Ride: A Bad Boy Romance (7 page)

T
his wasn’t really
how it was supposed to go, but I’m rolling with it. Instead of quietly taking pictures from the background, somehow the pictures have become the main attraction.

Right now, there’s a half-naked lady on a couch holding a cowboy hat over her chest. She’s alternating between looking at the camera flirtatiously and trying to get her bra back from Raylan, who’s holding it just out of her reach.

She’s not trying that hard. Neither of them are, but it’s a good diversion from Jackson, who’s got a girl on his lap right now and keeps sloppily making out with her.

I don’t mind. There’s no version of reality in which I have a claim on him, and it’s not like I didn’t know what I was getting into by coming here.

That doesn’t mean I have to
watch
.

“Ray
lan
!” the half-naked girl squeals, and lunges across his lap for her bra, her ass sticking into the air.

Raylan looks at the camera and grins, and I snap it.

“Okay, everybody,” says a woman’s voice behind me, and I turn. Everyone turns, and the crowd quiets a little.

It’s a middle-aged woman, streaks of gray in her brown hair, stern face.

“This ain’t a nudie establishment,” she says, picking up two empty pitchers. “Ladies, please keep your clothes
on
, you got that?”

She stares hard at the half-naked girl. The half-naked girl actually blushes. I’d love to get a picture of them both, a wide-angle shot, but I’m not in a good spot for it. Crap.

“Sorry, Betty,” the girl says, and everyone else mutters an apology too.

Betty grabs a few more empties and leaves. Amazingly, most of the cowboys there look slightly chastened, and I raise my eyebrows.

The half-naked girl takes her shirt and bra and slinks off to the bathroom. I take the chance to fade into the background again, lean against a wall, and just watch.

Karaoke kicks up again. The girl finally gets off of Jackson’s lap and walks off somewhere else, and he stands and joins another karaoke group. None of them can carry a tune in a bucket, but everyone is so wasted that they hardly notice, or if they notice, they don’t care.

I’m trying some shots with a slightly longer exposure, the camera kept still on a table, when one of the cowboys who isn’t singing walks over to me. I think his name is... Clay, or Wyatt, or Trevor, or something else typical.

“You takin’ pictures?” he asks, coming up behind me. His voice is slurred, and it makes his accent sound particularly thick.

“Actually, I’m a minion of Satan and I’ve been sent here with this soul-capturing device,” I say. “If I can capture a hundred souls in one day, he’ll give me a bonus. I’m saving up to buy a house in the nice part of Hell.”

I click the shutter and hold my breath, giving the exposure an extra moment. Then I look over at Clay-Wyatt-Trevor, and he just blinks at me.

“What?” he says, his face a mask of confusion.

“Yes, I’m taking pictures,” I say.

He frowns.

“You said something about Satan,” he says.

“You must be hearing things,” I say. “I’m a photographer for
Sports Weekly
, covering the rodeo.”

I know I shouldn’t mess with drunk people, but it’s so tempting sometimes, especially when I’m the only sober one around.

“Right,” he says, and gives his head a little shake, like he can knock his confusion out through an ear. “You like it?”

I turn away from the camera for a moment and look at him. He’s young, probably college-aged, though I don’t know if he’s ever been to a college course.

Most of these guys haven’t. Rodeo riders are young, because the younger they are, the more reckless, and the faster broken bones and punctured lungs heal.

Bull riding breaks people, and it breaks them fast. Most of the guys here are my age or younger, and it can be easy to forget.

“I like—” I start, but someone else swoops in and snatches my camera off the table, laughing wildly and running away.

“Hey!” I shout, and go after him, my heart squeezing in my chest.

He turns and looks at me. It’s Jackson’s friend Raylan, and he rushes off to a knot of young men.

“Cover me, y’all!” he says, and pushes between them.

I grind my teeth together, but I know better than to get outwardly upset. I know Raylan’s type. I grew up with Raylan’s type, and he never got much beyond pulling cute girls’ pigtails just to get a reaction.

He’s just gotten away with it for about ten years longer than he should have.

“I hope you got four thousand dollars if you break that,” I call.

I force myself to walk, not run, to where he is. He’s standing behind a couple other guys, his back turned.

The other guys look a little alarmed when I say
four thousand dollars
. It’s not hard to push my way past them, and then I stand there, arms crossed.

“Give it back, Raylan,” I say.

I just watched him play keep away with another girl’s bra, and I’m not about to fall into the trap of looking like I’m enjoying this or flirting with him.

“Come get it,” he says, and turns around.

I have a bad feeling that I know what he just did with my camera. Black flames of rage kindle in my chest, but I don’t do anything. I know better than to seem upset.

Instead, I hold out one hand.

“This is my job,” I say. “You break that one, I’m out on the street.”

Now the other cowboys look
really
nervous. Raylan considers this, the humor draining from his face.

The karaoke song ends, and suddenly everyone’s looking at our standoff.

“It’s right here,” he says, wiggling it a little.

My stomach lurches. If he drops the camera, I’m
screwed
. I’ll probably have to go into Oklahoma City to get another one and put
that
on my credit card, and God only knows when I’ll be able to pay it off — not to mention I’ll lose a day of shooting.

From the corner of my eye, I see Jackson walk over. For a moment, I’m afraid that Raylan is going to toss the camera to him or something, and then Jackson’s going to run somewhere with it.

It’s like I’m on a playground. With children, except these children ought to know better by now.

The flames of anger grow.

“Give me the camera,” I say, keeping my voice low and soft.

Raylan looks around at the other people, but they all look uneasy, and I think he realizes he’s the only one still playing the game.

He hands it back, and I take it with both hands, holding it as tight as I can.

Then he smirks.

“Let me know if you see anything you like,” he says.

Now I’m
certain
I know what he did with my camera. I turn it on, and after a second, the viewfinder screen lights up.

I scroll back one picture and I’m not thrilled to see I was right: there’s a blurry, grainy photo of a flesh-toned tube sticking out of a pair of jeans.

Raylan’s grinning, and I’m so mad I’m shaking.

They would never do this if I were a man,
I think.
I wouldn’t have to play these stupid games. I wouldn’t get hit on by the people I’m trying to photograph.

I could just do my job
.

I know better than to show them how angry I really am, because that’s just want these cocky, idiotic, amped-up man-children want. Instead I cock my head slightly and frown, like I’m trying to figure out what it’s a picture of.

“Is that your finger?” I finally say.

The other guys chuckle. Raylan’s grin broadens, like he’s trying to cover something.

“Ain’t no finger,” he says.

I squint.

“You sure?” I ask, and then extend one pinky, trying to match the angle of the penis in the picture.

The other guys laugh more, and Raylan starts to frown.

“You can just admit you like it, you know,” he says. I think he’s trying to sound cocky, but he just sounds sulky.

Now I laugh.

“It’s not even that cold in here,” I say, and now everyone’s on my side here, and we’re all laughing at Raylan, who’s flustered and trying not to act it.

“That wasn’t all the way out,” he says, but no one’s listening anymore.

I hit the delete button. I’m still nearly shaking with fury, but I feel like I’ve got a handle on the situation. I feel like I’ve won.

“Raylan, if I wanted pictures of small peckers, I’d photograph birds,” I say. “Leave my camera alone from now on.”

I turn and walk away, pretending that I’ve got something else pressing to do. Out of the corner of my eye, I can see Jackson go up to Raylan, but I step away before I can hear anything.

I pretend to take more pictures, but I’m barely paying attention. I’m still mad and slowly getting madder: mad that I have to put up with this bullshit, mad that I have to insult someone’s penis in order to get my job done, mad that no one else seems to
mind
.

After about fifteen minutes, I give up. I grab my jacket and slip out of Betty’s quietly, hoping that no one’s noticed me leave. It’s only eleven, but the whole rodeo crowd is beyond drunk, so I don’t think anyone’s paying attention.

I haven’t even crossed the street before I hear someone shout my name. It sounds like Jackson, so I take a deep breath before I turn around, forcing my anger back down.

“Yes?” I say, all my muscles going stiff.

“You okay?” he asks.

He smells like beer and whiskey, and his eyes are a little loose in his head.

“Just tired,” I say. I keep one hand firmly on my camera.

He jerks one thumb over his shoulder.

“Listen,” he says. “I’m real sorry about Raylan, he’s like this when he gets drunk but he don’t mean anything by it. He was just having some fun with you, but I think you put an end to that.”

I snort.

“Don’t worry, I’m learning that apparently harassment is just part and parcel of this gig,” I say, sarcasm slicing through my words.

Jackson looks drunkenly taken aback.

“Harassment?” he asks.

“Yeah, that’s the word for when someone shows you their dick against your will,” I say. “You need me to spell it?”

I take a deep breath, because I don’t want to get into a fight with the guy I’m here to photograph. I know full well that he’ll never think there’s anything wrong with what Raylan did, just like he didn’t think there’s anything wrong with propositioning me for sex an hour after we met.

“Jackson, I just want to do my job,” I say. “Not look at bad pictures of Raylan’s junk. Not spend my time turning down your advances. Just my job.”

We look at each other for a long moment, and for a second, I think I might be getting through to him.

Then he tucks his thumb into his belt and grins that swaggering, sexy grin that he has. For once, it doesn’t work on me.

“So don’t turn ‘em down,” he says.

I turn and walk across the street without even waiting for the light to change.

“Mae!” he shouts. “Mae, come on.”

I get into the car without even looking back, drive back to the motel, and pretty much fall into bed. Of course Jackson completely missed the point, but what was I expecting? He spends all his time in a world where men are macho caricatures and women are buckle bunnies.

You could just leave and go back to New York
, I think.
Stop dealing with these immature jerks. Invent an emergency or something
.

It’s tempting, but there’s no way I’ll give up the best chance I’ve got at really
making
it.

Totally unbidden, I think of Jackson clinging to the gate of the bucking chute today, grinning up at me, rescued camera in his hand. I know full well that he was just showing off, but I can’t help thinking he was showing off for
me
, and he risked his neck to do it.

As sleep pulls me under, I think:
I’d really like to stop wanting to have sex with Jackson Cody.

T
he next day’s
got a rough start. I wake up the minute the sunlight hits the cheap green curtains, just like always, even though it feels like a pair of gorillas are slugging it out in my head. I take a deep breath, sigh, and then look to the other side of the bed.

Empty.

I look at it for a long moment, even though my eyes feel like someone’s taken a high-pressure fire hose to them, and I wait for the night before to piece itself together. We were at Betty’s. There were shots and karaoke, and I know there was a girl sitting in my lap, asking me if I was going to take her home.

I close my eyes again and scoot over in the double bed, the cool sheets briefly making me feel better, and more comes back.

Mae taking photos. Some girl with her shirt off, Betty coming over and putting a stop to that. More karaoke, and then Mae giving Raylan a dressing-down for some dumbass thing he did.

The sidewalk. Mae telling me she just wants to do her job, her leaving, me going back inside where I did another shot of Jack.

I pull a pillow over my face, remembering what happened next: getting in Raylan’s face, both of us drunk as hell. I think I shouted something about dick harassment and he shouted something about a bitch who couldn’t take a joke, and then we got pulled apart.

There’s flashes of me making out with some girl in the bathroom, then flashes of getting a ride back to the motel from the rodeo veterinarian, who kept asking if I was gonna puke in his car.

I didn’t. I think.

I came home alone and crashed, and now I’m here, paying for it.

“Goddamn,” I mutter, and push myself out of bed.

* * *

E
veryone’s hurting today
. Everyone except Mae, who didn’t drink a thing, and seems refreshed and spry as a spring chicken.

I pull myself together with about ten cups of coffee and a pound of bacon, then grab one more cup and stand around the arena, watching the ropers practice on each other. The rodeo proper doesn’t start until two in the afternoon, so until then there’s nothing to do besides wander around, breathing in the tense air.

Bull riding doesn’t start tonight. It starts tomorrow night and goes for three nights. By the end of the third, someone’s the champion.

My pulse pounds, just thinking about it. The head rush, the pure force of nature, the feeling when you leap off after eight seconds and the crowd roars.

There ain’t nothing like it in the whole world.

After about an hour, I see Bruce and Mae making their way around the arena. There’s still thirty minutes before the rodeo opens again, so people are trickling into the stands but most are still hanging around the fair, riding the Ferris wheel or buying knickknacks in the old west town they’ve got set up.

I realize that the two of them are walking over to me, so I stand up a little straighter, try not to look so hungover. I’m sure Mae can see right through it, but maybe Bruce won’t know.

“Jackson,” Bruce says.

“Howdy,” I say.

“Do you have a minute to walk through the stable and talk bulls?” he asks. “I wanted to get your take on them.”

“I could talk bulls all day,” I say, and smile at the two of them.

Bruce just nods and writes something down, but Mae looks at me with an undecipherable look on her face. Like she’s made of iron. But for once, she’s not taking my picture, and I’m grateful because my hungover mug doesn’t need a place in Sports Weekly.

The stables aren’t far, and as we walk I ramble on about the bulls: where each of these guys are from, who their sires are, who they’ve bucked off so far this year. Bruce takes notes and Mae just follows along, not saying anything.

I talk more so I don’t look at her too much.

Inside the stables, I ramble more. I walk them down the center aisle and name each bull to them: Screaming Heat, Twist and Shout, Muscle Grunt, Bank Robbery, Hopalong, Mr. Torque, and Crash Junction.

“Screaming Heat’s a kitten,” I say, looking at the big, ugly white bull. He snorts. “Twist and Shout ain’t bad, but when I rode him in Laredo I really had to spur him to get much enthusiasm. Muscle Grunt and Hopalong I ain’t rode, but I’ve heard they’re about average. Good days, bad days.”

“Which one are you hoping for in the draw?” Bruce asks.

I nod my head down the barn and they follow me to stand in front of a stall. Inside’s a big, ugly, brown bull with bloodshot eyes. He glares out at us, and I take a step forward.

Bruce and Mae don’t, though I hear her snap a picture.

“This is Train Robbery, my second choice,” I say. “He’s scored the highest average for all the rodeos he’s been in. Kicks like a motherfucker, goes buck wild right out the gate. Unseats most riders, but earns good scores for the ones who stay on.”

Train Robbery barely moves, just blinks at Bruce and Mae. They both look back.

“He don’t look like much now, but just wait until he’s in the arena,” I say, gazing at the big, placid animal. “He’s gentle as a lamb in the chute, but the second that gate opens? Watch out.”

Mae takes a picture, then frowns at her camera. Bruce makes a note.

“That makes Crash Junction your top choice?” he asks.

I can’t help but grin.

“Yessir, it does,” I say.

I cross the aisle to another stall, this one with a big white bull in it. The bull glares at me, and I wink at him, just for fun.

“This here is Crash Junction,” I say. “And he’s zero for, what is it now, fifty?”

“Fifty-two,” Bruce says.

Mae raises her eyebrows.

“Nobody’s stayed on the full eight seconds?” she asks.

“No ma’am,” I say, but she’s looking at Crash Junction again. “He’s got a front end drop like a freight train, a tight spin, and he switches directions on a dime.”

Crash Junction snorts again.

“Riders just fly right off of him,” I say. “Most riders, anyway. Ain’t that right, buddy?”

I hear the camera click again, and Crash Junction swings his head around to look me dead in the eyes. Bulls aren’t very smart, but I’d swear that this one knows what we’re saying about him, and he wants me to try riding him just as bad as I do.

Riding Crash Junction is dicey as hell. No one’s ever stayed on him for the full eight seconds, which means no one’s ever scored many points from riding him.

After that eight-second mark, there’s a total of one hundred points for the taking: fifty based on how well the rider rides, and fifty based on how hard the bull makes the ride. The tougher the bull, the higher the score.

Anyone who can stay on Crash Junction for the full eight seconds and doesn’t fuck up his other rides is practically guaranteed to win Pioneer Days.

I want it to be me so bad I can taste it.

“And you think you can ride him?” Bruce asks.

“I
know
I can ride him,” I say. “The second I get on him, he’s met his match. Nobody bucks like Crash here, but nobody rides like me.”

It’s not bragging if it’s true.

“What’s your strategy?” Bruce asks.

“Stay on,” I say.

He raises his eyebrows, but I just shrug.

“It’s all practice,” I say. “Ride until the body knows exactly what it’s doing, because out there, with the clock going and the crowd shouting, you can’t think of a single thing besides
stay on
.”

I glance at Mae, and she’s staring at me instead of the camera for once. We lock eyes, and after a moment, she lowers her gaze and my heartbeat speeds up a little.

“Which one of these was sired by Kill Switch?” Bruce asks, and I point down the stables to Hopalong, who isn’t quite as good as his daddy was.

The three of us drift that way. Bruce asks a couple more questions, and we chat for a bit until he looks at his watch.

“Rodeo starts in ten minutes, and I’ve got a few things I’d like to ask the veterinarian,” he says, and holds out his hand. I shake it.

“See you back out there,” I say.

“I’m going to take a few more shots,” Mae says. “The light in here is tricky.”

Bruce walks away. We both watch him go and then look at each other. I feel like her sky blue eyes are piercing right through my skull and into my brain, wreaking havoc.

Being around Mae makes something deep and primal come alive inside me. When she’s around, I feel like a caveman. I want to pick up giant rocks and throw them just so she can see. I want to wrestle saber tooth tigers to keep her safe, and then I want to take her home and make her
mine
.

I want to hear her shout my name.

Fuck, just the thought is getting me hard again.

“Last night—” I start.

“Don’t,” Mae says, holding up one hand.

We’re silent for a moment, the bulls and horses making faint noises all around us.

Mae points back where we were.

“Stand back where you were, by Crash, and look at him.”

I do as she says.

“Tilt your hat back so I can see your face,” she says.

I make a clicking noise at Crash Junction and he swings his head my way again, his eyes on me.

No one says anything for a long time, until I finally speak up.

“I was going to apologize,” I say, still looking at the bull.

She doesn’t answer right away.

“You were?” Mae asks, her voice a little flat.

I push forward.

“Yeah. For trying to get into your pants,” I say.

No response. The shutter clicks.

“And for interfering with your work,” I say. “I’d be bothered as hell if some asshole kept dogging me.”

Click. Click. Click.

“If you get closer, is he gonna hurt you?” she asks.

I look at Crash. He might try.

I step forward so we’re almost face-to-face, his horns on either side of my head.

“You don’t have to get that close,” Mae says, moving to one side and snapping away furiously.

“He’s good right now,” I say. “Besides, what kind of cowboy would I be if I were afraid of some bull in the stable?”

I reach out and grab his horn with my right hand, looking right into his eyes. Between Mae right there and this animal in front of me, my veins are buzzing with electricity. I feel like I might jump out of my skin at any second, but I stand still while Mae gets her shot.

At last, she lowers her camera.

“Okay, you’re making me nervous,” she says.

I take a step away from Crash Junction. The stables are empty except for the two of us, our voices swallowed by wood and hay and the soft snorting of the animals.

“Thanks for the apology,” she finally says. “Raylan won’t even look at me. Is that just because I told everyone he’s got a small penis, or did something else happen?”

“I talked to him after you left,” I say.

“You talked,” she says.

“We exchanged words,” I say. “You handled him better than I did.”

“I’ve known plenty of country-fried assholes just like him,” she says, then looks at me. “Sorry.”

I laugh.

“Sounds like a menu item at Golden Corral,” I say. “I didn’t know you cursed, Miss Guthrie.”

She lets that one pass.

“I curse when it’s called for,” she says, putting the lens cap on her camera and slinging it back over her shoulder. “Don’t worry, I know all the bad words.”

“You never did tell me where you’re from,” I say, still pretending I don’t know.

“Brooklyn,” she says.

“Not where you live now,” I say. “Where you’re
from
. Where you grew up. You didn’t get that twang in Brooklyn.”

Mae makes a face, scrunching her nose and looking away, and it’s so cute I smile at her.

“You can hear it?” she asks.

“Sure can.”

She sighs.

“I grew up in West Texas,” she says. “The accent is gone most of the time, but get me around a bunch of cowboys and it comes back full force. Next thing I know I sound like I’m driving a rusted-out pickup truck with a shotgun in my lap and a dog in the back.”

I whistle.

“That’s pretty serious,” I say. “You’re not so bad as all that just yet. Just the pickup.”

“I’ll have the gun and the dog by the time the rodeo’s over,” she says.

We look at each other for a long moment, alone with the animals. I have to fight the urge to grab her and kiss her, to run my hands down her body.

“We should get,” she says after a minute. Then she turns and walks out.

We walk back out of the stables and meet Bruce, then head to the arena and they split off. I spend the afternoon pretending to watch cowboys rope steers, but really, I’m watching Mae at the edge of the arena no matter how hard I try to stop.

I should stay away. I know it, but I can’t. We’re working together, for one thing. I’m going to be seeing plenty of her for the next three days at least, so we might as well be cordial.

Across the arena, a cowboy comes up to her and says something. I think it’s Clay. She listens for a moment, then smiles politely and nods, and he walks off. I wish I knew what he’d said, but it’s probably none of my business.

When it’s over, I walk to the motel aimlessly, wanting to watch TV or something to get my mind off everything. The longer I’m around her, the more I can’t help but remember those few minutes in the back of my truck, Mae straddling me, her hips moving—