Ignoring the fact that the only thing I’m wearing is the shirt Brody had on yesterday and a thong, I go into the bathroom to take care of necessities. Looking at myself in the mirror, I notice my makeup has run down my face and I have dark circles under my eyes. My hair is knotted and tangled. I’m a hot mess and in desperate need of a shower, but food is more important. The only thing to fix my hangover besides lots of ibuprofen is fatty food—the greasier the better. After rinsing my face with cold water, I throw my hair in a messy bun and walk into the living room.
“Mornin’, darlin’.”
Squealing, I jump. “Fuck, Brody,” I say, grabbing my head. A shirtless Brody is lying on my couch, his hands behind his head.
“You all right?” he asks, sitting up.
“No,” I whimper. “Tequila migraine.” I squeeze my hands together, wishing my head was in a vice.
“What can I do to help?”
“Well, for starters, don’t scare the fuck out of me.” Getting the pain under control, I lift my head and glare at him. “What are you doing here?”
“Honestly, I didn’t want to leave you in the condition you were in last night.”
“Condition?”
Laughing, he says, “Darlin’, you were as drunk as Cooter Brown!”
“What?”
“Never mind,” he says, still chuckling.
“I must look like a walking disaster,” I say, my face burning.
“Actually,” he says, shifting to get a better look at me, “you dressed only in my t-shirt and your hair all messy, you’ve never looked sexier.”
Feeling exposed, I flush even brighter. “How, exactly, did I get into your t-shirt anyway?” I ask, lifting a brow.
“Well, you were inebriated and practically passed out on the bed. I didn’t think you’d be comfortable sleepin’ in your jeans and boots, so I took them off.” His lips twitch up into a smile.
“That doesn’t explain the shirt.”
“Um, I thought you’d be more comfortable?”
“You said that already,” I argue, cocking a brow.
Now, he’s blushing. “Your shirt was real tight, didn’t want you to strangle yourself in the middle of the night.”
“Uh-huh,” I say, smiling. Brody’s eyes twinkle and his bashful smile makes me giggle. “Since you were apparently a gentleman last night, I’ll let you off the hook for your cheap thrill, just this once.”
“Wasn’t cheap,” he comments with a wink.
My head’s still pounding and all this talk isn’t helping. “Whatever. I need greasy food.”
“Well, let’s see what you have in the fridge,” he says, mid-stride toward the kitchen. As he opens the door, he mutters, “Jesus.”
“What?”
“It looks like a sorority fridge. There’s nothin’ in here but condiments and wine.”
“I haven’t had time to go shopping. You’ve been keeping me busy,” I say in defense.
“True, true. C’mon. There’s this little place just ‘round the corner that’s perfect.”
“All right, let me get dressed.” Walking back into the bedroom, I throw on a pair of shorts and a tank top, shove a pair of flip flops on my feet, and I’m back in the living room in less than thirty seconds.”
“Now, how come you can’t get ready that fast every day?”
“I don’t care what I look like right now,” I say, fixing the poof on the top of my head.
“Darlin’, you’d look good wearin’ nothin’ but a feed sack.”
“You’re just saying that because you want to get in my pants.”
“While that’s true, no. It’s the God’s honest truth.” Brody walks toward me and places his hands on my cheeks, cradling my head. Staring down at me, he says, “You’re fuckin’ hot, no matter where you are, or what you’re doin’. Makeup or no makeup. You, without all the extras, are perfect.”
Shaking him off, I say, “You’re just being nice.”
“Believe what you want, but I can see through your façade. You’re not gonna chase me away that easily.”
“I just want food. Please?” I beg. It’s too early to argue with him and I need this headache to go away before I can go round for round with him.
“Fine. Just remind me when you’re head’s on right to tell you what you said to me last night.” The way he’s acting, I can only imagine.
WE SIT AT a booth and order coffee while looking over the menu. I glance up and catch Brody watching a woman in the booth diagonal from us. “What?” I ask him, my eyes following his line of sight.
“Huh?” he mumbles, still watching her.
“Why are you staring at that woman?” I ask, my gaze moving between them.
“I don’t know,” he says, glancing at me and then back to her, and I do the same. She appears young, but her hair is a mess and she seems tired, her eyes darting from the door to her phone.
“Maybe she’s waiting for someone,” I suggest, hoping that’s what it is.
“Maybe,” he says low. “I don’t know. If she were standin’, she’d be pacin’.”
As our coffees arrive, a man approaches the woman’s table with a young child no older than four. Standing up, the woman whisper-shouts, “Where have you been? You’re almost an hour late.”
“Yeah, whatever. Here’s the kid.” He pushes the little girl toward the woman, then moves to walk away.
“Toby, can I have a few dollars for a coffee? I only have enough money for Tabitha’s breakfast,” she asks as she sits back down.
He stops and turns to her. “I ain’t givin’ you nothin’, bitch.” With that, he leaves. The little girl sits down next to the woman and says, “Momma, I’m hungry. Poppa didn’t feed me nothin’.” The exchange tugs at my heartstrings. What a scumbag.
“It’s okay, baby girl. Imma order you some pancakes.”
“Are you gonna eat too, Momma?”
“I’m not hungry, but you go ‘head.”
I couldn’t hear any more of the conversation because the waitress appears in front of us. “Mornin’, Brody. How y’all doing this mornin’?”
“Mornin’, Lucy,” Brody says, distracted, his attention still on the mom and little girl.
“Are y’all ready to order?” she asks politely.
“Do you know what you want?” Brody mutters, his eyes constantly moving between me and the little girl.
“Um, yeah. Two eggs over easy, very well done bacon and white toast.”
“I’ll have the same,” he utters, his voice restrained. Lucy writes down our order, then walks away.
“You okay?” I ask, reaching across the table to touch the back of his hand.
“Can you excuse me for a minute? I’ll be right back,” he mumbles as he stands.
“Yeah, sure.” He walks in the same direction Lucy had and another waitress comes over to refill my coffee. As I finish pouring the milk, he sits back down. “Where’d you go?”
“There was somethin’ I needed to do,” he answers.
“So cryptic,” I tease.
“Wow, you’re actually drinkin’ the coffee,” he says, surprised.
“Trying to change the subject, I see.” I lift a brow. His lips twitch as he shrugs. “Yeah, it’s not bad. At least it tastes like coffee, unlike most of the places around here.”
“I’ll need to remember that,” he chuckles.
“I didn’t say it was good,” I tease.
“What do you want to do today?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Something semi relaxing,” I murmur as I slug down my coffee. Placing my empty cup on the table, Brody chuckles to himself.
“Not much relaxin’ stuff to do around here,” he says, still smiling.
“Fine. What do you want to do?”
“I thought I’d show you Texas.”
“Aren’t we in Texas?” I quip.
“Ha-ha. I mean really show you Texas.”
“Like what?” I ask as Lucy refills our mugs.
“Thought I’d take
you to a rodeo. It just so happens there’s one in town this week.”
“You mean, like men riding bulls and stuff?” Brody bursts out laughing. “What?” I ask, placing the palms of my hands flat on the table.
“Yes, and other things. Rodeo’s aren’t just about bull ridin’,” he says, smiling and shaking his head.
“It’s a valid question,” I say, narrowing my eyes.
Brody shrugs. “I guess it is. Keep forgettin’ you’re a city girl.”
“You’re not going to make me do anything stupid, are you?”
“I don’t think so,” he says, his tone mischievous.
As I take a sip of my coffee, our breakfasts are placed in front of us. At the same time, another waitress walks by us with a tray full of food. The only other people in our vicinity are the woman and her child. Glancing behind me, I watch as the waitress places two plates of pancakes and bacon, a bowl of fruit, eggs, sausage and biscuits, and a cup of coffee on their table. The waitress tries to walk away, but the woman grabs her arm. Her eyes wide, she says, distressed, “Excuse me, I didn’t order this.”
“No, ma’am,” the waitress replies.
“I can’t pay for this,” she whispers.
“No, ma’am, it’s already paid for.”
“I’m sorry, did you say all this is paid for?”
“Yes, ma’am. You don’t owe a penny.”
“Mommy, who’s all this food for?” the little girl asks, tugging on her mom’s shirt.
Confused, the woman asks, “Who in their right mind would pay for all this food?”
“Sorry, ma’am. I was told to bring this tray of food out to y’all and let you know it was paid for, that’s all I know.”
Turning, I look directly at Brody. He’s digging into his breakfast, ignoring everything happening around him. “Somethin’ you needed to do?” I ask, copying his southern twang. Without looking up from his eggs, he smiles knowingly.
The woman thanks the waitress profusely, asking her to tell the mystery person thanks as well, and he peeks up at me through his long lashes, giving me a wink. “Don’t tell anyone,” he whispers, “I have a reputation to keep.”
“Your secret is safe with me,” I say, smiling. That was probably one of the most unselfish acts I’ve ever witnessed and thinking about the joy he just brought that family brings a tear to my eye. Wiping it away before he catches me, I stare down at my breakfast and continue eating.
AFTER BREAKFAST, WE go back to my apartment to change. Wanting to fit in, I throw on a pair of tight jeans with my cowboy boots and a white t-shirt. Brody’s wearing almost the same thing, but he has on that cowboy hat I love so much. He’s just the whole package. If you looked up the definition of hot cowboy in the dictionary, his picture would be next to it.
“Ready to go, darlin’?”
“I guess. Do I look okay?” I ask, spinning for him.
“Hot damn, woman! You’re hotter than Hades!”
“No,” I say, giggling, “I mean, do I fit the part?”
“Sure, until you open your Yankee mouth,” he laughs.
“Asshole,” I squeal as I slap him hard on the chest.
“You asked,” he says, placing his hands out in front of him in defense.
“You aren’t supposed to be brutally honest.”
“I endeavor to be, always,” he deadpans.
“Well, whatever. Are we going or not?”
BRODY PULLS IN to NRG stadium’s parking lot. When he told me we were going to a rodeo, I expected cowboys and horses and not much else, but this place is buzzing. On the outside of the stadium is a huge carnival, equipped with a large Ferris wheel and other rides and games. This, I was not expecting. “This is a rodeo?”
“See, I told you we’d have fun. Later on, there’ll be live music too. I think tonight is Kenny Chesney,” he says, stepping out of the truck.
“Who?” I ask, falling out the other side behind him.
“Another country singer. You ever heard When the Sun Goes Down? Ya know, everything gets hotter when the sun goes down?”
“No, I don’t think I have.”
“Well, he sings that and some other stuff.”
“Ohhh, I wanna go on a ride!” I exclaim, bouncing up and down on the balls of my feet. I’m like a little kid in a candy store.
“All right, now. Let’s go get some tickets.”
We walk around and as soon as I see the Merry Go Round, I drag Brody over by his arm. It’s one of my favorite rides and I would ride it over and over every time my parents took me to the Bronx Zoo when I was little. It’s another really good memory I have with them, and one I want to share with Brody.
“Let’s do this!” I giggle, pointing to the spinning horses.
“Okay, get in line.” There aren’t many people waiting, since it’s not the most popular. Lucky for me.
As the ride stops and empties, I show the wristband Brody bought me and sprint to one of the horses. “Hurry up, ride next to me!”
“Damn, girl, you’re quick.” He chuckles behind me, trying to keep up. I find a horse I like and Brody hops onto the empty one beside me. Listening to the carnival music blaring and feeling the wind blowing through my hair as the ride takes off brings back such happy memories. Brody reaches over and takes my hand, making it even more special.
Afterwards, he introduces me to a smoked, bacon-wrapped turkey leg. It’s almost as big as my head and I feel like an idiot trying to eat it, but it’s really tasty, so I suffer through the embarrassment.
Two fried Twinkies later, we go inside the stadium. Brody hands an usher our tickets and we’re seated in a huge box, complete with an open bar and buffet food. It’s called the Chairman’s Club, and although we’re pretty high up, there are TV’s so we don’t miss out on any of the action. Brody turns to me and asks, “What do you want to drink, darlin’?”
“What do they have? I don’t want to get embarrassed like I did when you took me line dancing,” I taunt.
“We’re in Houston. They have everythin’ here,” he says, the corners of his mouth turning up. Right.
“Okay. I’ll have a Grey Goose martini, straight up, shaken well, with an olive.”
Brody turns to the bartender. “Can the lady have a Grey Goose martini with . . .” he turns to me, “what?”
“Oh for Christ’s sake,” I mutter, pushing him away. “Straight up with an olive, shaken well, please,” I say to the bartender.
“Yeah, that, and a Makers Mark on the rocks.”
“Yes, sir,” the bartender says, and walks away to pour our drinks.
“Bourbon?” I ask, my eyebrow raising.
“Yes, ma’am,” he says with a wink. “It’s my drink of choice, besides beer.”
“Interesting. I wouldn’t have pegged you as a bourbon drinker.”
“I wouldn’t have pegged you as a martini drinker,” he says, his mouth twitching.
The bartender places our drinks on the bar, Brody leaves a tip, and leads me to a long counter overlooking the stadium. I sit and look down, seeing some guy trying to stay on a bucking horse. Within a few seconds, he’s thrown through the air. “Doesn’t that hurt?” I ask, cringing as he hits the ground.
“Probly,” he murmurs, “I wouldn’t know.”
“You’ve never ridden a bull?” I ask, incredulous.
“Not a real one,” he confesses with a slight shake of his head. “Not everyone from Texas rides bulls, but I rode on a mechanical one once.”
“Get thrown?” I ask, raising a brow.
“Yup,” he chuckles. “Landed right on my ass.” Leaning over, he rubs his backside, and it makes me laugh. “I was pretty hammered that night,” he laughs. “Otherwise, there was no way in hell I was gettin’ bucked off.”
As I listen to Brody, another guy gets bucked off his horse. “Does anyone ever stay on?” I ask, standing along the banister to get a better look.
“They’re supposed to,” he deadpans.
“So, how do you win?” I ask, le
aning over the railing.
“Bronc ridin’? It’s all about the time they spend in the saddle.”
“What did you call it?” I ask, tilting my head.
“Bronc ridin’,” he laughs, shaking his head.
“Okay, so explain, wise guy,” I murmur.
“It’s not that complicated. On the first jump out the chute, the rider must mark the horse out.” Brody gets up, standing next to me.
“Um, sorry. I’m from New York. You’re speaking a foreign language right now,” I remind him, sarcasm lacing my words.
“Right,” he chuckles. “Okay, he has to have the heels of his boots in contact with the horse above the point of the shoulders before the horse’s front legs hit the ground,” he says, giving me a visual by kicking up his leg.
“That looks hard,” I mutter, watching the guy try to hang on.
“That’s why a rider who manages to complete a ride is scored higher than a rider who doesn’t,” he explains.
“How do they score then?”
“The rider who stays on is based on a scale of zero to fifty and the horse is also scored on the same scale. But a horse who bucks wild and erratic will score more points than a horse who bucks in a straight line with no real change in direction.”
“Geez, this is really complicated,” I murmur to myself. “What happens if they all get bucked before the eight seconds are up?” I ask as another rider is bucked off.
“They’re all disqualified, but usually a few make it past.”
“What exactly is the point of this?” I spout, not sure what to make of the whole thing.
“Well, it originally started as the task of breakin’ and trainin’ horses to work the cattle ranches.” The crowd roars as a rider makes it past the time. He jumps off and is whisked away by another man on a horse while his horse continues bucking and writhing.
We sip our drinks and watch as the next four riders make it past the time. Some of the horses are tamer compared to others. One horse jumped so high, he almost landed on his head. The last rider finishes and Brody suggests we get something to eat while they tally up the scores.
When the Storm Ends Page 11
