“You lassoed me!” Reese shrieks. Her chest heaves. “Like livestock.” I stride toward her. She’s a filthy mess. Blonde hair sticks to her sweaty brow, and the dress she wears slides high over her tan thighs. I look down at her. “Moo moo, baby.” Her pillowy lower lip juts out. “This is a ranch. We don’t cry.” “I’m not.” “Strutting those long legs up on stage ain’t a job, honey. Neither is bossing around the help or getting special treatment.”
