
My fingers hover over the handle as I mull over what’s happening right now. Is Kaleb visiting? Is there a break in their tour? Or is he here indefinitely, to watch over things whilst our parents are gone?
My brain revs into full throttle.
Papa sent Kaleb because he didn’t think that you could take care of the heavy lifting. Mama doesn’t trust that you can protect the ranch. Kaleb brought Madden because he doesn’t know what happened between you two.
I narrow my eyes at the door before glancing down to the little table beside the frame, hosting a dish for our keys and various other more questionable items. I pick up one of the pieces and then swing open the door.
Kaleb Hanson Lu and Madden Montgomery are the kinds of guys who you’d bet on in a bar fight. Big, broad, and dressed in all black, if they hadn’t gotten into rock music then they would’ve gotten into a hell of a lot of trouble.
I try my best to avoid looking at Madden. For all intents and purposes, growing up I treated him with the dismissive nonchalance that you give to
an unwanted sibling, but he’s kind of hard to ignore when he takes up so much room. The whole backdrop behind Kaleb is entirely blocked by Madden’s rigid frame, his hands fisted in the pockets of his jeans and his eyes trailing all over me.
Kaleb snaps me out of it.
“About time,” he beams, and then he shoves his shoulder into my belly, swinging me over his shoulder as he barges inside.
I squeal like a little piglet and punch at his back with my free hand, my tummy churning like a dairy mixer.
“What the hell!” I’m kicking and screaming. Literally. My brother, unfazed, opens up the fridge and pulls out a soda.
“Miss me?” he asks, one arm extending so that he can pass the glass bottle to my other source of anxiety. I tilt my head to the side so that I can get a look at his face and Madden’s eyes lock in with my own, his expression unreadable. His black spiky hair is in chaotic disarray, and his swollen muscles strain against the confines of his clothes. I try to transmit his tight black shirt a little message: rip.
Madden’s gaze languidly trails up my back, stopping when it reaches my ass, arched high over Kaleb’s shoulder. He gives his lip-ring a rough tug and then walks heavily into the living area.
I knee Kaleb in the chest until he finally puts me down.
“What’re you doing here?” I ask, a crimson glow of rage shimmering all around me.
He pulls a bottle-opener from the drawer and pops the cap on his beer. “Nice to see you too.”
His gaze flicks to my right hand as he takes a quick pull on his drink. He cocks an eyebrow.
“You gonna put the gun down or…?”
I look down at the pistol, weighing its sturdy handle in my fist.
“Can’t be too cautious,” I say before laying it gently on the counter. “Besides, I wasn’t expecting visitors.”
I give him a sceptical once over. His grin cranks up a watt.
“Seriously, why are you here?” I think for a moment. “If you came to see mom and dad, they literally just left.”
He positions his beer bottle on the worktop as carefully as I lowered the pistol, then asks, “Didn’t they tell you?”
My heartbeat kicks up a notch. He takes my silence as a cue to continue.
“We have three weeks until tour resumes and it coincides with mom’s comp. When we put two and two together we thought it’d be good for you to have some extra hands to help out at the ranch whilst they’re away.”
So that’s why Papa opted to go. He’d already found me a replacement bodyguard.
“That’s sweet,” I say, trying to sound sincere. “But not necessary,” I conclude, my foot tapping agitatedly.
I give him a pointed look. It reads: scram.
He pulls me into his arms and looks down at me, a surprisingly paternal look on his face.
“Kit, I’m not about to let my kid sister run a ranch in the back-end of a place like this on her own. Especially when I’m available to oversee things right now. You’re a hard cookie, I know, but sometimes it’s better to leave things to the big boys, okay?”
No, not okay! My eyes dart to the living room where Madden is making himself at home, one thick bicep resting on my fluffy love-heart cushion.
“Boys, plural?” I ask, not averting my eyes.
Kaleb follows my gaze and quirks up a smile. “Oh yeah, Madden’s here too.”
I slide my eyes up to my brother. No shit.
“You don’t mind him staying though, right?” My brain stutters.
“Staying?” I repeat, blood pounding in my ears.
Kaleb releases me in favour of his beer. He glances at Madden, then takes a swig.
“Before we started touring Madden was doing construction work with Jason Coleson, so he’s gonna help patch up the barn whilst we have nothing better to do.”
Jesus Christ, he’s serious. “Do Mom and Dad know—”
Kaleb shoots me a look that instantly silences me, the kind that makes a younger sister shut up. “Do they know that I brought an extra guy, someone who won’t let anyone mess with you, to keep you safe on the ranch?” His eyes narrow. “Madden’s been with us forever and he’s my closest friend. You might not be best friends, but I know he sees you as a sister.”
I really hope he doesn’t.
“He’s my best friend, Kit. You know they’d be fine with it,” he says firmly, completely sidestepping my question.
Kaleb takes a deep breath, observing me from his higher vantage point. I scowl back, trying to show that I’m not easily intimidated.
We lock eyes in a ten-second sibling standoff, each of us waiting for the other to blink.
I think about the guitar in Kaleb’s room, and a plan starts to form in my mind.
“Fine,” I relent. “Whatever. I’m…” I struggle to force the words out. “I’m glad you’re here.”
Kaleb immediately relaxes, smiles, and taps the tip of my nose with his finger.
“There’s my sister.”
