Ride: A Bad Boy Romance

by Roxie Noir

  “Darlene, have you got the schedules?” he asks.

  Darlene pulls a file folder out of a bag and passes out glossy pamphlets to Bruce and me.

  “Now, you can’t attend everything,” Wayne says. “But I thought you might like to go over this and we’ll work out what you two ought to prioritize.”

  “Besides bull riding,” Jackson says. “That’s a given.”

  I want to roll my eyes at his cocky grin, but he’s right. We are here because he’s poised to become the greatest rodeo champion of all time, at least if he wins this and competes in the finals this December.

  “Right,” Wayne says, and then starts going over the whole schedule in excruciating detail with Bruce, who has a million questions.

  I try to pay attention, but my brain feels like it keeps slipping out of gear. I’ve been up for thirty-six hours straight.

  This job is huge. Sports Weekly is huge. If I do it well, I’ll never be taking pictures of a mall Santa again — but first, I have to not screw this up.

  The problem is Jackson Cody. Even though I promised myself we’d be strictly professional, it’s been five minutes and we’re already flirting.

  It’s five days, I tell myself. Just keep it together for five days.

  How hard can it be?

  Six Years Earlier

  “You sure nobody’s gonna find us up here?” I ask, stumbling out of Christy’s truck.

  “It’s Derrick’s brother’s boss’s land, and he don’t care if we use it,” she answers, hopping out of the driver’s side. “Come on, Lula-Mae. Be bad for once in your life.”

  I look at the near-empty bottle of peach-flavored Boone’s Farm wine in my hand.

  How did that get almost-gone?

  My brain feels blurry, like there’s a time delay between what’s happening and when I figure it out.

  “Lula, come on,” Christy says, laughing and coming back toward me. “You ain’t gonna get in trouble.”

  “Am I drunk?” I ask her, still standing there.

  We’re both wearing tank tops and cut-off shorts, and there’s a raging bonfire in the clearing ahead of us, pickup trucks and thirty-packs of beer circled around it. It seems like half my high school graduating class is here, too, and for a moment, I wonder how long they’ve been congregating up here to get drunk.

  I’ve definitely never been invited before.

  Christy just laughs at me.

  “If you’ve gotta ask, you’re not drunk enough,” she says. “Come on, I thought you liked that stuff.”

  “It’s like alcohol candy,” I say. “I love it.”

  I take another long swig, then follow her toward the bonfire.

  It’s a couple weeks after high school graduation, and suddenly, nothing I do has the same consequences that it used to. There’s no more tests to fail, no more papers to write, no more teachers to please.

  I’ve got a full ride to the University of Texas at Austin in the fall, but until then?

  I’m free.

  I take another drink of the peach wine. It tastes like sugar, alcohol, and freedom.

  Christy’s got a beer in her hand now and the two of us are walking around, me still clutching this wine bottle. I can hear people whispering it’s Lula-Mae, but I’m way too drunk to care.

  “Christy!” a man’s voice shouts, and we turn toward him. Christy looks him up and down.

  “Buck, I didn’t know you were back in town,” she says.

  Even drunk in the firelight, I can tell Christy is blushing.

  “Sure am,” he says. “There’s a rodeo over in Odessa this weekend so I figured I’d come by and see my folks.”

  Buck’s a year older than us, and he quit school in the middle of his senior year to ride rodeo full-time. I thought he was a total idiot, but Christy disagreed.

  He was never my type, but I’ve heard her sing his praises endlessly, like he was Jesus Christ himself come down to earth.

  “It’s great that you’re still ridin’,” she says, taking a long pull of her beer.

  “I’ll keep ridin’ for as long as I can get on a bull,” he says, and grins his cocky, swaggering grin at her.

  Christy looks like she goes weak in the knees, and I roll my eyes, too drunk to be subtle.

  Then someone else is behind him. The new guy claps Buck on the shoulder, leaning over the other man toward us.

  “You ladies know Buck?” he asks, a grin on his face.

  It’s a really handsome face.

  I clutch my wine bottle harder. I feel myself turn ten colors. My mouth goes dry and my guts pretty much turn themselves inside out, and for a second I have the crazy urge to just run away.

  There aren’t a lot of new people in Lawton, Texas. When there are, they’re never hot men my age.

  This guy is.

  Not only is he hot, he’s looking at me in a way that boys don’t look at me. He’s got this intense expression on his face, like he doesn’t know that I’m Lula-Mae Guthrie, valedictorian, National Honor Society Member, captain of the debate team, and card-carrying Good Girl.

  I feel weird. I feel like there’s a spotlight on me.

  Suddenly, I realize what feels like when someone undresses you with their eyes.

  I look down at the ground and heat floods through me, pooling between my legs.

  Oh gosh, I think. Is this because I’m drunk?

  This has gotta be because I’m drunk.

  “I’m Jackson,” he says, holding out one hand, still staring me straight in the eyes.

  My insides feel like spaghetti, but if spaghetti was alive and angry.

  “I’m Lula-Mae,” I say, my voice coming out breathless. “I’m here.”

  I meant to say something like I go to the high school where Buck went, but it didn’t work. I snap my mouth shut.

  Jackson just laughs.

  “I’m here too,” he says, his hazel eyes twinkling.

  “Jackson’s been traveling the circuit with me,” Buck says. “I dragged him here for the weekend so my mom could feed him her biscuits and gravy.”

  “Ain’t they good?” Christy asks.

  I take the opportunity to drink more peach wine, trying to drown the angry spaghetti in my stomach. Christy talks to them for a minute, but mostly she talks to Buck, and then before I know it her hand’s on his arm and she’s giggling and then they’re walking away, leaving me standing here with Buck’s super-hot friend.

  Jackson just whistles as they walk away.

  “Never seen Buck be a ladies’ man before,” he says to me.

  I roll my eyes, and everything swims.

  “She’s got it bad for him,” I say. “Christy’s my best friend but sometimes I think if I have to hear Buck’s name one more time I might just smack her upside the head.”

  He just laughs.

  “I’ve never heard him so much as say her name,” he says, looking after them again.

  Then he shrugs.

  “Maybe don’t tell her that,” he says.

  “My mouth is... locked?” I say, the wine preventing me from getting the saying right.

  He laughs and lifts a beer to his mouth, taking a couple long swallows as I try to think of what to say next. I’ve probably got a couple seconds before he heads off to find someone else.

  Guys like him don’t talk to dorks like me. They want fun girls like Christy.

  “So, you ride rodeo with Buck?” I finally say.

  “Sure do,” he says. “Little bit of everything, but bull riding is my main event.”

  I gasp involuntarily, like an old lady or a little kid.

  “That’s dangerous,” I say. “Aren’t you afraid you’ll fall off or get gored or something?”

  Any other time, I’d be less impressed, but this bottle of wine is almost gone and so is my better judgement.

  Jackson grins and tucks his thumb into his belt.

  “The danger’s what makes it fun,” he says.

  I get a little warmer between the legs.

 
; “Really?” I ask.

  “Of course,” he says. “Every second up there, it’s just you versus this raw force of nature, you knowin’ that at any second it could toss you off and crush you like a bug, and all you’ve got to do is make sure that don’t happen.”

  He winks at me.

  “It’s a hell of a rush, Lula-Mae. Come by the rodeo this weekend and I’ll give you a lesson.”

  I laugh.

  “It’ll be a cold day in hell first,” I say.

  Suddenly I realize two things: one, my wine bottle is empty, and two, he’s gotten closer.

  “I bet you’d make a pretty good rider,” he says, grinning down at me.

  I drop the wine bottle, and it makes a dull thunk on the ground.

  “What makes you say that?” I ask.

  “You move right,” he says, and puts one hand on my hips.

  Part of me wants to step away and resist what’s happening. That’s the part of me that’s an honor student, the part that color-codes homework assignments in her planner.

  A much bigger part of me wants me to stay right there, and that part is drunk for the first time and thinks that once, just once, maybe I should have some fun with a hot cowboy whose last name I don’t even know.

  “How do I move?” I ask. “Like I’m hard to shake off?”

  “You walk real fluid,” he says, and puts his other hand on my hips, then wiggles them a little bit.

  Now I’m aching and looking up at him. I’ve had a boyfriend before and we did stuff, but it never made me feel like this.

  “You gotta move easy and go with the flow to be a good rider,” Jackson says, his hazel eyes smiling down at me. “Stay loose and keep your balance but be in control. It’s all in the hips,” he says.

  He winks at me.

  “How do you know what I walk like,” I say. “I ain’t moved since I came over here.”

  “I watched you walk in,” he says. “I watched you and I thought to myself, that girl oughta ride.”

  I narrow my eyes. I can practically hear my mother saying Lula-Mae, you know boys only want one thing, so keep your legs shut.

  Momma never covered what to do if I want the exact same thing.

  “Do girls even ride bulls?” I ask.

  “Not most girls,” he says. “But I got the feeling you ain’t most girls.”

  He bends down and kisses me, right there in front of the fire. My head swirls with the alcohol and for a moment I nearly lose my balance and fall over but then he’s got his arm around me, keeping me upright, and my hands are on his chest.

  Underneath his t-shirt he’s pure muscle, and I run my hands down it as he opens his mouth against mine, the ache inside me deepening. He tastes like beer, but I couldn’t care less.

  When I finally surface, I glance around, but no one’s looking at me. Half of them are making out and the other half are dead drunk.

  “I got my pickup here,” he says. “You wanna go sit down?”

  I nod breathlessly and follow him. We stop by a twenty-four pack and he cracks a beer and hands it to me. I can feel my classmates watching as I follow him back to his truck.

  They’re probably wondering what on earth he is doing with Lula-Mae, of all people.

  Let them wonder.

  He’s got a blanket and a few cushions in the bed of his truck, and we climb in and lean against the cab, the glass cool against my back in the hot night.

  “You just graduated, right?” he asks.

  His hand is on my bare leg.

  “Right,” I say. “Don’t worry, I’m eighteen.”

  He laughs.

  “That ain’t what I was asking, but thanks,” he says.

  “What were you asking, then?” I say, taking a sip of beer.

  I don’t even like beer, but I’m so drunk I can barely taste it.

  “Just making polite conversation,” he says, a chuckle in his voice. “What’s next?”

  “UT Austin,” I say.

  “College girl,” he says. “Fancy.”

  I snort and take another sip.

  “My front yard’s as full of busted cars as everyone else’s,” I say. “I got a full ride because I want to get the hell out of Lawton.”

  “Well, I’m glad you’re slumming it with us this summer,” he teases. “Remember the little people when you’re on top.”

  I take another long gulp of beer, my eyes flicking up to the skies. Then I put the near-empty can down.

  Now I’m sure I’m drunk, so drunk my face is nearly numb and talking is a little hard.

  “Jackson,” I say, his hand still on my thigh. “Did you bring me here to the back of your pickup to talk about my future, or did you bring me here for some other reason?”

  He opens his mouth, eyes dancing, but instead of listening I get on my knees and then swing one leg over him until I’m straddling him and we’re face to face.

  I have no idea what’s gotten into me.

  Wait, yes I do.

  An entire bottle of cheap wine and a shitty beer.

  Jackson puts both his hands on my butt and squeezes. I giggle, biting my lip, suddenly not quite sure where to go from here.

  “Told you you’d be a good rider,” he says, moving my ass up and down in his hands.

  “You ain’t quite as dangerous as a bull,” I say, and kiss him hard before he can answer me.

  I’m sloppy drunk, but I shove my tongue into his mouth and he pushes back with his own. He grabs my hips and grinds me against the thick, hard rod in his pants.

  I frown.

  “The hell is in your pocket,” I mutter.

  He laughs and grinds me against it again, and it feels good rubbing up against me like that, whatever it is.

  “You like it?” he asks.

  “Kinda,” I say, breathless. I’m moving my hips against it on my own now.

  “Ain’t got nothing in my pockets,” he says. “That is one hundred percent All-American cock.”

  I gasp and cover my mouth, and he grins like he’s won the lottery.

  “Come on, you liked it before,” he says. “Just give it a chance.”

  I do. I think I’ve lost control now, because as shocked as I am that someone said that to me, I still like this.

  Jackson kisses me again as he moves his hands under my tank top, me still writhing against him, his fingers pinching my nipples through my bra.

  “You like that?” he whispers.

  I reach behind myself and unhook my bra, then take it off through the arm hole of my tank top and toss it behind me.

  Jackson pushes my top to just above my nipples and then bends his head down, biting and licking at one and then the other, and it feels amazing, like my insides are turning to boiling liquid. I want him to do this forever, it feels so good.

  Almost on their own, my hands find the buckle of his belt, and before I know it I’m unzipping his jeans and he’s pushing my tank top back down over my breasts.

  Then I stare at his boxers in slight confusion, frowning. I was expecting a dick, and I’m not quite sure how to get it out now.

  Technically, I’ve never done this before, but Jackson finds the opening in his boxers and suddenly it’s there, thick and long and straight and very, very hard. After another moment of uncertainty I grab it by the base and squeeze, and Jackson makes a noise like I’m doing it right.

  Then he’s unbuttoning my shorts and reaching in and it feels strange to have someone else’s hand there, but it feels good.

  Once he finds my clit it feels really good as his rough fingers circle it, making me gasp, my own hand still awkwardly on his erection, not quite sure what to do with it because I’ve only ever touched a penis through clothing before.

  His hand moves deeper and then I can feel it on my lips, his fingers gently nudging between them.

  “Damn, Lula-Mae, you ain’t faking,” he says.

  “Faking what?” I ask, trying to move my hips against his hand.

  I desperately want something from him, and to be
honest, I barely even know what.

  I want this, but more. A bunch more.

  He puts his hand over mine on his cock and slides it up and down, from the root to the tip and back, and he leans his head against the cab of his truck and groans.

  Oh, I think. I guess that’s what I’m supposed to do.

  I do it again, then again, and he slowly slides one finger inside me, the feeling strange and wonderful, his palm still pressing against my clit.

  “Jackson,” I whisper.

  “Yes, Lula-Mae?” he murmurs.

  “Let’s do it,” I say.

  I’ve totally forgotten that there are other people around, or that the back of this truck in the middle of a field isn’t exactly private.

  I just want to do sex stuff with him.

  “I didn’t bring a rubber,” he says.

  For a moment I have no idea what he’s talking about or why it’s relevant, and then it dawns on me.

  But every cell in my body is pounding with drunken desire, and I don’t give a shit about a condom.

  “It’s fine,” I say. “Don’t you want to?”

  “Hell yes,” he growls, his eyes sliding down my body, right in front of him, but there’s still something hesitant about the way he says it.

  I squeeze his dick again and slide my hand up and down and he looks up at me, in a way no one’s ever looked at me before.

  I have no idea what I’m doing, but I lean forward, steadying myself against his chest with my other hand as everything wobbles in front of me, and put my lips practically against his ear.

  “Come on, Jackson,” I whisper.

  He chuckles.

  “You get what you want, don’t you, Lula-Mae?” he asks, grinning, his fingers circling my clit again.

  Then: sirens. I look over my shoulder and there are blue lights flashing across the field.

  My heart seizes in my chest and everything spins.

  I yelp, try to stand and fall sideways, the metal of his truck bed booming beneath me.

  “You all right?” I hear Jackson ask, but I’m panicking.

  I’ve never had a run-in with the police before, and I’m positive it’s going to ruin my life. First I’ll get arrested, then the university won’t let me in any more, then I’ll be stuck in Lawton forever. I’ll be working at the McDonald’s for the rest of my life.