Ride: A Bad Boy Romance (10 page)

Then there’s just a couple of rides until it’s my turn, so I jump down to get ready. I put on the protective vest that keeps me from getting gored. I’ve got my glove and my chaps and my hat, and then I’m just hanging around the bull pens, jumping out of my skin from nerves.

I watch another cowboy get on his bull, wrap the rope around his hand. He nods and the gate man swings the gate outward and the bull launches himself out of it, kicking and bucking and spinning. The cowboy’s off in six seconds and he lands in the dirt and rolls.

The rodeo clowns come in and chase the bull toward the exit chute. Once the rider’s off, the bulls are more easygoing, and this one trots to the exit chute without causing any trouble.

The cowboy stands up, grabs a gate, and climbs over, and then it’s my turn.

I’ve done this a thousand times, but it’s impossible not to feel like my whole body’s on fire with anticipation and nerves. Eight seconds isn’t long, but it’s long enough.

I jump onto Train Robbery’s back, and even in the confined space of the bucking chute, he’s not happy about it. The handlers hold him steady for a moment while I get situated, wrap the bull rope around my gloved hand, and take a deep breath.

In that last moment, I find the blond head above the camera, and I smile at Mae.

Then I nod at the gate man. He opens the chute, and Train Robbery flies out.

W
hen I watch bull riding
, I feel like I’m watching a horror movie. Roping events aren’t that bad: some men ride horses, tie up cows, and then let them go. That I can handle, no problem.

But bull riding? I want to watch through my fingers. Every time someone falls off, I gasp despite myself.

Even when a rider can stay on for the full eight seconds, there’s no graceful dismount from a bull. It’s not like the bull stops and someone comes up to it with a stepladder.

The rider still has to jump off a bucking bull and land in the sand. Every time someone gets up, I take a deep breath of relief, because right now all I want is to not watch someone die today.

Of course, I’m the one person in this arena who can’t close her eyes. I photograph rider after rider, cringing every single time. Even the rides that go
well
look painful.

Then the announcer calls Jackson’s name, and I start to sweat. Next to me, Bruce leans forward onto the barrier, and I look down into the viewfinder of my tripod-mounted camera.

Jackson jumps onto the bull he drew — Train Robbery — and even in the chute, the bull’s not happy about it. My heart thumps in my chest and my mouth goes dry.

He’ll be fine
, I think.
This is what he does.

I watch him situate himself as the crowd cheers. There’s a knot of women down in the front of the stands holding up signs and screaming for him, and I grit my teeth and ignore them, but the sound of cheering and screaming and people stomping in the metal stands is almost deafening.

Nobody got this excited about the last cowboy.

At the last second, Jackson looks over at me, and I think he smiles. My heart clenches and I break out into a cold sweat.

Please, God,
I think, and then he nods at the gate man and the bull bursts out of the gate.

Train Robbery leaps forward, kicking his back legs into the air, and Jackson lurches forward over the bull’s shoulders but keeps his seat, arm waving in the air. My heart is in my stomach and I can’t watch, so I look through the viewfinder. Anything to make this seem less
real
.

I don’t think I breathe. I keep hitting the shutter, but I have no idea what I’m capturing. My eyes are just on the clock at the other end of the arena, counting up to eight as Train Robbery bucks and twists and spins and somehow, miraculously, Jackson stays on and in control.

A buzzer sounds. Train Robbery doesn’t stop bucking, but after another second, Jackson flies off, like he’s half jumping and half thrown. He lands hard on his side and I tighten my fists against my palms, but then he rolls over and runs a couple of steps.

The rodeo clowns are already shooing Train Robbery to the exit chute, and the big bull is lumbering along. He doesn’t look worse than annoyed.

The crowd goes crazy, cheering and stomping and screaming, and I finally take a deep breath, unclenching my fists.

“A qualified ride from Jackson Cody!” the announcer shouts. There’s more screaming, more stomping.

Jackson picks his hat up from where it fell and puts it back on his head.

He turns toward me, breathing hard.

Our eyes lock. Even halfway across the arena, I feel like his gaze is burning into me, scorching me from inside out. I swallow hard.

He touches the brim of his hat, just barely tipping it, our eyes locked the whole time. I think I actually go weak in the knees. It ignites something inside me the size of a bonfire, and I want him
right
now, so bad it hurts.

Then he turns and pulls himself over the gate, disappearing into the pens. The next rider’s announced.

I grit my teeth and look into the camera again, hoping I got some good shots. I force myself to breathe normally, to pay attention, and to act like one look from Jackson Cody didn’t just liquefy my insides.

* * *

I
spend
the rest of the rodeo agitated. I can’t get that
look
out of my head, and to make matters worse, after a few minutes he pops up on the opposite side of the arena to watch the rest of it.

Except every time I look over, he’s looking at me.

When it ends, everything is a flurry. Jackson is answering reporter questions from Bruce as well as the local TV station, the paper, and a couple rodeo magazines. Every time he takes a step, there’s a flock of women asking for his autograph, and he signs every single one with a smile on his face while I take pictures and stand around and act like I don’t care where he is or what he’s doing.

After a while, Bruce and I decide we’re finished, and we leave Jackson standing in the arena, still smiling away and signing autographs for cowgirls wearing a whole pile of sequins.

I wish I could stop thinking about that
look
, and I wish thinking about it didn’t make me feel like a pile of jello. I wish I wanted to sleep with
anyone
else, even Bruce, but I don’t. Just Jackson.

I try to watch TV in my motel room, but I’m too worked up. I can’t sit there and half hope that Jackson knocks on my door and half hope that he doesn’t, so I grab my jacket and camera and head for the fair. At least I can get some shots of kids eating ice cream and those big, spinning rides throwing neon light into the Oklahoma night sky.

I don’t make it to the fair. As I walk through the gates to the fairgrounds, waving at the guy in the booth, I see Jackson walking toward me.

For a second I panic and tell myself to just keep walking, because I’m certain that if anyone sees us talking, they’ll
know.
Not that there’s much to know. Not yet.

He walks up to me and stops.

“Hey there, Mae,” he says.

“Hey there, Jackson,” I say. I try to sound flippant, even as my stomach feels like a balloon filled with bats.

“I was just coming to see you,” he says.

I raise my eyebrows and try to look casual, even as I look around. There are people swirling and streaming around us, but I don’t know any of them.

That’s not the question, though. The question is whether any of them know
him
.

“What for?” I ask. “Haven’t you gotten your picture taken enough?”

“I wanted to make sure you got my good side today,” he says, and he grins that cocky grin he has. “So I can know which side to show you tomorrow.”

“That assumes you’ve got a good side,” I tease. “Could be it doesn’t matter which side you show me.”

“So they’re both good sides,” he says. “Good to know.”

I laugh, and Jackson looks behind me. I turn. There are two young women standing there, both in tight jeans and tank tops, cowboy boots, cowboy hats.

“You’re Jackson Cody, right?” one of them asks, standing nervously.

“Sure am,” he says. “How can I help you?”

“Will you sign this?” the other one asks, thrusting a rodeo program at him.

He takes it, then searches his pockets for a pen. I grab the pen I use for taking notes and hand it over, and he signs a messy
Jackson Cody
on two programs.

“Thanks,” one of the girls says, sounding a little breathless. “You rode real good today.”

“Thank you,” he says. “I just got lucky.”

I almost snort. I
know
he doesn’t think that.

“Good luck tomorrow!” the girls say, and then walk off, whispering to each other, and Jackson turns to me, pen still in hand. He steps closer, a little too close for being in public.

“What’d you think, Lula-Mae?” he asks.

“Mae,” I say, stubbornly.

“All right,
Mae
, what’d you think?”

His hazel eyes are dancing, and he looks so full of himself I can’t help it. I shrug.

“It was okay,” I say.

He raises his eyebrows.

“Just okay?” he says. “And here I thought I did pretty good, not getting thrown off or crushed.”

“All right, fine,” I say. I can’t look him in the eyes for a moment. “It’s terrifying. I thought my heart was gonna stop every time someone got on a bull, and I spent the whole time forcing myself not to cover my eyes.”

He chuckles.

“I’m not cut out for this,” I say, shaking my head.

“Nah, you’re tough as hell,” he says. “Even if you think you’re not.”

“I don’t want to watch someone die,” I say.

“That hardly ever happens,” he says. “Besides, I’ve got luck on my side.”

“How do you know it’s luck?” I ask.

“It’s a feeling I got,” he says. “The problem with that is I think the luck I got last night might have run out.”

“You say that like it’s my problem,” I tease.

He bends down, gets even closer. Sparks fly up my spine, but I don’t move, even though I feel like everyone who passes by is staring at us.

“I’ll kiss you right here if I have to, Lula-Mae,” he says, low enough that only I can hear it.

“What am I, the Blarney Stone?” I ask.

I can almost feel the heat rolling off of his body, he’s so close. Way,
way
too close for public.

“I’d kiss you again even if it got me thrown the rest of this tournament,” he says.

A middle-aged woman glances at us, and I think she frowns, though maybe I’m inventing things.

“It can be right here,” he says, leaning down even further. “There’s a mirror maze over that way. There’s a haunted house. There’s an empty field the other side of that fence. There’s your motel room in ten minutes. Just tell me when and where, Lula-Mae.”

My insides are a quivering mass of nerves and jello, but I stand up straight and look him in the eye.

“How scary is the haunted house?”

“You’ve got eight seconds until I kiss you,” he says. He waits a beat. “Seven.”

“Right here? Seriously?” I ask.

I don’t know why I’m playing with fire, but I am.

“Six.”

I look to the side and bite my lip, my entire brain shouting
no
and my whole body shouting
hell yes
.

“Five.”

I know for a fact that I could tell him no and he’d leave.

“Four.”

Say it,
I think.
Tell him no
.

“Three.”

I open my mouth to say
no, nothing’s going to happen
.

“Promise me you won’t get caught,” is what comes out.

Oops
.

“I promise I won’t get caught,” he says, a smile pulling up the corners of his lips.

“I’m serious,” I say.

“So am I, Lula-Mae,” he says. “Does that mean your motel room?”

Heat breaks across my whole body. I think I’m sweating again, because this is dumb and reckless and there’s also no way I’m going back on it
now
.

I just nod.

“I’ll knock on your door in ten minutes,” he says. “Without getting caught.”

“Okay,” I say. “See you soon.”

I look at him for another moment, resisting the urge to hold out a hand for a handshake, like we’ve just completed a business transaction.
Anything
to make it seem like we didn’t just agree to have sex in my room, because unless I’m really misunderstanding something, we did.

I walk back to the motel, praying I don’t look the mess I feel like. In the room, I turn off some of the lights so that everything looks
kind
of sexy. I throw my dirty clothes into a bag and shove it into a drawer.

Ten minutes pass. Fifteen.

I wonder if I should slip into something
more comfortable
, even though the only thing I’ve got is an oversized UT Austin shirt that I sleep in.

Seventeen minutes.

What if he’s not coming
, I think.
Maybe he got distracted by doing shots or buckle bunnies or —

There’s a knock, and I leap for the door, jerking it open.

Jackson’s standing there, leaning against the frame. He touches the brim of his hat with one hand.

“Evening, Miss Guthrie,” he says.

“Get in here,” I hiss, then shut the door as softly as I can behind him.

He tosses his hat onto the table and then grabs me by the hips. He pushes me against the door and crushes his mouth to mine, hot and needy as he kisses me hard and slow, like he can barely hold himself back.

“Did anyone see you?” I whisper when we pull apart.

“Course not,” he says. He kisses me below the ear, and then his lips slide down my neck. “I promised I wouldn’t get caught.”

We kiss again, and I slide my hands around his head, holding his lips hard against mine. I can already feel his erection through his jeans and mine, and he slowly runs his hands down my body, then hoists me.

I wrap my legs around his waist and he holds me up against the wall.

“Still persuasive,” he says.

My body feels like a river of fire. I’m breathing hard.

I hook one finger under the top button of his shirt and unbutton it, then unbutton the next two. He’s watching me with a grin on his face.

Then he picks me up and then drops me on the bed, and he’s on top of me, my legs wrapped around his hard, muscular waist, his clothed erection rubbing up against me.

“Ain’t you got anything to say?” he asks, his lips against my neck.

I laugh.

“Like what? You want me to say
we shouldn’t be doing this
again?”