Ride: A Bad Boy Romance

by Roxie Noir

  He grabs me by one hip and rolls me over until I’m on my hands and knees facing the headboard, and he runs his fingers over my slit. I arch my back and look at him over my shoulder, because I feel like I’m in heat, and all that matters is fucking him again right now.

  Then he slides in and I groan, my hands clenching the bedsheets. I push back against him until every inch is inside and I hear him growl. I already came once, so I’m even more sensitive than usual. His cock feels like it’s completing a circuit in my body, every nerve suddenly electrified.

  “Is this what you wanted?” he asks.

  “Yes,” I say, pushing back against him.

  He grabs me by the shoulders and lifts me up to kneeling and then I’m bracing myself against the headboard on my elbows, bent over halfway as Jackson slides inside me again, a low rumble coming from deep in his chest.

  “I can’t do this for long, Lula-Mae,” he says. “You make me feel like a teenager, like I might come just looking at you.”

  “Don’t stop,” I say. “I need this, Jackson.”

  “I know what you need,” he growls. He pulls my hips against him, pushing himself deep, and I just shout.

  “Fuck, yes, please,” I gasp.

  He does it again and again, slow and hard and deep. I think my brain has stopped responding to all other signals besides the complete, overwhelming force of the pleasure building inside me.

  “I needed this too,” he says, into my ear. “God, I needed this.”

  “I know,” I murmur. “You think I don’t know what you need?”

  Slow, hard, deep.

  “You are what I need,” he says. “Here, outside, in a truck, against a sink. Drunk, sober. It doesn’t fucking matter, Lula-Mae.”

  Again.

  I can feel myself start coming apart, like I’m about to go to pieces.

  “Lula-Mae, I’m gonna come,” he whispers.

  “Come inside me,” I say.

  I’m right at that edge, teetering on the brink, and Jackson thrusts slow and deep one more time.

  “Yes,” I whisper, and I just come unraveled. It feels so fucking good that nothing else exists for seconds on end, just the bursts of pleasure exploding through me.

  Then Jackson growls and suddenly I feel him come inside me, his cock jerking deep inside me as he says, “Oh, fuck,” into the back of my shoulder over and over again. Tremors are still rattling through my body, and I’m still propped up against the headboard by my forearms, panting for breath.

  I turn my head and Jackson leans over me. He’s still inside me as we kiss, hard and slow. I’m still moaning and panting, and he’s urgent, like he has to do this right here, right now.

  After a while, he stops. We slide into the bed, under the covers and fix the pillows that we fucked up. I’m half on his chest, one arm slung over him, our usual position.

  We have a usual position, I think.

  I don’t realize that I’m tracing the scar on his chest until he puts his hand over mine and holds it still.

  “Sorry,” I say.

  “For a girl who says she don’t wanna know about my scars, you sure mess with them a lot,” he says, half-teasing.

  “I don’t like knowing all the ways you could get hurt,” I say. “It gives me too much imagination fuel.”

  “It’s almost over,” he says. “One more ride tomorrow and then I’ve got six weeks to recuperate. And I already rode Crash once.”

  “Yeah, he’s a kitten,” I say.

  “He’ll be curled up in a sunbeam and purring when I’m done with him,” Jackson says, and kisses the top of my head. “I’ll be fine. This ain’t my first rodeo, you know.”

  “That’s not even a pun,” I say.

  “I believe it’s called a fact, Miss Guthrie,” he says.

  I sigh, and Jackson laughs. I roll onto him a little more, my chin on his chest.

  “What happens if you win?” I ask.

  “I get a really big belt buckle and eighty thousand dollars,” he says. “Plus the everlasting glory of being the first three-time world champion, et cetera.”

  “You only get eighty thousand dollars?” I say, surprised.

  “I think you mean I get eighty thousand whole dollars,” Jackson says.

  I pause.

  He shattered his sternum, and the one guy who wins everything only makes eighty grand?

  “You ain’t impressed?” Jackson says.

  “It’s just not a lot of money for a lot of danger,” I say. I try to sound diplomatic, but I don’t think I succeed.

  “No one is here for the money,” he says. “We’re here because we love doing it.”

  “I know,” I say. “There can’t be enough money in the world to make rodeo worthwhile.”

  I want to ask what happens to old riders or who pays your medical bills or what are you going to do after this, but I don’t.

  He laughs.

  “I live in a trailer on my parents’ ranch and drive a twenty-five-year-old truck,” he says. “My overhead is low.”

  “A jizz-covered trailer,” I say.

  “I told you, that’s just the kitchen table,” he says. “And it’s your fault.”

  “I’m not sorry,” I say.

  We lie there for a moment, both of us curled into the same part of the massive king bed. Jackson starts messing with my hand, sliding his fingers through mine. Matching up our fingertips into tents. Folding my hand into his and then unfolding it.

  “Do you need to go?” he finally asks.

  “I should,” I say without moving.

  He flattens my hand onto his chest again and puts his over top of it. I can feel his heartbeat under my palm, and it’s steady and reassuring, a slow thump-thump.

  “I don’t want to,” I say, quietly. “I hate pretending.”

  “It’s a couple more days,” he says.

  Thump-thump.

  “I just wish it was different,” I say.

  “Stay,” he says. “I’ll be up early, but I’ll set the alarm so you can get back in time.”

  I sit up, cross-legged, on the bed and look out the window, where Vegas is glowing. Jackson rests his hand on my knee, and I run my fingers over his knuckles. There’s a thick scar across a couple of them.

  “How’d you get that one?” I ask.

  “Thought it was a good idea to rope a steer without gloves on,” he says. “Rope burn.”

  I move my fingers down his arm to the long, thick one on his forearm.

  “I told you about that one in Oklahoma,” he says. “I got thrown. Compound fracture. I’ve got a metal rod.”

  My stomach does a flip, and I make a face. I turn his arm over and look at a thick white spot on his forearm.

  “I was helping a buddy brand his cattle and walked into the brand,” he says.

  “You didn’t notice it was there?” I ask.

  “I might have been drunk,” he says, and laces our fingers together again. “Most of the scars aren’t from bull riding, most of them are from me being a dumbass,” he says.

  “Is that because you don’t get hurt that much, or because riding mostly breaks bones?” I ask.

  He half-smiles and looks away.

  “I was trying to make you feel better,” he says, and I laugh.

  “Thanks,” I say.

  “Are you sitting up because you’re leaving?” he asks.

  “I’m just sitting up,” I say.

  He looks at me for a long moment.

  “I could visit you in New York next month,” he says. “Plane tickets are cheaper in January, and I could stay with you.”

  I look out the window one more time.

  Screw it, I think.

  I lie back down and snuggle into Jackson.

  “You’re staying?” he asks.

  “I shouldn’t,” I admit.

  “Your favorite phrase,” he says.

  “Shut up,” I tease.

  I flatten my hand against his chest and feel his heartbeat.

  “What
do you want to see in New York?” I ask.

  It’s two in the morning before we finally fall asleep, spooning in the middle of the massive bed. Jackson’s got his arms around me and I’m warm and almost blissfully happy as I drift off to sleep.

  It’s fine, I think as darkness takes over my mind. It’s just logistics. We can work anything out.

  I wake up to a voice saying my name, and I feel like I’m surfacing from the bottom of a deep, deep lake.

  “Mae,” it says. “Lula-Maaaae, wake up.”

  “What do you want?” I ask.

  I roll over, away from the voice.

  He laughs.

  “You weren’t kidding,” Jackson says.

  I roll over again and look at him.

  “Shut up,” I say.

  “Morning, sunshine,” he says, and grins. Then he holds up a paper cup. “I brought you coffee.”

  I blink at it, then at him. I sit up, slowly, pushing my hair out of my eyes.

  “It’s five-forty-five,” he says. “You should get going pretty soon if you want to keep fooling everyone.”

  He hands me the coffee and I take it. I look at him and take a sip, then another, longer sip.

  Then I lean forward and smoosh my face against his shoulder.

  “Why are you in a good mood?” I mutter.

  “Sun’s up, birds are singing, you’re in my bed, I ride today,” he says. “I got a whole list.”

  “Are you always like this?” I ask.

  I lift the coffee to my mouth. The angle’s not quite right, and I spill a couple of drops on my leg.

  “Ow,” I say, but don’t move.

  “Like what?” Jackson asks. “Awake before six?”

  “And happy about it,” I say. “We need some ground rules.”

  “Besides let Mae sleep in as long as possible and bring her coffee in bed?” he asks.

  He has a point.

  “We can talk about this later,” I say, and take another long drink of the coffee. “Thank you.”

  I put my dress back on, and search for my underwear for a while before I remember what happened to it. I look at myself in the mirror and pray that I don’t look too much like I’m taking a walk of shame.

  I drain the coffee and toss it into the trash can. I still don’t feel like a person, but Jackson comes over and gives me a long, slow kiss anyway.

  “I think I have horrible coffee breath,” I say when he pulls back.

  “Yep,” he says, and kisses me again. I’m still not really awake, but this feels wonderful and fuzzy, one of his hands on my lower back.

  When we pull back this time, I put one hand on his chest where the scar is.

  “Good luck,” I say, and I mean both go win this thing and please don’t get hurt.

  He grins.

  “You coming by the hotel suite of the three-time World Rodeo Champion tonight?” he asks.

  “Don’t count your chickens before they’re hatched,” I say. “And yes, obviously.”

  He kisses me one last time, and I leave. I buy another cup of coffee in the lobby and drink it in a taxi. Then I shower in my own hotel room, get dressed, go downstairs, and get two more cups of coffee.

  Even though I work like crazy, I can only think one thing: Jackson is coming to New York.

  It’s not for another month. He’s not moving there. I have no idea when I’ll see him after that. But it’s something, it’s a little glimmer to hang my hopes on.

  I feel like I spend the day surreptitiously watching Jackson interact with fans. Now that he’s close to being a really, really big deal there’s more of them than ever. He’s smiling and polite and gracious to them, even when one lady kisses him on the cheek.

  When the stands start filling up before the afternoon rodeo, there’s even more signs. Most of them are the same WE LOVE YOU JACKSON or GET NUMBER THREE, though there’s one that says KISS ME CODY, carried by a pair of forty-something women in tight jeans.

  I watch them from the media area and try to burn holes in the sign by glaring. It doesn’t work. They sit in the front, so I get to look at the sign the whole time.

  I don’t even need a sign, I think grumpily. After all, it’s thanks to Mr. Cody that I’ve gotten about seven hours of sleep in two nights, so really, this is his fault.

  Not that I’ve got any intention of sleeping more tonight. The thought pools fire inside me, and I pretend to check some settings on my camera, even as I squirm. Tomorrow I have to leave, but I’m trying not to think about that.

  The bull riding starts. I take pictures of it. The hours seems to drag on, even though it takes exactly the same amount of time every night.

  Most cowboys get thrown before eight seconds, because that’s how this is: hard and dangerous. The reporters in the media area with me are talking, and it’s listening to them that I realize: Jackson isn’t just really good, he’s phenomenally good.

  No one just wins rodeo after rodeo like he does. If he stays on Crash today, he’ll have qualified in all three rides at the Finals, and that’s almost as unprecedented as being champion three years running.

  Oh, I think. Somehow, I didn’t quite realize all that. My stomach feels like someone’s trying to wring all the liquid out of it, twisting inside me, because I want him to win.

  I really, really want him to win, because I know he wants this. I think of the night in the bucking chute when I shot him standing there, looking at the moonlit arena, when he told me he wondered if he should have settled down in Wyoming instead.

  I’m glad you didn’t, I think.

  He’s three rides away, then two. Then we’re watching the guy before him ride, and he makes it to seven seconds only to get thrown. Honestly, it’s a miracle I remember to take any pictures of him, because I’m just nervous about Jackson.

  I think about what he said last night: You’re a distraction, Lula-Mae.

  I worry that I’m a distraction.

  The previous cowboy climbs back over the gate. Crash Junction is already in the chute, and he’s already unhappy about it.

  “Next up, Jackson Cody of Sawtooth, Wyoming!” the announcer booms. Since it’s the last night, he goes on about Jackson for a minute, but he’s nearly drowned out by the crowd screaming and shouting and stomping.

  Hell, I want to scream and shout and stomp too. I wish I had a giant sign that said GO JACKSON but instead I aim my camera and hold my breath.

  He stands over Crash Junction and looks at the bull for a long time, like he’s tracking the animal’s movements, figuring out the patterns he’ll use in the arena. I bite the skin on my lip and taste blood, but I don’t stop.

  Jackson jumps on. Crash lurches, but the chute keeps him contained. Jackson wraps the rope around his hand, and I take a couple shots of him, because he’s smiling and confident and sexy, and I’ll decide later whether I pass them on to Sports Weekly.

  He looks up. He tips his hat to the crowd.

  He looks at me and smiles, touching the brim of his hat again, and I smile back. In that moment, it doesn’t occur to me to care if anyone sees.

  Then the gate opens and Crash leaps out.

  Please, God, I think, even though I haven’t been to church since I was sixteen.

  Please please please. Please. Please.

  Two seconds are gone. Crash dives and whirls, leaping and shaking and changing direction on a dime, but Jackson’s still on. Three seconds. Four.

  He goes a little off balance, I think, and a gasp goes through the crowd as Crash leaps off the ground and twists, all four feet in the air. Five seconds, and he leaps and drop again.

  Six seconds. Jackson’s hat falls off but he doesn’t. Someone in the media box says, “He just spurred ‘im!” and I have no idea what that means, but I think it’s impressive.

  The crowd is screaming at top volume. Everyone’s on their feet.

  Seven seconds. I can’t breathe and my heart’s stopped beating. The only thing I can do is aim my camera and keep shooting, but that’s just muscle memo
ry, purely mechanical. Even the other reporters in here are shouting, at the arena, at each other, pointing.

  When the clock hits eight seconds, it’s pandemonium. The announcer is hollering at the top of his lungs and the crowd is shouting and everyone is standing and just completely losing their shit.

  I somehow get a shot of Jackson under the clock as it says 8.03, and I start laughing out of sheer joy.

  He did it. He fucking did it.

  Then he flies off Crash Junction.

  At first I think he jumped, but no. Even in the air he’s at a weird angle, off-kilter. I don’t know how but I know something’s wrong.

  Jackson lands heavily on one side. His head snaps back, and the crowd suddenly hushes. I feel like an anvil’s just landed on my chest.

  No, I think. Please no.

  Get up. Get up get up get up.

  Crash turns and looks back at Jackson. Jackson’s still on the ground, trying to roll over, but it’s not going well. Even from where I’m standing, clear across the arena, it’s obvious he broke something bad.

  Then Crash starts galloping toward Jackson.

  I can’t move. I can’t breathe. I feel like it’s happening in slow motion. The rodeo clowns in the ring are both sprinting toward Crash Junction, shouting and waving their arms, but they can’t do anything. The media box is dead silent as Crash runs toward Jackson. I’ve got both hands over my mouth and I can hear myself saying no no no no no no over and over, but it doesn’t help.

  The bull runs straight over Jackson, and at the last second I cover my face. I can’t watch. I think I might throw up and I feel like all the air’s been sucked out of this arena. No one says a word, not even the announcer, not even the crowd.

  It feels like a year that it’s quiet. I’m pressing my hands against my eyes so hard lights are dancing in front of my eyeballs, but I can’t look, I can’t.

  People start murmuring again.

  “He moved,” someone in the box says, and I force myself to look up. I’ve still got both hands in front of my mouth, as I watch people sprint toward Jackson. Seconds later, there’s two people in uniforms with a stretcher. Jackson’s foot moves.

  There’s no blood, but I know there doesn’t need to be blood for something to be bad.

  He’s alive, I think.

  It was just last night that Jackson told me he didn’t have many scars from riding, because he mostly broke bones. Last night, when he said he wanted to go to the Statue of Liberty when he visited me.