Ride: A Bad Boy Romance (16 page)

* * *

I
wake
up the moment the sun rises. My stomach’s rolling and my head feels like someone’s mining my skull from the inside. I barely make it to the toilet before I puke my guts out, then sit on the edge of the tub, my head in my hands.

I don’t remember what happened after the fight. I think I went back into the bar, did another shot, and someone sober took me back here. I’m just glad that I’m alone this morning, and that I didn’t do something impossibly stupid.

It doesn’t matter
, I think.
She’s leaving, remember?

I throw up again. Then I get into the bathtub and sit there, naked except my boxers. The porcelain feels good against my skin.

She ain’t dead
, I think, staring up at the shower head.
Just in New York. It’s not even a different country
.

I cover my eyes with my hands, because it’s bright in here. I wish I could reach the bathroom light switch from the tub, but I can’t.

She’s not even working for Sports Weekly once that issue comes out
, I think.

Too bad that’s not your only problem
,
Jackson.

You were a dick to her when she turned you down last night
.

Goddammit.

After a couple more minutes I drag myself out of the bathtub and drink a couple little plastic cups of tap water. My stomach doesn’t like it, but sooner or later, I’ve gotta keep something down.

Outside, I hear a man’s voice. Then a woman’s.

Mae’s.

I don’t move. A trunk slams. A door shuts. An engine starts.

I have the urge to rush to the window, to watch her drive away with Bruce in the rental car. Like some sort of pathetic puppy.

Instead, I get back into bed and listen to the car drive away. Then I lay there, trying to go back to sleep.

An hour later, there’s a knock on the door. I pull my pants on, stomach lurching, and I open it.

It’s Raylan, wearing sunglasses. There’s a bruise purpling on one cheekbone, and he looks like hell. He holds out a huge bottle of blue Gatorade.

“Thought you might be feeling it this morning,” he says.

I open the door wider.

“Come on in,” I say, and take the Gatorade. “Thanks.”

I fall into one crappy chair, take a drink, then wipe my mouth. He falls into the other.

“Sorry about last night,” I say.

Raylan shakes his head.

“It’s all right,” he says. “Been a while since we got into a drunken fight on the sidewalk.”

“Six months at least,” I say.

“Was the last one Topeka?” he asks.

“Either that or Santa Fe,” I say.

“I forgot about Santa Fe,” he says.

“I skinned my elbow on the sidewalk in Santa Fe,” I say. “Took a month to heal.”

We both take long swigs of the blue drink. I’m slowly starting to feel less nauseous.

“We good?” I finally say.

Raylan nods.

Then he looks around.

“You alone in here?” he asks, sounding puzzled.

“Unless there’s someone under the bed,” I say.

He gives me a weird look.

“You won and went home alone?” he asks.

“Apparently so,” I say.

“Shit, Jackson,” he says. “I still got one asleep in my bed.”

I lean forward. My head pounds.

“Raylan,” I say. “I don’t know what you know about me and Mae, but you have got to keep it to yourself.”

“You made that point last night,” he says, and points to the bruise on his face.

“I said I was sorry.”

He finally smiles.

“Shit, I was just kidding until you punched me,” he said.

Goddammit.

“She’ll get fired,” I say, my head in my hand. “I don’t give a shit about me.”

“I ain’t gonna tell nobody,” Raylan says. “So long as she don’t make me look bad.”

I look at him. He laughs, then rubs his temples.

I stand and grab a bottle of Advil from my suitcase and set it on the table between us. Raylan takes about five, and I do too.

By the time we leave four hours later, the hangover’s almost gone.

* * *

T
here’s
three weeks between the end of Pioneer Days and the start of the Rodeo World Championships in Las Vegas. Raylan and I drive home from Oklahoma. I drop him off at his house in Eastern Colorado and then drive alone to my parents’ ranch eight more hours north in Sawtooth, Wyoming. I listen to country western radio the whole time.

It’s bright and clear and cold, though it hasn’t snowed yet. The sky stretches from horizon to horizon in a nonstop blue dome, and there’s nothing but waving yellow-green grass for nearly as far as I can see. It’s empty and wild, but this is where I’m from so I guess it’s home.

My parents welcome me home, and my mom even babies me for a full day before she puts me to work again. I don’t mind. I like baling hay and feeding animals and fixing fences and staring into ancient tractor engines with my dad, debating over which part is busted this time.

If I’m doing something, I’m not thinking about Mae. I’m not replaying our last conversation in my head, trying to figure out what I should have said instead.

I miss her. I miss her, and I want her, and I think I
like
her, and I hate it.

Sadie, my sister, even visits for a few days with her kids. Her husband can’t come, but my three nephews tear around the house and raise hell.

“Tyler’s almost old enough to ride a sheep,” I tease her.

Sadie gives me a stern look.

“Heck no,” she says. “These boys are
not
doing rodeo.”

“I’m offended,” I tease her.

“I never should have let your father put you on a bull,” my mother sighs.

I shrug.

“I’m pretty good at it,” I say.

“You scare the life outta me every time you get on one of those animals,” my mother says.

We all go silent for a moment, looking at each other. Tyler bangs a dump truck against the floor next to a dog. The dog doesn’t wake up.

“Cassie had her baby,” my mom volunteers. “Another boy. Cute as a button.”

“Yeah?” I say, as noncommittally as possible.

“That’s three now,” my mother points out.

“Mhm,” I say.

* * *

T
he night
before my issue of
Sports Weekly
hits the stands, my parents suddenly insist on going out to dinner. The nearest town, Sawtooth, is forty-five minutes away, but we pack up the six of us — my parents, me, Sadie, and her kids — and head to Luigi’s House of Spaghetti.

Everyone’s strangely quiet but nervous. I start to think that something might be up.

When we get there, the windows are dark.

“I think it’s closed,” I say.

“Oh, no,” my mom says. “They’re just using those new environmentally friendly lightbulbs.”

That
doesn’t make any sense, but I go with it.

They make me go first, and the moment I push the door open, the lights fly on.

“SURPRISE!” a room full of people shouts.

I stop in my tracks and look around, and then I start laughing.

“It’s your release party!” Sadie says.

On a table is a big stack of
Sports Weekly
.

“I thought it came out tomorrow,” I say.

“We know people,” my mom says, and winks. “Stores got it in yesterday and I pulled some strings.”

Of course she did. Sawtooth has a population of three thousand. She knows everyone.

Sadie hands me a copy, and I look at it.

I’m on the cover. It’s weird as hell to see myself there: smiling at the camera, looking kind of cocky. Arms folded. I’m leaning against the side of the arena, hat on.

I don’t even remember Mae taking this picture, but she took a lot of them.

In big letters across the bottom, it says

I
let out a whistle
.

“Rockstar,” I say, because I don’t know what else to say. Even though I knew I was going to be on the cover, it feels surreal.

“Open it!” my mom says.

I start flipping through, but she shoves an open copy into my hands, so I take that.

Spread across two pages is one of the shots Mae took in the stable. I’m facing Crash Junction.We’re staring at each other. I’ve got him by one horn. There’s sunlight peeking through the windows and we’re both half-lit and golden.

It nearly leaps off the page with energy, with potential. Staring at it, I’ve got the feeling that something is just
about
to happen, something powerful and raw, and this photo captures the last quiet second before everything explodes.

Hell, it takes my breath away, and I was
there
.

“It’s a great article, honey,” my mom says, and kisses my cheek.

* * *

L
ate that night
, in my trailer, I finally get to read the whole thing: story by Bruce McMurtry, photos by Mae Guthrie.

It’s good. It’s exciting. Reading it, even I get keyed up about my final round, riding Crash Junction. I’m disappointed when I fall off.

The photos are mostly action shots, though there’s one from the night we all went to Betty’s, five of us holding up shots. Raylan’s saying something.

On the last page is one she took of me on our last night together. I’m standing in the bucking chute, face half-lit, moonlight on the sand past the gate. I’m looking toward it.

When Mae took it, I could practically still feel her on my skin.

T
he photos are
due to my editors three days after I get back to New York, so all I do for those three days is edit. I pick the best hundred from thousands and then go over them in detail. I fix lighting levels, I sharpen textures, I compare two pictures that are almost exactly the same until it feels like my eyes might bleed.

After a while, I can even manage to ignore that they’re all pictures of Jackson.

At the end, I send them off and fall into bed for twelve hours.

* * *

I
stay busy
, because it keeps my mind off things. I go back and forth with the people at Sports Weekly, and I string together a couple more freelance jobs. The rodeo finally paid enough to give me a slight cushion, something to fall back on if work ever gets really slow, but I don’t want to get lazy and rely on that.

Maybe when it comes out I’ll suddenly be in demand, but that hasn’t happened yet. I do a low-level fashion shoot and take pictures for a private high school’s marketing brochure.

I go out with my friends and my roommates, Sasha and Dani. I show them pictures of the sexy cowboy and they’re all smitten instantly. They try to get his number, and I laugh and tell them no.

I don’t tell them that we got a lot more than professional.

Then it’s release day. I steel myself as I walk to the news stand. I’ve never actually bought
Sports Weekly
before, but it’s right up front, next to The Economist and the New Yorker.

Jackson’s on the cover. Grinning at me. I stare back at him.

It’s a great picture, but he’s so good-looking it takes me a little by surprise. Not that I didn’t know, but I think I started to take it for granted after looking at his face for seventy-two hours straight.

I wonder how many women have walked by here only to pick up a copy and suddenly develop a new crush. I buy a copy and then stand on the sidewalk, going over every single photo.

I can remember where I was when I took each of them, and I remember what was happening for most of them.

The front photo, with Jackson’s hand on Crash’s horn? He was about to apologize for being an asshole.

The picture of the group doing shots? A minute later he was on stage, singing
Friends in Low Places
.

The last photo, the one of him in the bucking chute? We’d just finished having sex, and he was talking quietly, staring out into the arena. Wondering if he’d be happier if he’d settled down and had kids.

That quiet, introspective Jackson isn’t in the article. In it he lives up to his reputation as cocky charmer who can never quite follow the rules, who drinks too much, parties hard, goes through women like a hot knife through butter, and wins rodeo after rodeo.

I wonder which one is the real Jackson. It’s probably both.

* * *

I
t’s nearly
ten that night when Jackson calls. I almost don’t answer, because I have no idea what to say — sorry for being a jerk, but we’re still probably never going to see each other again?

“You see my cover story, Lula-Mae?” he asks. He even
sounds
far away.

“Of course,” I say. “I bought myself a copy.”

“They didn’t give you one?” he asks.

“I got impatient,” I say. “It’s good. Bruce is a good writer.”

“It’s the photos that make it,” he says.

I laugh.

“I thought so too,” I say. “Did I get your good side?”

“They’re all good sides,” he says.

I hear a bang on the other end.

“What was that?” I ask.

“Shut a cabinet too hard,” Jackson says. “I’m at my house.”

“You mean your trailer on your parents’ ranch.”

“It’s a house,” he says. “It’s got walls, a roof, and I’m hooked up to the electric and water.”

“That also applies to a lot of barns,” I say.

“Miss Guthrie, are you implying that I’m an animal?” he says, and I can hear the smile in his voice.

“Well,” I say. “If it walks like a duck and talks like a duck...”

“If I have to be an animal, you can do better than a duck,” he says.

“A goose?” I tease. “A swan?”

“If I have to be a bird, an eagle at least,” he says. “Something with a little majesty.”

I laugh, and the line goes silent for a moment. I think again about the last time we talked, how we left things angry and uncomfortable. I hate that it’s hanging over my head.

“I’m sorry for being such a bitch,” I say, my words all coming out in a rush. “I could have been a lot nicer.”

“I was an asshole,” Jackson says. “I had no right to get mad at you for not wanting to sleep with me again.”

It wasn’t that I didn’t want to
, I think, but I don’t say it out loud.

“Thanks,” I say, and flop backwards onto my bed.

“Did Bruce ever say anything else?” he asks.

“Not a peep. To me, anyway, and I don’t think he’d tell anyone else.”

Jackson sighs into the phone.

“Raylan knew,” he says.

I tense up.

“Kinda because I told him. We were real drunk and he made a crack and things got a little out of hand,” he says.

“Out of hand?” I ask.

“I took a swing at him,” Jackson says, sounding resigned. “I mean, we get into it a couple times a year because we spend so much time together we gotta let off some steam. But he was kidding until I put him in a headlock and made him swear not to tell.”

I don’t know if I’m embarrassed or impressed by this. Maybe both.

“We’re good now,” Jackson says. “Besides, it doesn’t matter any more. The magazine’s out.”

“We’re free to be pen pals,” I say, trying to make a joke. “I always wanted one as a kid.”

“Did you know that Wyoming has this thing called the internet?” Jackson says.

“Shut up,” I laugh.

“It’s true,” he goes on. “It’s not just for fancy big city folks anymore.”

“You’re putting words in my mouth.”

“It’s faster than the pony express, even,” he goes on.

“Okay, I get it,” I say, still laughing. “You don’t want to be pen pals. Fine.”

Pals
is not the word for what I want from him.

“I’m just saying, we could video chat instead of writing letters,” he says.

I look down at myself quickly: oversized t-shirt, ugly old boxer shorts, hair in a bun because I haven’t washed it in three days.

“Maybe later,” I say. “I’m already in my pajamas.”

“I wasn’t even going to ask what you were wearing,” he says.

“You weren’t?” I say.

There’s a pause. I bite my lip and squeeze my eyes shut, because now I’m wondering what
he’s
wearing, whether he’s also lying on his bed, thinking about me.

“That doesn’t mean I didn’t wonder,” he says, slowly. His voice drops in a way that sends a shiver through my whole body, and I turn bright red.

“Do you want to know?” I say.

In the kitchen of my apartment, one of my roommates starts doing the dishes, and I wonder if she can hear me talking on the phone. I get off my bed, turn some music on, and flop back on my bed.

“I feel like a bad cliché,” Jackson says. “I swear I just called to say hello.”

There’s a low ache starting inside me. It’s torture. I don’t want to want him but I still do, even when it’s just his voice.

“An oversized college t-shirt and an old pair of boxers,” I say.

Immediately, I wish I’d lied.

“Are you in bed?” he asks.

“I’m on my bed,” I say. “Where are you?”

“I’m sitting at my kitchen table,” he says. “I’ve got the lights off and I’m looking out the window at the stars.”

I look at the tiny window in my bedroom. The curtains are closed, but I know what’s behind it.

“I’m looking out the window at a brick wall, and I can hear my roommate doing the dishes,” I say.

Jackson laughs.

“Can your roommate hear you?” he asks.

“I hope not,” I say.

There’s a pause, and I hear something creak on his end. Something about this feels dangerous, in a completely different way than being with him in person did. It feels like somehow, this makes it
real
.

“If you hung up now and pretended this never happened I wouldn’t blame you,” he says.

My heart seizes.

“Do you want me to hang up?” I ask.

“No,” he says.

I swallow. Then I take a deep breath, close my eyes, and steel myself for the sentence I’m about to say.

“Jackson, I’m so wet right now,” I whisper.

He exhales, and I can’t say why, but it sounds like he’s smiling.

“From talking to me?” he asks. His voice is low and growly again.

“Yes,” I say. My face is on fire, and I’m certain that I’m bright red.

I have
no
idea how to have phone sex, but here goes nothing.

“Take your clothes off,” he says. “I want to imagine you naked.”

I do it and flop back on the bed.

“My nipples are hard, too,” I say.

Do I just describe the things that are happening?

“Touch them,” he says. “I like how you moan when I rub them between my fingers.”

I pinch one nipple and then rub it between my fingers. I squeeze my legs together but it doesn’t even quell the throbbing there. I hear myself sigh into the phone.

“Shit, Lula-Mae, I’m hard as a rock,” he says.

“Tell me more about that,” I say.

Not sexy
.

Jackson chuckles into the phone.

“I’m sitting at my kitchen table, staring at the sky and thinking about you touching yourself halfway across the country,” he says. “You’re driving me wild and I can’t even see you.”

“This feels better when you do it,” I say.

Jackson groans.

“Take your cock out and stroke it slow,” I say. My eyes are still shut, my legs still clamped together against the constant, hollow throb as I imagine Jackson next to a window, big cock in one hand, eyes closed as he leans his head against the wall.

“I’d rather have you here,” he says. “Thinking about you and jerking off gets old, you know.”

“It’s only been a week and a half,” I say.

He just chuckles. I bite my lip.

“I wish I was there too,” I say. “Even if I was just watching you touch yourself.”

“Really?” he says.

I slide my hand down my belly, over my hips.

“Really,” I whisper. “You’re sexy.”

“Tell me what you’re doing now,” he says.

I slide one finger over my clit. I’m so turned on that it feels swollen, sensitive to the touch.

“Rubbing my clit,” I say.

In the kitchen, the water goes off, and I pray my roommates can’t hear me.

“I wish I was eating you out,” he says, half-groaning. “I wish I had my tongue on your clit and my fingers in your pussy, and I could watch you come undone.”

I gasp, my fingers sliding along myself.

“I want my face between your thighs as you come and come,” he says. “I want to lick you until you think you can’t come again, and you’re shaking.”

He swallows, breathing hard. My fingers are circling my clit faster and faster.

“I want your cock,” I blurt out, and he groans. “Inside me.”

“Say it again,” he says.

“I want your cock inside me,” I say.

My toes curl. I gasp again, trying not to make much noise. I imagine Jackson, cock out at the table, and I imagine getting on top of him and riding it.

“Fuck, Lula-Mae, I can’t hold on when you talk like that,” Jackson

“Make me come,” I say. My fingers are slippery and working my clit fast as I think about the last time we had sex, when I came so hard I thought I couldn’t move afterward.

“If I was there I’d fuck so hard you screamed when you came,” he says. “Just for how good your pussy feels when you come—”

On the other end there’s a small crash and a faraway groan.

I grit my teeth together and let my orgasm burst through me, my fingers working like mad. A single noise works its way out of my throat but the waves are already wracking through me as I roll onto my side, my ear on top of the phone as I squeeze my legs together, trying not to make any noise.

I’m breathing hard, shockwaves still going through me. I can feel my pussy twitching.

I keep my eyes closed, listening to Jackson come, imagining how he looks, with one hand around his thick cock.