Some of the women eat that shit up for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. At least they would if we stuck around long enough for more than a few beers and a night together.
Not that I’m judging the women. As long as they’re being treated right, getting off, and then having something to brag about to their friends, more power to them. Hope the memory keeps them warm at night. Because Cowboy Joe won’t be there to snuggle them.
There’s a reason some men are still drawn to this life. We’re restless spirits. Nothing kills us quicker than forcing us into a mundane routine, stuck in the same place, and caged by four walls. You want to break a cowboy? Force him to settle down.
The rodeo season’s short. A couple of months in summer. We perform and compete in front of audiences in towns where city folk go for a taste of the mythical west. Hell, some of them probably pronounce rodeo like the drive in Beverly Hills. Honey, this ain’t no ro-day-o, and I’m not wearing these chaps so you’ll focus on my junk.
Don’t confuse us with a Vegas male revue. For the most part, we keep our pants on around here. At least during competitions.
After every show, women gather near the riders like Black Friday shoppers. Sometimes there’s even jostling and elbows being thrown to get the opportunity to chat with one of us. It’d be pretty amusing if it weren’t the same thing every damn night.
Sweaty, smelling like horse or bull, tired but hopped up on adrenaline, we’re pretty feral. Yet the women flock to us like hungry gulls and we’re the lone french fry on the beach.
Most nights I have a beer and then find a place to set up my tent. Sure, I could stay in one of the local motels with the bed bugs and enough bodily fluids sprinkled around to fill a crime lab, but I prefer to keep my own company.
If I can sleep with a view of the stars, even better.
This might be one of the reasons I’m never interested in a random hookup. I’d probably get pretty strange looks if I invited a woman back to my tent.
Pretty sure the cowboy fantasy would end right then and there.
Then again, maybe not.
One thing I’ve learned about women is when they set their mind to something, it takes more than a little convincing them to get them to shift. Same’s true with horses.
Both have long memories about real or perceived slights.
Chapter 5
Zoe
For the last time ever, I stand in the living room of the apartment I shared with Neil.
Traffic and music from outside filter in through the closed windows. My footsteps echo in the empty space. Boring white walls show no sign we ever lived here.
When I met Neil, I was a fine arts major. I’ve always known I wanted to make beautiful things and accepted I’ll never be rich. In a crisp blue button-down and flat front khakis, Neil promised stability and a solid future with his business major. He was the planner to my free spirit. The calendar to my winging everything.
In school, I spent long nights in the ceramics studio, managing my kilns while Neil slept soundly, getting his eight hours of brain rest every night.
He went for an MBA and I got an MFA. What a difference one letter makes.
For years, I thought he was the ying to my yang. The gravity for my moon. It’s easy to ignore the lack in common when the future is neatly outlined in a spreadsheet and matching Roth IRAs.
With a sigh, I lock the door of our former life, leaving that future behind me.
I stand next to my car trying to figure out if I should cry.
Just in case, I put on my oversized sunglasses for dramatic flair. That’s what Neil would say, how us artsy types have a flair for the dramatic. No matter if clay and theater have zero to do with each other, the “arts” are all the same: full of too much emotion.
Part of me wants to create a spectacle to piss him off, even if he’s thousands of miles away. Force some sort of reaction from steadfast, stoic, there’s-a-rational-answer-for-everything Neil Chase.
For one fantastic moment, I imagine myself lighting a cigarette and walking away as the condo complex burns behind me. Like Heathers.
Of course I’d only be hurting myself. And the innocent neighbors who probably wouldn’t appreciate me destroying everything they own. At least in jail I’d get room and board. Probably some sort of art room to rehabilitate me and my evil, pyromaniac ways.
This is who I am now. Contemplating the benefits of being locked up versus single and struggling.
I need to get out of here. Giving the middle finger to the closed door of my old life, I fail to feel any satisfaction.
A good sobfest sounds like the perfect way to mark this moment. And cake. I’m going to need some cake, too. If it’s appropriate for funerals as well as weddings, then breakup cake should be a thing. Maybe an ice cream cake. With sprinkles. Covered in salted caramel. Or regular caramel with the added salt from my tears.
This needs to happen.
Ignoring the dark sky threatening rain, I open the sunroof on my racing green Mini Countryman.
Rain today would be too much of a cliché.
Like a sad girl eating her feelings, and weight, in sugary carbs.
Delicious cake, here I come.
Large circles of rain splat against my windshield before I reach the rotary into Aspen. Of course. Because this is my life.
As the drops turn into a downpour, I press the button to close the roof.
Nothing happens.
Except rain splashing down on me and everything else inside the car. I press and hold the button, hoping to force it to reboot itself like a computer or phone. Cars should be the same way.
Should, but aren’t.
My windshield wipers swish away the water on the glass, but do nothing to help me. Blindly, I reach behind me in the backseat for a hat.
I touch something stiff and pull a straw hat between the seats. It’s from the rodeo a couple of weeks ago. The wide brim creates an umbrella for my head. I can see why cowboys love these.
The rain continues as I drive to Clark’s and the promise of breakup cake. If I can’t close the roof, I’ll also have to get something to cover the opening so my car doesn’t become a fish tank. A black garbage bag will work, and be the least classiest thing to ever be seen on the same streets where the Kardashians have hung out.
My luck improves when I find a spot right in front of the market. With my new favorite hat on, I only look like a partially drowned cat, one with great taste in accessories.
After finding a towel in the backseat—which is kind of like the car version of Mary Poppins’ bag—I toss it over the dashboard to protect it from getting soaked. Even I know electrical systems and water don’t mix.
I get a few odd stares as I leave the car with the roof open. What’s wet is wet. To prove my point, I step in a large puddle next to my door.
Standing under the store’s awning, a woman holding a pale pink Birkin bag points at my car. “Your roof’s open. It’s raining.”
Tilting my head back, I let rain hit my face. “Huh, I hadn’t noticed. Thanks.”
Water drips from my bare arms while she remains perfectly dry and fresh. I’m tempted to stand close to her and shake like a dog. I’d probably get sued for getting her bag wet. Understandable because it costs about the same as I paid for the used Mini.
Inside, my shoes squeak on the sparkling clean floor. Or maybe it’s my feet making the squishing sounds inside my sneakers with each step. Either way, the stares continue.
I should probably tell someone to set out the Caution Wet Floor sign in the aisles where I walk. When it’s my turn to pay, I set my five items on the belt and try to see them from someone else’s perspective.
Black garbage bag. Box cutter. Duct tape. Cake. Prosecco.
Clearly, I’m celebrating burying a body.
Or kidnapping someone for their birthday, but taking it to the extreme. Because the only triple chocolate cake available cheerfully wishes a happy birthday in bright blue lettering. I plan to scrape off the words as
soon as I get home.
Oh wait, I don’t have a home.
I can eat my cake in my wet car with the plastic roof.
Ain’t nobody who can rock a hot mess like this girl.
“Looks like you’re planning a fun evening,” a male voice comments behind me in line.
I give a light “ha ha” without turning around to acknowledge that he spoke, because I have zero desire to engage with some random man about my purchases. I don’t care what he has to say. The quicker I can get out of here, the sooner I can save my car, and my dignity.
“You going to eat that cake with someone special?” he continues like we’re having a conversation. I can’t believe he’s hitting on me when I look like a half-drowned country mouse.
I step forward to pay the cashier and catch a familiar face out of the corner of my eye.
“Oh.” Landon. Sage’s ex. Rugby player. Clueless flirt. Generally annoying human.
“Hi, yourself.” He gives me a sly smirk. “Interesting night planned?”
“Wouldn’t you like to know?” I try to mimic his expression like we’re playing the mirror game. I’m not sure I master the extra slime he manages to add to his smile.
“Is that an offer? Because I admit I’m more than curious. I never figured you for a criminal. Or kinky.” He says the last word loud enough to catch the cashier’s attention along with two people in the next line.
“We all have a dark side.” I pull out my card to pay.
“No one should spend their birthday alone. Invite me over and I’ll help you celebrate.” He steps closer and into my space.
He has to be kidding. Has to, but isn’t.
“Never said it’s my birthday. In fact, I haven’t told you anything about my plans. But thanks for assuming I’m a loser.”
I pay and say thank you to the cashier, trying to ignore Landon’s presence.
“See you around soon,” he shouts behind me as I leave the store. “Now that you’re single, we should hang out more.”
Great. Guess word of the breakup has spread to the rugby club. They’ll be on me like vultures with fresh roadkill. It’s not a pretty image for good reason.
For years I’ve watched the players of the Pitkin Country Rugby Club flirt and sleep their way through this town. I suffered through Sage’s relationship with Landon. Why would I ever want to repeat her mistake?
The rain has eased to a half-hearted sprinkle.
I open the door and stand on the footboard to reach across the top. The bag covers the sunroof. I use the box cutter to make strips of the tape, praying it won’t damage my paint.
Stretching to reach the far side of the roof, I hear male laughter behind me.
“Would’ve been happy to help you out, but feel like I should say thank you for the view.”
I glance at Landon standing a few feet behind me. In my short cutoffs, I’m sure I’m giving him an eyeful.
“You’re not welcome.” After patting the tape in place, I hop down. “Aren’t there some fresh tourists for you to sucker, I mean, seduce?”
“Got a match tomorrow. You should come and cheer for me.” He lowers his mirrored Ray-Bans so he can wink at me.
His move is so over the top I snort out a laugh. I’m laughing at him, not with him, but it doesn’t matter to a narcissist like Landon. He has my attention and that’s all that matters.
Without another word, I sit down and close the door behind me. Turning on the engine, I realize I’m sitting in a puddle and now it feels like I’ve peed my pants.
This day keeps getting better.
I turn on the seat warmers, hoping it will dry out the leather and my shorts on the way home.
Pulling into Sage’s driveway, I put the car in park. I glance up at the plastic bag ceiling. Unless we get a crazy thunderstorm, it’ll hold until I can get down valley and fix the sunroof.
For giggles, I press the button again, just to make sure it’s really broken.
Somewhere God laughs as the glass slides smoothly back into place.
Chapter 6
Zoe
Once inside, I set the cake and bag of crime supplies on the kitchen counter. Sage’s condo is a twin to Lee’s, right next door. The two of them have been living here with the dogs while they figure out what to do with his place. There’s no point in having two separate units or blowing out the wall and trying to create one monster unit. Not when the two of them have ridiculous bank and can probably afford to buy a house around here.
This is one gift horse I’m not looking in the mouth. I’m incredibly lucky I get to live here, cost free, while I figure out my single life. No more plus one for me.
Time for cake.
I open the box and slide my pinky through the birthday greetings, smearing it into a colorful blur of messy lines and swirls.
Who needs a fork when you plan to eat the entire cake yourself?
I jab a finger into the soft ganache and sink into the moist cake and mousse filling before breaking off a chunk. I moan when the chocolate melts on my tongue.
“Delishsush,” I slur around a mouth full of heaven. My little piece isn’t enough. I form a scoop with my hand and stuff a giant glob of deliciousness into my mouth, not caring I now have chocolate all over my fingertips and probably my face.
Standing at the counter, I eat cake and think about how I ended up here. A life stuffed into a few mismatched pieces of luggage and cardboard boxes. At least if I decide to become a buckle bunny and follow the rodeo, all the important stuff will fit in my tiny car.
Nell and Hunter, my furry responsibilities for the next month, are playing tug by the couch. It’s completely adorable how they play together. This is the easiest gig ever. About a year old, they’re fluffy brown mixes of awesome.
Free rent, limited responsibilities, and a whole summer to play. Hello, teenage dream come true.
Nell growls and jerks the toy away from Hunter. She might be his sister, but she’s the alpha in their relationship. Poor Hunter never wins.
Doesn’t stop him from trying.
Thinking there’s some life lesson in Hunter’s optimism, I shove in another mouthful of cake. I happily chomp away until a flash of white dangling from Nell’s mouth causes me to pause and set down my glob of cake.
“Drop it.” I lick my fingers as I scramble to get to the living room before she can swallow what appears to be my one and only phone charger that still works.
Using her distraction as his big opportunity, Hunter snatches the cord out of her mouth and dashes around the living room in a victory lap.
“Hunter, drop it.” I focus on him. He stares at me and tilts his head, probably wondering if he can take me in round two of the tug o’war.
I take a step toward him and something sharp bites into the bottom of my foot. Without looking, I can tell by the shape, it’s the USB end of my cord.
“Fuck,” I curse and dislodge the sad square from my instep.
Hunter drops the rest of the cord, his joy dimmed by the harsh tone of my voice. Fun time is over.
“It’s okay,” I tell him. “These things last about a month. Tops. Even when someone doesn’t eat them.”
His tail wags, hoping whatever made me mad has passed.
Sensing the new tension in the room, Nell bumps my leg with her nose.
Dogs chew on stuff. Fact.
Sometimes it’s a toy, sometimes it’s a shoe. Or throw pillow. Or a bra.
Sure it’s naughty, but staying mad doesn’t teach them to not chew on everything. It’s all about managing impulse control and positive reinforcement of the behavior I want.
Giving Nell a scratch by her collar, a realization hits me.
I don’t want to train a man. Or be trained to fit into a neat, sterile life full of meeting expectations and hitting milestones set by someone else.
Which is exactly what I did with Neil. His praise became my motivation. Pleasing him meant I was a good girlfriend, which equaled being a good person.
“Bullshi
t,” I swear as I toss both ends of my charger into the trash. After washing the sticky frosting off my fingers, I pick up my cake box, grab a fork, and move to the couch.
I’m eating cake for dinner. And if there’s any left, having it for breakfast, too.
In fact, if I want, I’m going to live off of cake. Cupcakes, coffee cake, Bundt cake, mini Bundt cakes, pound cake, and muffins. Because let’s be honest, they’re really cake, too … but without frosting.
Major life decision made, I settle into the cushions. With the cake balanced on my stomach, I turn on the television. One hand holding my fork, I scroll to my streaming options. I’m all caught up on the Great British Bake Off. Sadly. Because what’s better than watching people make cake while eating cake? Right now, in my life? Not much.
No Rom Coms or Nicholas Sparks’ unhappily ever after sob stories. Horror? Don’t need the nightmares. Drama? Hello, welcome to my life. Comedy? Eh. Sci-fi? Meh.
I need some strong women kicking ass. Or a fight of good versus evil. Maybe something with a cowboy.
Hmm. Western.
No one said all cowboys are off limits.
I wonder if there are any rodeo movies. I don’t need an old black and white movie. Nor do I want something with white guys in brown makeup pretending they’re “savage natives.” Ugh, no.
Shaking my preconceived notions about Westerns is going to be tough.
I decide on The Magnificent Seven with Chris Pratt because he’s my favorite Marvel hero. Because he’s hot and funny. The perfect combination.
“Not so much tongue, Chris. Slow down and give a girl some time to warm up before you start licking her face.” I’m stunned the man of my Hollywood fantasies is a terrible kisser. I really thought he’d be perfect in every single way.
“Dude, your breath could use a mint, too. Did you just eat a burger with onions?” I lift my hand to block his mouth from further attack. When my fingers stroke fur, my dream fades away and I open my eyes. Hunter’s smiling white dog teeth grin back at me as he sweeps his soft tongue along my palm
Wild for You Page 3
