Fever dream

CHAPTER 9

Emmett

“WHAT THE FUCK was that?” Richard starts in on me.

After we wrapped filming the introductions, he dragged me back to his production trailer, slammed the door, and started ranting.

I don’t know if he expects me to react in some specific way, which is why I make sure I don’t. I’m not one to cower or apologize—especially not to a tool like him. Hip propped against the filing cabinet behind me, I cross my arms over my chest and stare down my nose at him.

Unfortunately for him, I’ve spent the past two decades dealing with temper tantrums like this, thanks to Carl. Richard and my old man are chips off the same douchebag block. Which means I could settle him down if I wanted to.

But he’s a

These are the things dear old dad has taught me in life: how to ride a bull really damn well and how to play fucked-up mind games.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. I thought that went well.”

“Well? Well?” he exclaims, voice growing shriller by the second. “You could say that went well if I was trying to sell a virginal farm boy who’d never taken a girl to plow town before.”

“You certainly have a way with words,” I reply flatly, knowing my lack of apology will do nothing but set him off further.

“You looked like you were on an episode of Scared Straight out there. Like you’d never spoken to a woman before in your life. I’m making TV here, Bush. I’m selling love, but I’m also selling sex and drama and heartbreak and mess. And you’re out there acting like some pink-cheeked altar boy who doesn’t know what to say when a girl offers herself up on a platter to him.”

You’re in it for the money, I remind myself. Because right about now, talking to this fucking worm makes me want to quit without a backward glance.

“Everyone told me you were the guy. The bull rider with a chip on his shoulder. The guy who was bed-hopping every night. The guy leaving a trail of broken hearts in his wake. So you’re going to have to excuse me for being a little confused by the Boy Scout act.”

You’re in it for the money.

This morning, I went to the main house to check on my grandparents. I let myself in like always and headed toward the dining room where they have coffee together every morning. But today, they had stacks of bills spread out in front of them and were speaking in hushed tones about laying off staff to catch up on the payments. There was even talk of selling off one of Riley’s more competitive mounts. I didn’t know what to say, so I slunk back out, filled with renewed purpose for why I’m doing this show in the first place.

My oma and opa deserve to slow down. They deserve a retirement—or something close to it. I know they’re aging and can’t keep up with the level of physical labor that laying off staff entails. My pride, my morals, they can be set aside for a bit. It’s only six weeks.

I offer him a nonchalant shrug. “I hear you, Richard. I do. I just need a bit of camera time to get my bearings. Do you know what I mean? It felt very orchestrated, very forced. I’m not used to being myself in front of the camera and on the word go.”

“So what, you need me to pull a bull out on set, slap a belt buckle and a cowboy hat on these girls? What sort of role-play do we need to have happen to bring out the full Emmett Bush experience?”

God, I fucking hate this guy.

I swallow my pride, and it tastes sour going down. “I don’t know, something less structured? We could get off the farm or do something more active sometimes. Standing around in a suit and cowboy hat, it’s not my vibe.”

What I don’t confess is that I’m realizing the entire show is not my vibe. Or it’s not Emmett Brandt’s vibe.

Emmett Bush? He’s fine with this. But he exists on the road—far away from his family, out of sight of his siblings, and certainly not on the farm that has become a lifelong safe haven for a traumatized little boy.

I realize I’ve made the mistake of merging my two worlds. And now I don’t know how to reconcile them.

Richard glares at me, his shoulder propped against the wall. If anybody has ever given off small-dick energy, it is Richard Wadsworth.

Dick Wadsworth.

That abbreviation makes me smirk.

Dick Wad.

Even better.

His head bobs back and forth, and my new internal nickname makes him slightly less irritating.

“Okay, so we get you guys out. Less sitting around. We do B-roll out on-site for those events, but Emmett, some of it has to happen here. This is where we sunk all our money into sets for ceremonies.” He shakes his head and looks out the small sliding window toward the set. “Such a waste of resources since that new girl, Julie, spent all her time and budget on making this place look good.”

“Julia,” I correct.

His brows furrow. “What?”

“The location consultant who coordinated this set, her name is Julia, not Julie.”

His face scrunches up as though what I’m saying confuses him. “Like I give a flying fuck what her name is, as long as the job’s getting done. Same goes for you. Give me that slutty-boy energy. And whatever you do, don’t eliminate handsy Evelyn. She’s eager. Not afraid of a good catfight. We need her to bring some drama and excitement to this show if you’re going to go all nervy on me. Now get your ass back out there and mingle with the girls. There’s champagne and an opportunity for you to be less boring. Try to give me some remotely exciting closing remarks so I have something to work with for this episode.”

I shrug, fighting back the urge to roll my eyes at the guy.

He looks me over with narrowed eyes. “You do realize we are paying you and your family a lot of money to use this place? I’d hate to have to renegotiate that amount because—”

I hold up a hand, stopping him there. “Nope. I get it. I got it. I’m good.”

It’s a lie, but Richard doesn’t care. He got what he wanted. He beams back at me as I give him a terse nod before turning away.

I remind myself again that I’m in it for the money as I stride out of the trailer and begrudgingly make my way back to the set.

I’m not nervous—I’m embarrassed.

Because in a twist I was not expecting, twenty minutes on camera for this show has made me feel more like a slimy piece of meat than any careless one-night stand ever has.

I’m seated for my final interview with Teri—one of the main producers—and then I’m free until tomorrow afternoon.

I survived the champagne and chatting cocktail hour in the courtyard area outside the bunkhouse. It was a blur of names, hometowns, and awkward small talk. Overwhelming, but reassuring in a way because several of the women seemed just as uncomfortable as me.

In a way, that was the best icebreaker I could ask for.

Now I’m seated on the swinging bench I helped Julia build, around the side of the bunkhouse, away from the main gathering. It’s a spot that’s been meticulously set up for filming B-roll. Easy access to all the production trailers in the field across the gravel road that leads through the property, but still a pretty backdrop for the cameras. All thanks to Julia, no doubt.

I’m dreaming of being anywhere but here when my eyes catch on Julia leaving Dick Wad’s trailer.

Her expression gives nothing away, but there’s a tense set to her shoulders that makes me want to head her off and ask what the fuck he said to her.

She walks over to a cameraman just beyond Teri and begins speaking to him in hushed tones.

“Emmett?” Teri says, drawing my attention back to her. “Did you hear my question?”

I blink, trying to recall if I somehow heard the question when Julia Silva’s body language had me totally fixated. “I’m sorry. Long night. I must have zoned out there for a second.”

Teri smiles, pencil propped behind her ear, hair up in a messy bun. “Same. The start of a season always feels like this until we all get our bearings. Once it starts rolling, it won’t seem like so much work. I promise.”

I smile back at her and brush it off. “No problem. Can you ask me the question again?”

She nods, glancing down at the clipboard in her hands. “Is there anyone here tonight that you can see a future with? Or at the very least, did you have a co

A co

Unable to help myself, I glance over toward Julia, whose forehead is rumpled with focus. It makes me wonder what just went down, even though it’s none of my business. I have my job to do here, and she has hers. Plus, she’s the last girl in the world I should fixate on.

So I swing a hand over the back of the bench and look as casual and confident as I can before making direct eye contact with the camera. I brush away my disdain for the question and answer in a way that feels on-brand for the show.

“Yeah, there are a lot of smart, beautiful women here tonight that I can definitely see a future with.” I look away from the camera with a touch of shyness. “It’s only been a day, but damn if a couple girls didn’t stand out to me in terms of co

The producer laughs. “It’s so exciting to experience that kind of promise after only one night.”

I’m about to respond but, like earlier, my gaze finds Julia.

Hair slicked back, head held tall. Looking at me with a bemused tilt to her lips and one quirked eyebrow. And as if she doesn’t have enough dirt on me already, she also gets a front-row seat to my humiliation and desperation.

Because, as much as I hate the way she’s looking at me like I’m some colossal joke, I care more about making sure that my family and this farm stay afloat.

Once I’m finished with my interrogation, I set my sights on getting the fuck out of here. I thank the producer for her time and move to stand as cameras, microphones, and lights get folded up around me.

The fabric of my dress shirt sticks to my back. July in the Cascade Valley is relentlessly hot and dry. Only the nighttime temperatures take a dip, and even then, it doesn’t feel like enough for what today held. I want nothing more than a cool shower and a couple of ounces of whiskey, but Julia Silva is all up in my face before I can flee.

“Emmett,” she starts, “we need to talk.”

My shoulders rise and fall on a heavy sigh, and I groan, sounding more irritated with her than I am. She eyes me carefully before reaching into her small crossbody bag.