Ride: A Bad Boy Romance

by Roxie Noir

  Finally I spot the girl’s cowboy hat on her nightstand and grab it. I grin at the quick memory: her, hat on, giving me a good hard ride after half a bottle of Jack last night.

  The thought gives me a half-chub, but I clap the hat over it and crack the door open.

  “Are you tryin’ to knock this whole place down?” I ask.

  Raylan gives me a quick once-over, thumbs tucked in his belt, and then grins.

  “Cock-a-doodle-doo, sunshine,” he says, a shit-eating grin on his face.

  “I been up since six,” I say, leaning against the door frame, hat still firmly over my dick. “I got nowhere to be until noon. My itinerary says so.”

  “Well, your itinerary is wrong, because you got a meeting with a reporter in thirty minutes,” Raylan says.

  “What reporter?”

  “Sports Weekly,” he says. “Wayne’s all worked up about it and sent me to come find you and clear the bunnies outta your room.”

  Practically on cue, I can hear the girl roll over in bed and sigh.

  “Tell Wayne I’ll be out in two shakes,” I say.

  “Ten-four,” Raylan says, and I close the door.

  I toss the girl’s hat onto the bed and head for the bathroom.

  “You gonna be in Sports Weekly?” she asks.

  “Guess so,” I say, and close the door behind me.

  I take a quick shower, hoping she’ll just leave while I’m in here. We had a good enough time, but now I can’t remember her name.

  Did it start with an N? I wonder, soaping up quickly.

  Nancy? Nicole?

  I’ve got no idea. None of those sound even vaguely familiar, but I’ve always been bad with names.

  They ought to just stick name tags to their tits, I think, and laugh to myself in the shower. Maybe then I’d get some of them right.

  Show someone walking away and I can tell you exactly who they are by their gait, the way they walk and move. That’s what I’m good at.

  Not names.

  Nadine, maybe?

  I rinse off, cut the water off, and wrap a towel around myself before stepping back into the room, hoping she’s gone.

  She’s not. She’s still naked except the hat, and now she’s kneeling on the bed, hands on her knees, eyes a little bloodshot and ringed with last night’s makeup.

  “Hey cowboy,” she says. “How about one more round?”

  Then she bites her lip and looks at the bulge in the towel.

  I shouldn’t. I can’t remember her name and I’m meeting a reporter in fifteen minutes, but I look down at her on the bed, a little worn-out looking but hot, naked, and ready.

  My dick’s never listened to my brain and it’s not about to start now.

  “I gotta go soon,” I warn her.

  She crawls forward on the bed toward me, eyes on my erection straining at the towel.

  “I can be quick,” she says, and yanks my towel off, her eyes on my quickly-hardening dick.

  I don’t think I’ll ever get tired of the way women look at this thing.

  Before we can do anything, there’s another knock at my door.

  “Shit,” I mutter. She looks up at me uncertainly, and I hold one finger up to my lips.

  Maybe if we’re quiet, whoever it is will think we’ve left already.

  The knock sounds again.

  “Jackson, I know you’re in there,” a man’s voice booms.

  It’s Wayne, the guy who organizes Oklahoma Pioneer Days. He’s ex-military, and while I’d never call him high-strung to his face, he wants things run a certain way.

  Having a quickie with a buckle bunny fifteen minutes before you meet a reporter for a major magazine is exactly what Wayne doesn’t want.

  “Jackson,” he booms again.

  “You gotta get,” I whisper to the girl, who makes a pouty face as I pull on my boxers and jeans.

  “Comin’!” I shout, walking toward the door, still shirtless, hoping my pants hide my erection well enough.

  I pull the door open to Wayne’s unhappy face. He gives me a slow once-over, arms crossed in front of his chest.

  “What in tarnation are you doing in there?” he asks.

  “Gettin’ ready to meet a reporter,” I say. “I thought you’d want me wearing pants.”

  His eyes travel past me and land on something in the room, and his frown deepens. I resist for a moment, but then I turn and look.

  It’s an open, half-empty bottle of Jack Daniels.

  “Don’t you ruin this for us,” he says, pointing a finger at me. “Oklahoma Pioneer Days is a family event, you hear me?”

  “Absolutely, sir,” I say.

  It’s times like this I’m glad I was raised right. I can at least act respectful when I need to.

  “That don’t mean start a family while you’re here,” he adds.

  “No, sir,” I say.

  “Sookie’s in five,” he says, and holds up five fingers just in case I’m unclear on how many that is.

  Then he walks away, hands balled in fists at his sides, his spine straight. Still moves like he’s in the military.

  The girl peeks her head out of the bathroom and looks at me, then winks.

  “I can do five minutes,” she says.

  “He’ll have my hide,” I say, reaching into my suitcase for a shirt.

  She pouts again.

  “Sorry, darlin’,” I say. “I had a real good time last night.”

  Natalie? Naomi?

  “Me too,” she says. “Don’t worry, I’ll be around.”

  She gets dressed fast in her denim miniskirt and fringed shirt, and I shoo her out of my room. Then I screw the cap back on the liquor, pull on my boots, and get on down to Sookie’s Diner with one minute to spare.

  Sookie’s Diner looks exactly like a place called Sookie’s Diner should look. Red-checked tablecloths, thrift store knickknacks on the walls, and tons of those kinda-ugly wooden plaques with funny little sayings on them, like Cowgirl up! and Save a horse, ride a Cowboy!

  I can get behind that last one.

  Wayne and his wife Darlene are sitting at the table already, and Wayne looks meaningfully at the clock on the wall when I come in.

  “You’re two minutes late,” he says.

  “That clock’s fast, and I’m earlier than they are,” I say.

  Darlene hasn’t said anything yet, but she’s giving me a good once-over, like she’s making sure that I don’t have a condom wrapper stuck on me anywhere and I don’t reek of whiskey.

  I don’t think I do. No guarantees.

  “Sports Weekly is doing a big feature on the Oklahoma Pioneer Days rodeo,” she finally says, lacing her fingers together in front of her.

  She’s got a perfect manicure, fancy earrings, and a face full of makeup. It would be easy to mistake Darlene for a glammed-up rodeo wife, but I’ve been riding at Pioneer Days for a couple years now. I know Darlene, and the woman can rope a steer in her own right, no matter how prim and proper she looks.

  “Okay,” I say. The waitress stops by with a cup of coffee for me, and I thank her.

  Then I watch her walk away. She moves a little stiffly, but I’d be willing to loosen her up.

  Darlene clears her throat, and I stop watching the waitress walk away.

  “We could be at the center of a perfect storm that makes rodeo mainstream,” Darlene goes on. “Play everything right, and bull riders could be as famous as basketball players.”

  I raise my eyebrows.

  “And I’m the Michael Jordan of rodeo,” I say.

  “Not yet,” Wayne says. “You still got a couple to win before you get there.”

  “Think I could have my very own line of cowboy boots?” I ask.

  “Don’t count your chickens before they’re hatched,” Darlene says. “You got a ways to go.”

  Wayne leans across the table, making his most serious face.

  “You ought to take this seriously, Jackson,” he rumbles. “We’re talking rodeo championships being as big
as the Super Bowl. We’re talking sponsorships, contracts, gigs doing commentary on ESPN once you retire. Play this thing right, and you’d be the biggest rodeo star of all time, because you’d be the first.”

  I take another sip of my coffee. My name in lights sounds nice, but I don’t even know what I’d do with a million dollars. Buy a ranch out in the country, I guess, and then what? Retire?

  The concept feels totally foreign to me.

  All I’ve ever wanted to do is ride, because there’s nothing in the world like the rush of staying on a bull for those eight seconds.

  A couple years ago, I got hurt pretty bad. When I woke up, I realized: this is what’s gonna kill me, and that’s if I’m lucky. I don’t know a single rider over fifty who doesn’t walk with a limp, and there’s plenty worse off than that.

  Commentating on ESPN? Doing cowboy boot commercials? That’s for someone else. Someone who thinks he’ll make it past thirty-five.

  Wayne leans forward over the table.

  “Just act with the slightest hint of decorum for five day,” he says, his voice low.

  I glance out the window, trying not to smile.

  “That’s not what they’re here for,” I say. “We both know they wouldn’t be interested if I was straight-laced and squeaky clean.”

  “Jackson, just be discreet,” Darlene says. Her eyes are like iron. “No loud intercourse in bar bathrooms. No showing your johnson to anyone who asks. No disappearing to Mexico for a day and showing up an hour before you’re supposed to ride, like you did in San Antonio.”

  “I won San Antonio,” I point out.

  “See if you can win without nearly causing a catastrophe for once,” Darlene says. “There’s a difference between a good story and a scandal.”

  “Jackson, all we’re saying is take it down a notch for once,” Wayne says. “Take a girl back to your motel room instead of the alley behind the bar.”

  I look from him to Darlene and back. I’ve known them for a couple years, and they’re nice people, if firm. They just want Pioneer Days to hit the big time, and I know they’ve worked hard for it.

  I don’t really give a shit what people think about me, but for the two of them, I’ll give it a shot.

  No Mexico. Girls in the motel room only. Maybe in bar bathrooms if they can be quiet.

  “Okay,” I finally agree. “I’ll try it.”

  They both nod and then look at the door of the diner, their expressions suddenly turning professional. I turn to look at the two people heading toward us.

  In front is an older man, gray-haired and gray-bearded, wearing a button-down work shirt. He doesn’t look like he’s from around here, but he doesn’t stick out.

  Then he steps aside and I get an eyeful of the other person.

  Lord above.

  It’s a girl carrying a camera over one shoulder, her blonde hair side swept, her eyes raking in the knickknacks on the wall. She walks toward us and I forget to breathe for a just a second, because all I can watch is the straight line of her shoulders over the way her hips roll as she moves.

  I’m mesmerized. It’s like watching the ebb and swell of the ocean, except the ocean’s never gotten my dick hard.

  I stare. She looks around the diner, completely casual, totally seemingly unaware that even in jeans and a black t-shirt, every movement she makes screams sex, at least to me. Her face has the barest hint of freckles, and even though her eyes have circles under them, they’re a perfect sky blue.

  She walks closer with those languid, sultry movements, and I realize something.

  I know her.

  I can’t place her right away, but I’m total certain that I do. I start flipping back through the memories of all the women I’ve been with.

  It’s a lot, but this girl is memorable. I ought to be able to place her.

  I can already tell it’s gonna vex me.

  “You’re Wayne and Darlene Nelson?” the bearded man asks.

  “We sure are,” Wayne says, getting out of the booth and shaking his hand.

  Not a rodeo type, I think, looking at her again.

  Where have I even been that I’d meet a girl like her?

  Then Wayne clears his throat, and I realize they’re all staring at me.

  I rise from the booth and Bruce shakes my hand.

  “Jackson Cody,” I say. I force myself to look at him and not the girl.

  “Bruce McMurtry,” he says. “I’m a reporter for Sports Weekly. This is our photographer.”

  “Mae Guthrie,” the girl says. She holds out her hand and keeps her spine perfectly straight, like she’s trying to look taller than she is.

  The second I hear her voice, I know exactly who she is.

  I can’t help but grin.

  “Miss Guthrie,” I say, taking her hand in mine. “Welcome to the Pioneer Days Rodeo. I’m Jackson.”

  She’s got a firm handshake and a steely, don’t-take-no-shit look in her eyes.

  “Thank you,” she says, her voice stiff and a little formal. “But it’s just Mae.”

  “Sure thing,” I say. I hold onto her hand for another moment before I let it go.

  I’d bet fifty bucks she remembers me. She’s got her hackles up the way women do when they unexpectedly run into someone they’re embarrassed about, like she’s praying that I don’t tell our entire breakfast table the story of our little tryst.

  It’s been years. That’s why it took me a minute to remember who she was, but as soon as she spoke up I remembered that voice saying Come on, Jackson right into my ear in the bed of my pickup truck.

  Hell, I still think about that night sometimes, and I’ve got plenty of other nights to choose from.

  “Take a load off and sit down,” Wayne says, and the three of us scoot in around the big circular booth.

  Mae flicks her eyes nervously at the seat next to Wayne, but Bruce is already lowering himself into it with a sigh, like he’s got bad knees, so I pat the cushion next to me.

  “Come on, I don’t bite,” I say. “Not unless you ask real nice.”

  Darlene shoots me a glare before turning up the wattage on her smile.

  “Sookie’s has got the best flapjacks this side of Oklahoma City,” she says brightly. “You two must be hungry after that long flight. How far is it from New York City?”

  “It’s about four hours,” Bruce says. “We managed to get a direct flight, so it wasn’t too bad.”

  They keep chatting, so I turn my head and look at Mae, who’s studying the menu like there’s gonna be a quiz.

  “Where you from, Miss Guthrie?” I ask.

  “Mae,” she says, not taking her eyes off the menu.

  “Well then, where you from, Mae?” I ask.

  “I live in Brooklyn,” she says, not exactly answering my question.

  “You like New York City?” I ask, leaning back in the booth and letting my eyes run down her body for just a moment.

  “I do sometimes,” she says, her eyes still on the menu. “Other times it’s cold, crowded, and the people are rude.”

  “Sounds like it’s the second time right now,” I say.

  “You’re not wrong,” she says, and then sighs, leaning her head on her hand on the table. “Do you know the difference between a flapjack and a pancake?”

  “I don’t think there is one, and I’m nearly an expert on diners,” I say.

  “Nearly,” she says, and her blue eyes get a glimmer to them. “What, are you one credit shy of your degree?”

  “I never was much for school,” I say.

  “Not even if the class is on bacon?” she asks.

  I laugh.

  “I damn near failed out of kindergarten,” I say. “That’s nothing but ABC’s and 1-2-3’s. You know how hard that is to fail?”

  “You seem like you’ve learned them now,” she says, and the sentence has the slightest hint of a lilt to it, like she’s keeping the lid tight on an accent that’s clamoring to get out.

  “By the skin of my teeth,” I say, ta
king another sip of coffee. “I got myself a reputation for making teachers cry by the time I was eight years old.”

  “You made a grown woman cry when you were eight years old?” she asks.

  Now she’s leaning back in the booth, her blue eyes smiling at me, and I’d almost swear to God she’s flirting.

  “That was just the first time,” I say, grinning at her. “Ain’t you done your research? I’m a heartbreaker.”

  Just then, the waitress steps up to our table and sets down coffee in front of Mae and Bruce.

  But for just a moment Mae keeps on looking at me, those sky-blue eyes unreadable, before she turns and orders flapjacks.

  Somewhere, deep down inside me, I feel a twinge.

  3

  Mae

  I don’t think he remembers.

  I can’t quite tell, but I don’t think so. He’s not acting like someone who remembers... well, that. He’s definitely flirting with me, but from what I’ve read, that’s Jackson Cody’s default setting.

  But there’s no hint of recognition, no don’t I know you from somewhere look in his eyes, and even though I’m definitely relieved, I’m also the tiniest bit disappointed.

  After all, I remembered him for years. I spent the drive from the airport to here psyching myself up for seeing him again.

  Even so, the moment I saw him my heart hitched in my chest.

  Jackson Cody looks almost exactly the same as he did when he was nineteen and I was eighteen. Same tall frame, same wide shoulders, muscles hard from a life of farm work.

  Same dark brown hair that never quite lies down, same cocky grin, same square jawline, like he’s a movie cowboy.

  Same hazel eyes, somewhere between green and brown, the color of forested mountains on a rainy day.

  Good thing I know better than to fall for it again.

  As soon as the waitress walks away, the older man at the table — Dwayne? Wayne? I think it was Wayne — puts his beefy hands on top of the table and looks around at us.

  “Well, y’all, I’m pleased as punch that Sports Weekly is covering our little rodeo,” he says, his accent getting a little more folksy.

  I raise my eyebrows a millimeter. Oklahoma Pioneer Days isn’t little, but I recognize that characteristic down-home humbleness, that way that country people sometimes have of waving away their accomplishments.