Ride: A Bad Boy Romance (5 page)

G
ood Lord
, he’s charming.

I don’t look back even once as I cross the parking lot, but I’d swear I can feel his eyes on me as I walk. They’re like a hot breeze slipping through my clothes and caressing me, even though it’s downright chilly in Oklahoma in November. I’m starting to understand what all the buckle bunnies see in him.

I smile as I unlock my motel room door, because
buckle bunnies
is a pretty good phrase.

I don’t even turn the lights on in the room, just flop face-down on the bed in the dark and inhale the scent of cheap laundry detergent.

At least it smells like detergent and not something else
, I think.
I wouldn’t want to take a black light to this room
.

I wrinkle my nose and roll over on the bed, so at least my face isn’t pressed into the probably-gross comforter, and I try to make a mental list of everything I need to do before tonight.

Instead I think about Jackson, offering to keep me company during my nap. I don’t think I’ve ever been propositioned that boldly by someone who wasn’t wild-eyed and shouting on the subway, and I’ve definitely never wanted to take someone up on it before.

There’s something magnetic about Jackson, and I can’t even put my finger on it. He’s unbelievably good looking, sure, but I’ve met good-looking men before. Is it the way that he’s beyond confident, like he knows you’re going to wind up in bed with him, it’s just a matter of when?

Is it the way that
somehow
, he talks to me like I’m the only other person in the world?

Whatever it is, it’s working, because instead of doing my job, I’m lying on this bed thinking about Jackson. At least there’s good news: he definitely doesn’t remember me. Otherwise, why not bring it up when we were alone?

You’re not eighteen anymore
, I remind myself.
You’re not a drunk virgin just out of high school, even if he kind of makes you feel that way.

For one thing, you’ve touched several penises since then.
Including poor Andrew’s.

Andrew was a guy on my freshman hall, and even now, when I think about him I feel guilty. We hooked up about a month into my freshman year of college.

He was the first guy I got with after my disaster night with Jackson, and I’ll just say that when I first saw him naked I was... expecting
more
.

Turns out Andrew was a little above average, actually. Not that I got to see him naked again after that night. Guys don’t like it when you look at their erections, make a face, and say
oh
in a disappointed voice.

I still can’t believe I did that. God, I was such a jerk, and I didn’t even mean to be. It’s been five years and I still feel awful, though I’m sure Andrew is doing fine.

I take a deep breath and put one arm over my face, willing myself not to fall asleep before I can at least check my equipment and take a shower.

Just don’t sleep with him,
I think.
That’s all there is to it.

By tonight, I’m sure there will be crowds of buckle bunnies eager to take him to bed, at least if what I’ve been reading about Jackson is even half-true. I probably won’t even talk to him one-on-one again.

He was probably just hitting on you out of habit
, I think.
He sees a woman alone and tries to get her into bed.

Like when you get tapped on the knee and kick. It’s just a reflex.

The thought is mostly comforting, if a little disappointing.

I yawn and kick my shoes off, pulling my feet onto the bed and rolling onto my side. Just resting for five more minutes.

* * *

I
wake
up to my phone ringing in my pocket, and I jerk upright with no idea where I am or what’s going on. The afternoon light is slicing through the small gap in the curtains, and I’m so disoriented I almost don’t know which way is up.

But I pull out my phone anyway. It’s Bruce.

“Afternoon, Mae,” he says. “Sorry if I woke you.”

I clear my throat, rub my eyes with one hand, and try to get a grip. I hardly ever take naps, because whenever I do, I’m just
out
of it for the rest of the day.

“It’s fine,” I say. “Did you want to talk about tonight?”

“I’d like to convene in my motel room in about thirty minutes, if that works for you,” he says.

A panic hammer hits me right in the chest, and I scan the room for a clock, because I don’t have a clue what time it is.

“Thirty minutes sounds great,” I lie.

“Excellent,” he says. “I made some good contacts today, and I’m looking forward to working on this assignment with you.”

“Same,” I say.

Well, except instead of doing something, I fell asleep by accident for several hours. But otherwise, same.

We hang up. I leap off the bed, hit the lights, and race into the shower.

* * *

T
hirty-five minutes
later I’m dressed in a different black t-shirt, jeans, and a jacket. My hair is dried, and I’ve got a camera and lens suitable to medium-distance action shots.

Sure, my motel room looks like a tornado hit it and I nearly pulled out a chunk of hair trying to blow it dry as fast as possible, but nobody needs to know about that part. They just need to know that Mae Guthrie, consummate professional photographer, is on the job.

Bruce’s door is slightly open, and he leaves it that way after I come inside. I’m confused for a moment, but then I realize: he’s a middle-aged man and I’m a young woman. The open door means that anyone can walk by at any time and see that all we’re doing is talking.

It’s smart. It makes me relax a little, and it makes me appreciate Bruce.

“So the trick of this assignment,” he says, sitting in an ugly wooden chair opposite me, “is that it needs to combine a couple of things. It needs to be a story about the sport of rodeo, of course, but it’s also a snapshot of rodeo culture as it exists right now, as well as a biographical piece on Jackson Cody.”

“Piece of cake,” I say dryly. It gets a smile from Bruce.

“After Larry’s appendix burst, I actually went through the portfolios of several photographers,” Bruce says. “You had the shortest resume but the best photos.”

“Thank you,” I say, sitting up a little straighter.

On the inside, I’m jumping up and down and pumping my fists.

“In particular, you had a series of photos of high school football players in your hometown, and there was one that stuck with me. It’s in the locker room, and the quarterback and a few other players are standing there, after a game, pads still on. They’d just won, and they’re laughing. There’s one locker open in the background, and inside it there’s a Whataburger uniform, because one of the players had rushed to the game from his shift.”

I just nod. Bruce McMurtry is a well-known sports journalist, and he’s telling me why I got picked for the assignment that could change my life.

“That picture is what I’m looking for from this,” he says. “That juxtaposition of life at the rodeo for these people, especially for Jackson, and life outside the rodeo. People come here for a reason, for fun or escape or just diversion, and I want your photos to make it exactly clear to the reader what it offers them.”

I almost ask him if he’d also like me to lasso the moon while I’m at it, but I don’t. I just nod again.

“I grew up around this kind of thing,” I say. “I’ve got a pretty good idea of what I’m looking for. Tonight’s all about the spectacle of rodeo. Rhinestones, glitter, big American flags, all that. It’s also about figuring out lenses and shutter speeds.”

“Perfect,” he says, and stands. “I think this is going to turn out beautifully.”

We walk to the arena, chatting about our plans in bursts and snippets.

But inside, I think I’m about ready to explode with a combination of pride and nervousness.

This is my big break, my one shot, and I’m going to
nail
it.

R
aylan hands
me the flask back, and I swish it from side to side, frowning at him.

“You’re gonna drink me out of house and home,” I tell him, tilting the flask up. I take the last swallow of whiskey and let it settle in my belly before I put the flask back in my pocket.

“What, out of that trailer in your momma’s back yard?” he asks.

“Don’t knock it,” I say.

Raylan and I have been traveling from rodeo to rodeo together for a couple years now, ever since Buck left. He probably knows more about me than anyone alive except maybe my mother. Hell, we even slept in the same bed more often than not for a while since it was all we could afford.

“When you’re a big star you ought to buy your own double-wide,” he says, still grinning. “Maybe get a house that don’t feel like it’s gonna fall over in a high wind.”

We’re leaning up against the barrier, and in the arena in front of us is a whole team of eight-year-olds, riding small horses around, fully decked out in their cowboy best as the announcer tells us all their names. Apparently these kids have won some kind of civic award from school, and their reward is riding a horse around in front of all these cheering people.

There’s a country song playing loud, there’s horses and cowboys and even a couple cowgirls, and out of the blue it
gets
me, just like it does every time.

It’s the feeling that I’m home now. That I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be, doing what I’m supposed to do.

The music is cheesy and the announcer isn’t really funny, but I remember the first time I rode in a rodeo. I was even younger than these kids, sheep riding at the Converse County Fair back home in Wyoming.

I barely remember my first kiss, but that first ride is crystal clear, even now. Clutching the wool on the back of some old, cranky ewe. The gate opening and the sheep jogging out, me clinging to its back for all I was worth. The sheep never got above a trot, and I only lasted four seconds before I fell off anyway, but even at that tender age I was hooked.

Rodeo’s all I’ve ever wanted to do since. There just ain’t nothin’ else like it.

The kids on horses exit. The announcer talks for a minute about one of the sponsors, Ford trucks, and then the rodeo queen comes out, a smiling blond eighteen-year-old in full cowgirl regalia, rhinestone hat included.

She takes a circuit, followed by all the girls who wanted to be queen but lost, sitting proud on their big horses.

It goes on like that, people entering and exiting, girl scouts and boy scouts and the high school rodeo team, all that small-town America stuff that I grew up with and still love. I’m a country boy at heart. I like horses and big trucks and pretty girls and the smell of dirt. I can’t help it.

Speaking of pretty girls, I’ve been scanning for Mae but I haven’t seen her yet. I thought she’d be here somewhere, but maybe she decided to skip this and get a good night’s sleep. There’s no real sports happening right now, just the showy stuff.

Then Raylan nudges me and cocks his head at the announcer’s platform, on metal legs about fifteen feet above the ground, over the bucking chutes. On it is a blond woman wearing jeans and a black t-shirt, a camera up to her face.

“That the photographer?” he asks, looking at up her.

She takes the camera away from her face, looks at the back, and adjusts something very carefully, a look of total concentration on her face.

“Yeah, that’s Mae,” I say.

“You failed to mention that she was a pretty young thing,” he says, and gives me a joking look. “From the way you talked about her, I thought she was practically an ogre.”

Something tightens in my chest, something unpleasant and ugly. I brush it away and shrug.

“You know now,” I say. “Besides, she’s working. Good luck.”

Raylan just laughs, like he’s not fooled at all.

“She turn you down?” he teases. “You’re sore about
something
.”

“Not in so many words,” I say. “I got a talking to from Darlene about her.”

“When has that ever stopped you?”

I look at Mae again. Now she’s standing on the platform. It’s got a railing around it, but the platform’s not too big and the railing doesn’t look that sturdy.

“Darlene made a good point about sleeping with the person whose article is gonna introduce you to bankers in Connecticut,” I admit.

“You’re not half as dumb as you act, you know,” Raylan says.

“I’m here, ain’t I?” I ask, grinning. “I’m plenty dumb. If I had any sense I’d have become a firefighter or a coal miner or some other safe occupation. I can pass one girl up. It ain’t like I’m hurting for pussy.”

He stops looking at Mae and sweeps his eyes around the grandstand, grinning.

“That’s God’s own truth,” he says. “Ain’t none of us hurting for pussy.”

Mae’s standing next to a guy in a suit and bolo tie, showing him something on her camera. As I watch, she slips the strap from around her neck, moving the camera so he can see it better as she points to something on the back of it.

In the arena, some teenagers are doing a cattle-roping exhibition, lassoing cows, knocking them over and tying their legs together. They’re not quite skilled enough to make it look effortless, but they’re pretty good.

They let the cow back into the chute. The next one opens.

Just as the steer bolts out, there’s a commotion on the platform above, arms waving.

Something falls into the sand about thirty feet from where we’re standing, something black and a little boxy. Raylan and I both watch it for a moment, frowning. Then I realize what it is.

It’s Mae’s camera.

Up above, she’s got both her hands over her mouth, as the steer and the cowboys chasing him tear around the arena, not paying her or it any mind at all.

The steer corners and then doubles back. A lasso falls into the sand behind it, and now the steer is bearing down on Mae’s camera.

I vault over the barrier and run for it.