Ride: A Bad Boy Romance

by Roxie Noir

The crowd can’t get enough, though. The more men get thrown, the more they cheer.

  Finally, Jackson’s next. When the announcer says his name, everyone in the stands screams. My heart pounds. My palms get sweaty.

  I want him to stay safe and unhurt, of course. But more than that I want him to win, to ride this bull that no one else has, because I get it. I get wanting something.

  By my side, hidden from Bruce, I cross my fingers. Even that feels wild and daring.

  “This ought to be good,” Bruce says, leaning against the barrier.

  Crash Junction is in the chute, and with a flush of embarrassment I realize it’s the one where we were last night.

  No one knows, I tell myself. Calm down.

  I think of Jackson saying you’re gonna be the death of me, his lips against my neck. His voice gentle and teasing. I force myself not to smile, even as a bolt of heat flows through me.

  Crash is already jumpy and angry, butting his head at the gate. Jackson’s on top of the wall, and for a moment, he straddles it and looks at Crash, like he’s taking the full measure of the animal.

  Then he jumps on. Crash Junction lurches, and Jackson laughs as he tightens his rope. He pats Crash on his shoulders and says something to the animal, and the cowboys standing just outside the chute laugh.

  I feel like there’s a boulder on my chest, pressing down. I think of Jackson’s scars. Of his lucky tattoo. I realize I never wished him good luck for this match.

  Good luck, I think. I bite my lip so I don’t say it out loud.

  At the last second Jackson looks over at me, a smile around his eyes. I wish I could jump up and down and scream for him, but I can’t so I just stand there.

  The gate opens.

  For a moment, Crash Junction doesn’t move.

  Then he barrels out, suddenly going top speed before he lurches to a stop, shaking his back from side to side. He leaps in the air, kicking his hind legs and plunging his forelegs to the ground and he hasn’t any sooner landed then he’s leaping again, twisting, spinning.

  I hardly know the first thing about rodeo bulls, and even I can tell why Crash Junction is notorious. It doesn’t take an expert to know that this bull is dangerous, way more difficult than any I’ve seen yet.

  I’ve got my thumb on the shutter and I’m just taking snap after snap mechanically. I’m barely looking at the viewfinder, just watching Jackson fight to stay on this animal.

  The clock is counting up the seconds but it’s slower than molasses in winter, like its batteries have wound down.

  Crash bucks and spins and twists. Three seconds. Four seconds, longer than anyone’s held onto Crash so far at Pioneer Days.

  Five seconds. Jackson almost goes over Crash’s head but rights himself, his face a mask of concentration.

  Six.

  “He’s off center,” Bruce says.

  He’s right. Jackson’s slid a little to one side, and I can tell that he’s starting to go, hanging on desperately to his rope.

  Seven seconds, and the crowd is crescendoing, cheering and stomping in the metal stands. I’m holding my breath, frozen in place.

  Crash shakes again and Jackson flies off. I yelp, then clap my hand over my mouth. It takes a fraction of a second, but he lands on his shoulder and rolls and springs to his feet but Crash has already stopped going crazy.

  The rodeo clowns in the ring get Crash out of there. The crowd in the stands sighs in disappointment like they’ve got one massive set of lungs, and I feel like my fingers and toes are buzzing with excitement and relief.

  Jackson jogs back to the gate without looking at me, grabs it and pulls himself up.

  Please look at me, I think. Come on.

  As he goes over the top, he finally glances my way.

  His eyes are burning, but in a different way than usual. This isn’t his cocky how do you like that gaze, the one that makes me weak in the knees. This is a it’s not over glance, an I’ll get that bastard or die trying glance.

  It’s still sexy. I still want to run backstage and wrap my legs around him, but I feel like I suddenly saw a different side of Jackson.

  For the first time, it occurs to me that he wins because he’s worked for it.

  Jackson’s score flashes on the screen, and I adjust my camera to the gate again. Bruce looks up at it and nods.

  “Still gonna be real hard to beat,” he says. “That was a hell of a ride, even if it didn’t qualify.”

  “For first?” I ask.

  “Yup,” he says.

  Jackson wins.

  As they announce it, they bring him back out to huge applause and he stands in the middle of the arena, grinning and holding up a huge, tacky belt buckle.

  Women scream. Men scream. Everyone is half-drunk on Coors and the thrill of watching rodeo.

  In the middle of it, I stand quietly. I take pictures of him and the two runners up. Jackson looks happy, he looks relaxed and pleased, but I can tell that there’s something off.

  It doesn’t take a genius to figure out that it’s Crash Junction. Jackson’s Everest.

  Always reaching for the next thing.

  After the fireworks, when the crowd has gone on to the free concert, the media finally gets to go down into the arena and talk to the winning cowboys. The TV crews ask the usual questions, “Are you disappointed you didn’t qualify on Crash Junction?” and “Are you excited to be heading to the finals next month in Las Vegas?”

  The answers are yes and yes, obviously. Jackson plays up his folksy twang a little, does his best just a country boy thing. I stand in front and take pictures, and despite the noise and hubbub and cameras everywhere, I can feel him looking at me.

  I can’t wait. I want him now, not in secret in a couple of hours.

  As the knot of reporters and cameras disperses, Jackson comes over to Bruce and me.

  “You need anything else?” he asks.

  Yes, I think.

  Bruce flips through his notes, and I pull out my own notes, pretending to go through them.

  “If there is, I can’t think of it now,” Bruce finally says.

  “You’ve got my phone number,” Jackson says. “Feel free to call if you think of anything.”

  “Same,” I say, even though my heart’s beating so fast it’s practically vibrating in my chest.

  “You want my number too?” Jackson asks.

  His voice is perfectly casual, but for a moment I freeze and look at him, not exactly sure what he’s suggesting.

  “Take it,” Bruce says. “Just in case.”

  I get Jackson’s number, then call him so he has mine. As he puts his phone back in his pocket, I’m pretty sure his eyes sparkle as he looks at me.

  “Well, folks,” he says, thumbs tucked in his belt. “It’s been a pleasure working with you. You’re heading out early tomorrow, right?”

  “Practically the crack of dawn,” Bruce says. “It’s been a good time watching you ride. See you in Vegas.”

  They shake hands.

  “It’s been great shooting rodeo again,” I say. I shake hands with Jackson and try not to think about where else on my body his hands have been.

  “Glad you could fill in at the last minute,” he says. “Maybe I’ll see you in Vegas too.”

  “Maybe,” I echo, because I have no idea whether I’ll be asked back.

  Then he turns and walks away. Bruce and I mosey out of the arena and toward the motel, and Bruce is oddly quiet for a moment.

  “You ever heard of Amber Simon?” he asks.

  I shake my head.

  “Doesn’t sound familiar,” I say.

  “She’s a photographer,” he says, slowly. “I worked with her about ten years ago, when I was covering basketball.”

  “Is she good?” I ask.

  Is he going to put me in touch with her for networking? I wonder.

  He nods.

  “She was, at least. I haven’t seen any of her work since then.”

  He pauses, and I frown. This isn’t going
the way I thought it was.

  “While we were covering the playoffs, it came out that she was having an affair with Lamar Bryson, the Lakers’ star player,” he says.

  My entire body flashes cold.

  “She was?” I manage to say, even though I feel like I’m not breathing.

  Bruce nods.

  “It was probably harmless, just unprofessional,” he says. “Her photos were still very good, but a gossip magazine got a photo of the two of them making out and ran it. Sports Weekly fired her on the spot, and word got around pretty fast that she’d been sleeping with one of the people she was photographing. After that, no one else wanted to hire her.”

  “Oh,” I say. I can’t think of anything else.

  “I ended up having to report on it a little,” Bruce says. “I’d have preferred not to, but when those photos were everywhere, it forced my hand. It became a story.”

  “What’s she doing now?” I ask. I clench my hand into a fist to keep it from shaking.

  “I’m not sure,” he says. “I think she moved back to South Carolina and became a wedding photographer.”

  I understand exactly what he’s telling me. It’s a warning, loud and clear, and it’s ringing through my ears.

  This could be you, he’s saying. I know what’s going on, and here’s what could happen.

  “I see,” I say.

  If Bruce knows, who else knows? Does everyone know?

  My head is whirling. I feel like I’m walking through mud, but I keep going, one foot in front of the other.

  But maybe we could still...

  No. It’s over, finished, the end. I’m not risking my entire career for one more night with Jackson. It doesn’t matter how good it is. This is my life, and I’d be an idiot to pick sex over my career.

  I’m leaving tomorrow morning, anyway. It’s not like I’m giving up the love of my life or something. Even if he’s rakish and charming. Even if he’s easier to talk to than anyone else I’ve ever met.

  Even if we’re kindred spirits, even if we’re more alike than I thought. Even if I really feel like he gets me.

  “See you tomorrow at 6:30?” Bruce says, and I realize we’re standing in the motel parking lot.

  “Bright and early,” I say.

  As I walk back into my room, my phone goes off. It’s Jackson.

  Meet me at 9:30 around the side of the motel.

  Crap.

  18

  Jackson

  At 9:15 I drive my truck around the back of the motel. Then I hop out, lean against the back, and wait.

  I should be out drinking and celebrating with everyone else. They’re all getting drunk at Betty’s again, and I’m sure there’s a whole pile of women there too. In an hour, they’ll all be arm-in-arm, singing old country ballads off-key.

  And here I am, waiting for a girl to meet me in secret. And I’m excited. I’d rather be here than drunk with two girls on my lap.

  She never texted back, but my phone says she’s read it.

  At 9:35, a figure comes into the shadow behind the motel, looks around for a moment, and then walks toward me.

  “Hope that’s you and not a psycho killer,” I tease.

  “It’s me,” she says, but her voice is oddly stiff. She stops a couple of feet in front of me, just out of arm’s reach.

  The pit of my belly goes cold.

  “The Lamplighter Motel’s got a room with our name on it,” I say.

  I take a step forward and she takes a step back.

  “Bruce knows,” she says.

  In the dark I can see she’s looking at the ground, not at me.

  “What do you mean?” I ask.

  “I mean Bruce knows,” she hisses. “What else does that mean?”

  “It means, is he going to write about this?” I ask. “Are we news now?”

  “I don’t think so,” she whispers.

  “Did he tell anyone else?”

  “I don’t know, Jackson,” she says, her voice choking up. “I’m not fired yet. That’s all I’ve got.”

  I put a hand on her shoulder but she pulls back.

  “I knew this was dumb from the second you showed up with wine at my door,” she mutters. “I can’t believe I did this.”

  “So we’re not going anywhere tonight?” I ask. My voice sounds hollow, even to my ears.

  Mae just shakes her head.

  “I’ve nearly ruined my life because of you enough times,” she says, and suddenly anger flares through me.

  “I’m not the one who got drunk and practically hopped on my dick six years ago,” I say.

  She shoots me a glare.

  “You could have stopped this any time, Lula-Mae,” I go on. “And you didn’t.”

  “I am now,” she says. She still won’t look at me.

  “You don’t think it’s too little, too late?” I ask.

  “I think every second we spend together is dangerous,” she says. Now she’s leaning against the truck, still just out of reach, arms crossed defensively in front of her.

  “Because we might get caught?” I ask. “Or because you know you’re the reason we got caught?”

  “I’m the reason?” she says. She finally looks at me, her blue eyes blazing, even in the dark. “I’m not the one who tracked me down in the arena last night, practically in public.”

  “You’re the one who screams loud enough to wake the dead,” I say.

  She blushes and glares. She opens her mouth but closes it without saying anything and looks away again.

  “I’m not about to apologize for that,” I say.

  “Of course you’re not,” she mutters. “You win rodeos and sleep with lots of women and everyone loses their shit over you because you’re the golden boy. I’m sure you don’t apologize.”

  Anger seethes through me, and I take a step toward her. I feel like everything that’s happened the past couple of days is bubbling up in a black boil right now: Raylan being a dick, Darlene giving me talking-to after talking-to, sneaking around with Mae, falling off Crash Junction.

  Knowing the whole time that Pioneer Days is gonna end and we’re gonna go our separate ways.

  Mae telling me that I can’t even have her this one last time.

  “Okay,” I say. I try to keep my voice steady, but there’s a hard, rough edge biting into it. “I’m sorry we slept together and we had such a good time that everyone found out. I’m sorry you wanted it as bad as I did.”

  Mae snorts.

  “Nice apology,” she says.

  I take a step forward and now I’m right next to her, our bodies almost touching.

  “But most of all, Lula-Mae, I’m sorry that if you changed your mind this minute, I’d still take you up on it in a heartbeat.”

  “I’m not going to change my mind,” she whispers. Her glare shimmers with tears.

  “Your loss,” I say.

  “I’m leaving tomorrow morning anyway,” she says. “One more time doesn’t matter.”

  “So why not do it?” I say. “If it doesn’t matter.”

  “You know why,” she snaps. “Because I’m not giving up my career over some fling.”

  I’m not stupid. I always knew there was a timestamp on this, but hearing her say that hurts more than I thought it would.

  “You’re right. Some casual fuck sure isn’t worth it,” I say, the words coming out more bitter than I mean.

  Now she has the nerve to look at me like she’s wounded, though she doesn’t say anything.

  “I gotta go,” she says, and stands up straight.

  I don’t stop leaning on the truck.

  “Good luck, Lula-Mae,” I say, even as something deep inside me twists.

  “You too, Jackson,” she says, her voice cool and quiet.

  Maybe I’m seeing things in the dark, but I’m almost certain a single tear tracks down her face.

  “Go on,” I say.

  She turns and leaves, and I watch her walk back around the motel. Her hips still move and roll in the s
exiest way I’ve ever seen, and angry as I am, I get hard just watching her leave.

  Goddammit, I think.

  I kick one of the tires on my truck, fists clenched into balls.

  Goddamn fucking Lula-Mae. Goddamn Bruce and goddamn Wayne and Darlene and goddamn Crash Junction.

  I kick the tires a couple more times. I pace a loop around the truck, feeling like I might crawl out of my own skin with anger and horniness, with my frustration over falling off Crash Junction but also the thrill of winning.

  I take a deep breath. I get into my truck and crank the engine.

  Fuck it, I think. I’m getting drunk at Betty’s and forgetting all about this.

  In no time at all, I’ve downed six shots of whiskey and I’m watching three guys sing She Thinks My Tractor’s Sexy very, very badly. Two girls are on stage with them, not even singing, just dancing drunkenly.

  It’s obvious that they’re trying to dance sexy. In another couple shots I’ll probably agree with them. Someone shows up with a tray of whiskey, and I take one.

  “That’s a sipping whiskey,” says Betty’s voice.

  I look up. There she is.

  “Try to make it last at least four sips,” she says.

  I take a sip and look up at her.

  “There’s one,” I say.

  Betty moves on. I take another sip, and she’s replaced by a pretty brunette in a pink cowboy hat who spills into the seat next to me.

  “Hi Jackson,” she says. “I’m Anna.”

  “Hey there,” I say.

  “I loved watching you ride,” she says, batting her eyelashes at me.

  I take another sip.

  “Even though I fell off?” I ask.

  She laughs, then bites her lip. I think it’s supposed to be sexy, but she looks a little like a rabbit.

  “Everyone falls off,” she says.

  I keep drinking. Anna keeps drinking. The guys keep singing.

  Before I know it, Anna’s on my lap, leaning against me, laughing and biting her lip. My hand’s on her ass, and I think I’m squeezing it. It’s a nice ass.

  “You must be tired after doing all that riding,” she says, curling her fingers through my hair.

  “Ain’t that tired,” I manage to say. “I could still manage a couple more rides.”