The Reno Fantasy Ranch

You are Clarabelle Chastain. Three weeks after turning eighteen, your father dropped dead on the job. Tragic, right? It gets worse. Dear old dad was a great guy, but terrible with money, which means you're not only losing your dad, you're losing your house and just about everything else.

If you'd gotten some scholarships, you might have been able to go to college, but those fancy universities didn't think you were college material. It's not that you aren't smart, you've just never applied yourself to studying.

Your job as a waitress at a Big Boy restaurant isn't going to pay the bills. Your one hope left is to go and live with your estranged mother. In Reno. You haven't seen her in almost ten years and haven't talked to her in five.

"Sure, you can come stay with me, Clara. I'm so sorry to hear your father died," is totally not what your mom, the bitch says.

"Dead?" she says and curses away from the phone. "What does that mean, do I have to come to the funeral?"

"That was a couple weeks ago," you say, trying to hold back tears. "The thing is, I need a place to stay. I'm losing the house and I don't make enough money to get by right now."

Silence on the other end.

"I just finished high school," you add.

"So you're eighteen?" Your mother says. "You didn't get fat, did you?"

You look down at your shapely body. Not fat, not in the slightest, but you have certainly grown from being a kid into being a woman. Your perky d-cups are filling out a crop top and your jean shorts hug a wide set of hips and a firm, round butt. Your long legs get a lot of attention at the Big Boy. One of the girls showed you how to roll your uniform's waist so your skirt is much higher. More tips that way.

"No, mom," you say. "People tell me I'm pretty."

"You take after me," says your mother.

She's right. Blond hair, blue eyes, almost model beautiful, but a little hillbilly got into your blood. You've got full lips and freckles that you sometimes manage to hide with makeup. Not the cheekbones of a runway model. More like one of the girls from a dirty movie.

"Okay," says your mom. "I guess you can stay with Dick in the trailer."

Dick, your mom's husband of about three years, is a burly, bearded trucker sort of guy. You've never met him, but your mom sent you a picture once. He looked like about half a step away from a Hell's Angel.

"I spend most nights at the ranch," your mother continue, "So you're going to have to get a job. I can find you one. Gotta keep you clear of Dick or he'll be all over you."

It's funny to imagine your mother working on a ranch. She never struck you as a farm girl. The idea of her with her makeup and hair all done up shoveling horse manure or roping sheep or something makes you smile. That sort of life might suit you though. You've never been against hard work.

"Alright, mom," you say. "I'll see you in a couple days."

You have just enough money for a bus ticket. The Greyhound leaves at almost one in the morning from the bus terminal. Lots of seedy characters around at night. You keep your coat pulled tight around you and shift your bags into your lap.

Thankfully, the bus shows up before long. You stow your luggage except for your purse and climb up the stairs with your ticket. Looking from front to back of the bus, you only see two empty seats. One is beside a balding white guy in a cheap suit who appears to be asleep. The other, at the very back of the bus, is next to a young black guy reading a book. He's dressed in a windbreaker, a t-shirt from some bar in Miami and blue jeans. His red leather shoes stand out.