It was a solid redirect to a good cause. AJ could feed them a few more lines about CityBoyz, they’d get bored and move on, and Lil Sorrow wouldn’t be starting his career off with a scandal—though maybe that was his intent? If it were, AJ would be disappointed. Many young cowboys these days thought they could make a name for themselves with the drama they got into outside of the arena over their performance inside of it. He hadn’t read Lil Sorrow as that kind of competitor, though.
Lil Sorrow cleared his throat, drawing the attention back to himself, the sound eerily reminiscent of the sound AJ’s mother used to make when she had just about had it with him.
When the shorter man opened his mouth to speak, eyebrows lifted, his voice was raspy, low, and steady—if tinged with irritation. “The ‘wild raw talent’ in question here is, in fact, twenty-seven years old, by no means a newcomer, and, perhaps most importantly—a woman. I manage a ranch, sixteen horses, a herd of cattle, and have been riding—on my own—since before I could talk. But don’t worry. If you’re so dead set on recruitment, I’d love to come work for CityBoyz—as a coach. All you’ve got to do is get a higher score than me tonight. Ladies and gentlemen.” The kid—or rather, the adult woman—tipped her hat to the crowd of reporters before spinning on her heels to walk away.
But if she thought she could drop a bomb like that and simply walk away, she was sorely mistaken.
However, for an instant, the entire group of them watched her go in silence, mouths open, an island of frozen time amidst the sea of chaos and noise outside of the arena.
Her hips swayed as she walked away from them and a part of him observed that he should have realized the truth of things immediately.
No cowboy he’d ever met walked like that.
And the hands, and the timbre of voice that he’d mistaken for youth trying to put on age—hell, even the way she rode a bronc screamed, “Woman!”
Taking her in in this new light, she transformed. Her thick black braid swung over her astounding vest, all the way down to the center of her back in perfect time with her hips, and he couldn’t look away.
Compact she may be, tiny really, he realized she was nonetheless perfectly adult proportioned with long, lean limbs and a gorgeous round ass he was only just now observing.
She was a woman, alright.
But she wasn’t just a woman.
She was the first woman he had ever heard of, in all of PBRA history, to score a 97 bareback on a bronc. The first woman to score on a bareback bronc at all. She was history-making, living, breathing, right in front of all of them—and all wrapped up in a sexy little package.
And just like the explosive ride she’d debuted with, she’d just detonated before his eyes.
AJ, as well versed in playing with fire as he was in getting burned, recovered first.
Giving a laugh that sounded relaxed and casual though it was entirely manufactured and controlled, and lacing his voice with a smile, he said, “Well, you heard her folks! Looks like I’ve got to show up on the bronc if I want to get Lil Sorrow, the PBRA’s first female rough stock rider, if I’m not mistaken, on the CityBoyz roster.” He winked, adding, “Good thing I’m coming up in the queue. Now you’ve got even more reason to watch me ride.”
He knew he wasn’t mistaken—a man didn’t dominate his field without knowing everything there was to know about it, and the PBRA had never seen anything like Lil Sorrow.
He’d known the Closed Circuit would be a rodeo unlike any other. He hadn’t expected it to change the very future of the sport—but that was just what would happen because there was no way Lil Sorrow wasn’t making it into the competition, and there was no way her presence wouldn’t rock the rodeo world to its core.
And he’d thought he’d seen all that rodeo had to offer, that there were no more secrets to be uncovered.
The school of reporters jolted back into the present, joining him in the laugh even as they readied themselves to race after the most important person in the entire arena.
Lil Sorrow was everything they could have wanted and more—brand-new content with the added benefit of a combination of dramatic packaging and the prospect of an exciting new rodeo rivalry. Any remaining tension evaporated. Everyone left knew the score.
With a wide, bright grin, AJ asked, “Well, friends, DeRoy is up next, and you know what that means.”
AJ’s and Hank’s was the longest-standing established rivalry in modern professional rodeo history. On par with the Yankees and Red Sox, in the world of rodeo, it had become such a popular feature that the PBRA had turned it into a tradition to place their rides back-to-back, Hank first, then AJ.
And, conveniently, it gave the reporters and AJ a reason to part ways without it looking like what it was: abandonment in favor of bigger news.
With a last dimpled smile and wink, AJ waved to the reporters, who had already begun to run in the direction that Lil Sorrow had sauntered off in, and made his way back to Diablo and The Old Man. The kid—and grown woman or not, she was brand new to the PBRA, so that made her a kid, dammit—was no longer a wet-behind-the-ears lone Black cowboy at a rodeo in his mind, and she didn’t want his help. Whether she needed his help or not was another story. Based on the events of the night thus far, he wasn’t so sure she didn’t.
But he wasn’t one to force himself where he wasn’t welcome, and she’d made it abundantly clear that she didn’t want him playing knight.
She’d made many things abundantly clear, in fact.
None more so than the fact that she wasn’t just the first woman to ride rough stock for the PBRA, she was the first woman—first person even—to give him a real run for his money in over a decade, and he was hungry for more.
6
Lil’s temper had stirred when AJ’d said the word young and had risen with his every word thereafter. She shouldn’t have let it get to her. She could have even taken it as a compliment.
AJ Garza, her childhood hero, and, if she were honest with herself, her biggest crush, thought she was talented.
But she was a fourth-generation rancher and prize-winning rider, not some newbie on the block.
And even without the lineage, being born and raised on a ranch made her more experienced than AJ Garza—certainly not some kind of wet-behind-the-ears kid in need of mentorship from an arrogant gym rat from the city.
She steamed as she stormed back to her car until the growing stiffness in her neck and back demanded she slow down. Rubbing the place where her skull met her neck, she took a deep breath. Amidst all the nonsense with AJ and the reporters, she’d neglected the fact that a wild bronco had just throttled her.
And that she had just had the best bronc ride of her life.
She sent a little prayer of thanks up for her draw as the ride replayed in her mind. Three perfect twist-and-spins were more than a girl could ask for from any wild creature. Lil’d held her line as strongly as the bronc had tried to shake her off, their wills and rhythms perfectly matched. She hadn’t needed or wanted to break him, but she was sure enough going to show him she wouldn’t be broken, either.
A shiver traveled down her spine. That was the kind of perfect tension that held the universe together. She sucked in a breath of exhilarating night air.
And then the reporters caught up with her.
“Lil Sorrow!”
“Lil Sorrow!”
“Excuse me, Lil Sorrow!”
“Ms. Sorrow!”
Mics were thrust in her face from all directions, while questions rang out, seemingly heedless of being answered.
“Did you always know you would be the first female rodeo star?”
“When did you know you were destined for the rodeo?”
“When did you start riding rough stock events?”
“When did you know you were a woman?”
Questions kept coming, faster than Lil could c
omprehend, let alone answer.
“Where were you before the Closed Circuit?”
“Who was your coach?”
“How long have you been riding?”
“Aren’t you scared of the bulls?”
“What kind of jeans are you wearing?”
“Who made your vest?”
The reporters and their associated cameramen pushed in closer, and, seeing the growing group, others began to drift in her direction. Soon she was surrounded by a rather large crowd of media, the buzz of real news electric amongst the crowd.
“Lil Sorrow is a woman!”
“A woman! Lil Sorrow is a woman!”
“She scored a 97!”
“A woman that rides like a man!”
Lil scoffed and, suddenly, like a creature with a hive mind or a school of fish, the crowd of reporters turned, their collective attention focused on her, and, though she wouldn’t have ever been able to say what came over her, she cracked a smile and said, “So far it looks like I ride better than a man.”
If they were focused on her before, they were absolutely riveted now, and, to their benefit, though she wasn’t sure where they were coming from, words continued to flow from Lil’s mouth. “Been riding my whole life and learned everything I know from my granddad. Of course I’m scared of a bull—only a fool wouldn’t be. My jeans are Levi’s, and I’ve been riding rough stock since I could prove my head was hard enough to take a fall. Wanted to be rodeo’s first female rough stock champion since I was six years old. Been here and there, but mostly in my own pasture since nobody in the PBRA would let me try until tonight. Known I was a woman as long as I’ve been old enough to know such a thing, and my gran made my vest.”
As a unit, the reporters scribbled furiously.
As if she’d been possessed, the words had flowed out of her mouth with smooth charm, the only proof they were her own the unique combination of gravel and Muskogee that was all her voice.
And then, the same voice from earlier called out once more, “So, are you single?”
As they had before, Lil’s cheeks heated, darkening to a beet red color obvious to anyone familiar with her.
Lil wasn’t the type to talk about her private life. With anyone—least of all a gaggle of journalists.
But she’d watched AJ earlier, and even through temper and resentment, she’d learned.
The reporters were like sheep, or goats, or middle schoolers, or any other creature that traveled in packs and dealt in intimidation. If she didn’t master them—establish early and quick that she wasn’t to be trifled with—then there would be no end to their torment.
And so, hot cheeked, she angled her chin upward, cast her mind for an appropriate facial expression, settled on the only image her mind seemed willing to provide—AJ’s cocky, one-sided grin—and said, “I’ve been chasing one man my whole life—he weighs three thousand pounds, is sponsored by the PBRA, and if you can ride him for a full eight seconds you get a shiny buckle and a pot of gold.” Once again, rodeo’s first-ever female rough stock star tipped her hat to them, and once again, she turned on her boot heel and walked away.
This time, no one followed, for which she was grateful. She would hate to have disappointed them with her destination: her beat-up old white Camry, parked at the far end of the lot. It was a ’99, but it might as well have been a tank—nothing could hurt it or stop it. It certainly wasn’t anything flashy, and Lil had no intention of ever replacing it. Even pushing 350,000 miles, it purred like a kitten and drove like a dream.
Unlocking the car, she slid into the front seat, set her hat beside her where a passenger might have sat, and pulled the sunshade down, flicking open the mirror panel at the same time in one smooth motion.
She hadn’t planned on changing after her ride, but she also hadn’t planned on being mistaken for a man by everyone who saw her. Her eyebrows were thick, that was true, and she did have a squarish jaw. Her eyelashes were long and curled, her mouth and nose were feminine in their fullness.
She didn’t think it was the clothes. Women all over the rodeo wore the same outfit without confusion, from dusty cowgirls who competed as barrel racers to the full glitz and glam of the rodeo queens.
Taking in her appearance, barefaced and serious, she wondered if it was her hair, then. The undercut sides, her tight braid—looser now, but still pulled back flat to her head for the ride—was more severe and dramatic than most women were willing to dare.
When she’d come into her gran’s kitchen, two-thirds of her “Crown of Glory” as her gran called it shorn clean off to the skin, her gran had had to sit down for a moment. Maybe that, coupled with her being a competitor, was just enough to throw the entire arena off.
She wondered if anyone in the whole place had realized she was a woman while she rode. AJ certainly hadn’t.
But who could blame him? If it looked like a duck and quacked like a duck, why would you even bother checking if it was a duck?
Shaking her head at both her thoughts and her reflections, she winced. After the brawl, the ride, the argument, and storming off, her neck and back were beginning to scream, protesting their long string of abuse, and—between the ride, the jeans, and the chaps—her legs were well on their way to rigid and stiff.
And to make matters worse, after all of it, her complexion had gone shiny and red—more like an angry toddler than an adult. Disgusted with it all, she nearly flipped the shade back up when her grandmother’s voice echoed in her mind. It doesn’t matter what happens to you. It matters what you do about it.
Her grandmother dealt truisms like white on rice. But it applied. She couldn’t control what people assumed, but she could do a little to help them out.
She kept a bare-bones makeup bag in her glove box, and, while there were good reasons not to have started the night all dolled up—when it came to riding, it wasn’t so much a question of waterproof enough as not even an option—she was done riding now. And she was done being taken for anything other than what she was, which was the highest-scoring rider of the night.
Dabbing a layer of foundation and adding a quick lining of black and mascara to her eyes, and a dusky rose-tinted cream to her lips was her first step.
As always, she was startled by the effect after pulling back to examine her handiwork. She knew no special techniques, did nothing out of the ordinary, but somehow the little bit of accentuation transformed her from the kind of woman men’s eyes skipped over to the kind that stopped men in their tracks.
The simple lining set off her half-moon-shaped eyes, the gray of them jumping out of her face so much, it demanded attention. The smooth, creamy rose of the lip tint emphasized the rich fullness of her lips.
She looked seductive but dangerous—like a tempest.
But most importantly, she looked like a woman.
Makeup complete, she unbraided her hair, parting it down the middle and shaking the long curls loose from the crown of her head as she did. Massaging her scalp, she let out a low moan. Her hair was thick enough and curly enough that even with the undercuts, she still had enough to fake a full head of coverage. Her long full curls settled around her shoulders and down her back as she massaged her head, the black of them shimmering like a crow’s wing in the low light of the parking lot. She could never be described as girly, but she was admittedly vain about her hair. It was her beauty failing, and she channeled any desire to adorn herself into its care, spending hundreds of dollars in creams, masques, specialized shampoos, microfiber towels, silk pillowcases, and protective braids every year. Since there’d never been enough extra money for fancy things like salon relaxers or paying someone outside of the ranch to braid her hair—and Gran’d had no time to spare for installing hairstyles which required a greater time investment than a half an hour or so—Lil’d had to master the management of her uniquely blended hair herself—and at a young age. But right now, release
d in its glory and ready to do the apparently heavy lifting of convincing the world she was a woman, she had no doubt it was all worth it.
Hair and makeup in place, she retrieved the slender gold hoops her gran had given her for her twenty-first birthday from her wallet and slid them in each ear. Then she wiggled her finger around in the coin pocket until she found the diamond nose stud she wore when she wasn’t riding rodeo, wiped it with the alcohol wipe she carried—also in her coin purse—for just that purpose, and angled it back into her right nostril.
Now, even with the hat on—as was required at the podium—there would be no mistaking her for anything but an adult woman. She flicked the mirror closed and pushed the shade flap up. Zipping the makeup bag and tossing it back into the glove box, she grabbed her keys and hopped out of the car.
In the parking lot, she heard the distant murmur of the PA system blare a name whose ride she couldn’t care less about but whose position in the queue meant she needed to get back to the stadium fast. If Hank DeRoy was riding now, that meant that AJ was up next, and while he might be an arrogant gym rat from the city, AJ Garza was still the best rodeo cowboy on the planet.
There was no way she was going to miss a chance to be chute side for his ride. She jogged back to the stadium.
All she’d done was take down her hair and put a little makeup on, but she might as well have had a complete transformation for the difference in her journey back to the chutes. Incognito as she was—now looking more like a low-rung rodeo queen or maybe a contestant’s wife—she didn’t warrant the attention of reporters, and, overdressed for the average buckle bunny, she didn’t warrant the attention of cowboys. Rodeo-goers, even the ones looking for snags, weren’t in the market for chasing down lone wolves either, so she didn’t get stopped by anyone while making her way to the contestants’ entrance.
The Wildest Ride--A Novel Page 7
