by Shey Stahl
“How’s Wyatt?” He has an envelope in his hand now.
Now he’s asking about Wyatt? My God. He’s trying to piss me off, isn’t he? “He’s fine, man.” I blow out a quick breath trying to rein in my temper, but it’s hanging on by a thread. “I really need to go.”
He hands me the paper, giving me that “what the fuck is wrong with you” look. It’s not like I’m new to the look.
I grab it. “Thanks.”
I’m just about to walk out when he hands me a beer. “Stay and have a beer.”
A beer? Wouldn’t be so bad, would it? Maybe it’ll calm me down a bit.
“Are you from around here?” a voice beside me asks. I’m outside now, in a field where the party is even louder than in the house.
I don’t have to look her way to know who it is. Though I don’t know her, this dark-haired, out-spoken one has been doing everything short of flashing her tits in my face. And I gotta say, judging by the six beers she’s thrown back in the last hour, I’m guessing that part’s coming real soon.
To the west, the sky rumbles, a storm approaching in the distance. “No,” I tell her, leaning into the side of my truck. I lift the bottle in my hand to my lips once more, my eyes focused on the cascades to the west where the sky’s rumbling. It’s a lie. I am from around here, but I’m not going to tell this chick that. I’d like to forget everything that’s happened in this town.
Trying to step over a boulder, the girl stumbles toward me, trips, and I catch her. It’s by reflex. Not because I’m interested.
“No.” She glances up at me, smiling. “I’ve definitely seen you before. You’re from here. I’d remember a guy who looks like you. What did you say your name was?”
Scowling, I bring her to a standing position and drop my hands. “I didn’t.”
Her glossy eyes widen, and attempt to focus. “Didn’t what?”
My lips slide into a half grin. “Say what my name was.”
“So, what is it?”
This is almost too easy. “Does it matter? You’re drunk enough I doubt you’d remember if I told you.”
She points a wavering finger in my face, trying to stand still but she sways. “I do know you.”
“Uh-huh.” I don’t really care if she does. Doesn’t make a goddamn bit of difference because she and I aren’t happening regardless if she knows my name.
Tossing the empty beer aside, I turn away from crazy chick and reach inside my truck for the bottle of whiskey I stashed under the seat.
Crackling sparks of a bonfire catch my stare and I lift the bottle in my hand to my lips. Welcoming the burn, it slides down my throat with ease and comfort.
I shouldn’t be back here, let alone in this field. Fuck this place. Fuck this town and its fucking hypocritical ways. There’s not a goddamn thing I miss about this place, including every memory I have here.
Bull riders use the term "away from his hand" or "away from my hand" to describe the scenario in which a bull is spinning in the direction opposite a rider's riding hand. Example: A right-handed bull rider on a bull that spins to the left is riding a bull “away from his hand.”
Haylee and I approach the party behind Kade Easton’s place. Trucks line the clearing behind their property, blaring “Third Rock from the Sun” by Joe Diffie. At least they’re playing decent music tonight. A light haze moves in the air, a combination of the smoke from the bonfire and exhaust from the trucks. My eyes drop as I walk to the dry and dusty ground, cracked from the blazing heat of the day.
I look around. I want to roll my eyes. Everything about this place is another indicator I need to leave. It’s on the faces surrounding me, the same guys who graduated years ago but still attend these parties, trying to remember the days when they were the king of the school. Or the girls that know these guys aren’t doing anything with their lives, but still stand by them and give them what they want. I don’t want to end up like them.
Near the barn, there are about ten people already standing around drinking and smoking. It’s what we do here. Sadly, there’s not a lot of options. It’s a college town with a few ranches. If you don’t raise cattle and you’re not in college, you’re shit out of luck. So you drink. And if you don’t like a man in Wranglers and a cowboy hat, there’s always the frat boys, and I’m not entirely sure what’s worse. The “Hey, Darlin’,” thrown your way or a “’Sup, bro,” remain stereotypical and make me cringe.
Sugarland blares through two large black speakers against the wall, shaking the wood floor of the barn and rattling the broken windows loose. Much like everything else in this town, the barn’s seen better days, but it’s a refuge for us. A way to forget that the majority of us will still be in this town twenty, thirty, even fifty years from now, probably doing the same thing as we are doing today. This barn allows us a sanctuary where we can be kids and let loose. Away from the judgmental eyes and voices that always accompany being around our parents and other adults.
Within minutes, Danny finds me. Predictably, he’s drunk and wraps his arms around mine. You remember him, right? He’s the one who fell in love with me in the second grade and thinks he needs to look out for me. “I’m not going to tell anyone what I saw with you and Joel.” His beer breath blows over my face, pulling my cheek to his, Danny locks his arm around my neck. “Just . . . stay away from him. You know he’s only gonna cause problems.”
Problems? Ha. Joel is capable of so much more than causing problems.
I’ll never understand why Danny cares about me so much. He shouldn’t. I’ve done nothing to deserve his friendship, but those seem to be the friends that try the hardest, don’t they?
When I was in kindergarten, there was this girl, Violet Camden. To me, she was the cutest little girl I’d ever seen and I desperately wanted to be friends with her. I mean, she had pink glasses and her mom sent jellybeans in her lunch. Who wouldn’t want to be friends with her?
If anything, I wanted her jellybeans. Over juice boxes and a colorful display of candy, we became friends sorting the purple ones from the white. Now here’s the shitty part about me wanting to be friends with her. Violet is pure and good. Christ, she should have been wearing a halo. And me, well, if someone did something I didn’t like, I was going to let them know it. This included the teacher. I don’t know exactly how it went down, something about me standing up in class and throwing a book at Joel’s head for stealing my grape gum I stashed in my cubby. The result? My friendship with Violet ended. Apparently, violence isn’t Violet’s friend and I’ve hated jellybeans since.
I swore off friends until I met Haylee and she said to me, while in detention for punching our physics teacher’s balls when he tried to cop a feel of my tits one morning, “Find your wild, girl. Passion should never be tamed.”
Probably not all that relatable, but I’ll remember that until the day I die.
Danny’s still standing in front of me, waiting for reassurance.
“Don’t worry.” I wiggle out of Danny’s arm, patting his shoulder. It’s the friendly thing to do. I take the beer he hands me. “It was nothing.”
Danny walked in on me with Joel. And now he’s telling me to stay away from Joel because he’s taken by the preacher’s daughter. Which, until two days ago, I didn’t know. I’m not exactly surprised by the news. It’s not like Joel has ever been honest with me. It’s not like I care. Violet can have his lying, cheating ass. Fuck ’em all is my motto. I’m leaving soon anyway.
Danny gives a beer to Haylee, who snatches it out of his hand and looks in Tucker’s direction. If I could murder someone and get away with it, it’d totally be that motherfucker. I can totally murder someone too. I watch CSI. Tucker’s standing near an old worn-down tractor that hasn’t run in years, his eyes immediately move to her. I hate that she’s drawn to him.
Tucker has even less business messing around with Haylee than Joel does with me and he knows it. He’s thirty-one and again, married. If I were Haylee, I would have run far away from him, but she can’t see
m to help herself. I think she’s convinced that someday, somehow, he might leave his wife for her. I hate to tell her, but that’s never going to happen. That sort of thing doesn’t happen for girls like us.
My eyes drift around the field. Empty faces, drunk ones, and just plain stupid ones stare back at me. Finally, they land on Joel. He’s in the corner of the barn with his girl who’s never seen a dick before. I can’t say that for sure, but you remember Violet from kindergarten, right? Well, Non-violent Violet grew up and is now hanging on Joel’s every word.
Because I told him we were over, or maybe because he’s just a fuck face, he wraps his arms around Violet, gives me a fleeting look and leads her toward the bonfire outside. He’s nervous I’m going to tell her the truth and you know, I still might. I haven’t decided.
Smiling, I take a drink of my beer. A few more of these, and tonight might be the night I let everyone in this town know what I think of them.
Some think guys like Joel go for the sluts. An easy score. And that’s true, they do. Hello, he’s been sneaking into my room for a while now. But only for a night. Or in secret so he can later brag to his friends about it. It’s the girls like the one in Joel’s arms tonight that he’ll never push too far. He’ll respect her, give her what she needs, and eventually marry her.
Violet, she’s beautiful. In a simple yet innocent way. I keep watching for her halo or angel wings to pop out at me, she’s that pure. I bet she’d stay with Joel if she found out about me, and all the other girls he’s been with in this town. She’d smile and take it to heart and give him another chance with the excuse of he’s young and only human. She’d convince herself that if she loves him more, it’ll never happen again. It’ll be a cycle she’ll repeat her entire life. Mark my words.
Girls like me . . . we’re never respected or appreciated. Yet it’s still girls like me who give guys like Joel their pleasure, their wild fantasies they’re never gonna get with that too good, too pretty, too innocent one in their arms ready to meet their mama. I’m never gonna meet his mom. I’m the girl he fucks on Sunday morning when his girl’s in church. The one he only pays attention to when he needs something, wants something. I’m not the “keeper” he’ll tell his friends about. I’m the “she’ll put out” one he’ll brag to his friends to fuck next.
There’s a lot of double standards here when it comes to women sleeping around. Like the simple fact they’re women, they gotta have more self-respect or self-control than a guy would. We’re being held to a standard that’s unfair and unrealistic.
Why?
I’ll never understand it. I’ve been with three people. I wouldn’t exactly call that being slutty but one boy has forever labeled me as one. And to make matters worse, Joel has slept with more girls in our high school than I have boys, yet he never gets the looks I do. He gets high-fives and “give me details, bro.”
I get the dirty stares and “she’s a slut,” whispered behind my back.
Finding residence on a tailgate, I keep my beer in hand, and listen closely to the song playing. I hate it, so I tune it out. Country music nowadays is awful. Give me anything from the eighties and nineties and I’m at ease. This pop shit on the radio now just makes me angry.
With a sigh, I bring the beer in my hand to my lips, and I scan the party searching for someone familiar. My thoughts draw from Joel to a man standing to my left leaning against his truck watching me with a cream cowboy hat on.
Wearing fake smiles and feigning interest in conversation around him, my gaze snags and catches on him. I’m not sure what has my eye first, but he holds it longer than anyone else. It doesn’t hurt he’s watching me with as much curiosity as I’m giving him.
Sweeping my blonde hair over my shoulder, his jaw tightens and he looks away first, turning his head toward the bonfire. The sparks in the night light up his face, his eyes, and it’s clear that while his posture is confident, his eyes tell a very different story. They’re unapproachable.
I can’t help but think I know him. His face is familiar, but I don’t know for sure. There’s a lot of familiar faces in this field.
His eyes drift my way, his lips curving up as he leans casually to one side with a bottle of Johnnie Walker in his hand. I have an attraction to anyone who drinks straight from the bottle and doesn’t bother with a glass. I think it says something about their personality. No sense in messing with the glass. Just give it to me the way it is.
At first glance, the guy isn’t overly tall, but enough that he would hover over me if I were standing next to him or, better yet, if he were hovering over me say, in a bed, or in a field. He’s wearing a black T-shirt, loose around his chest but snug enough I notice the defined muscles in his tanned arms. His jeans impress me. They’re not tight like every other guy here wearing Wranglers. I don’t like tight jeans on men. If I see the outline of their dick, they’re too tight, buddy. But this guy, his dark jeans hang a little low, tightened by a gold belt buckle, a few holes in them and frayed at the ends. They meet a pair of dusty cowboy boots. With high cheekbones, strong jaw, plush lips, he could be a model. He’s that pretty.
He must sense that I’m staring because his eyes drift back to mine and he tips his cream-colored cowboy hat, but the expression fades quickly. I look over my shoulder to make sure it’s me he’s staring at. Behind me is a field of cattle so unless he’s winking at the horses and bulls, it’s definitely me.
A smile pulls at the corners of his mouth, flashing white teeth, but there’s a sadness about him I can’t place when he drops his gaze. I have an overwhelming urge to approach him, get him talking and comfort him, but I can’t. I’m not “that girl” who comforts men in that way. I’m the one they use to forget, not hash out their fears and demons.
By the whiskey in his hand, half-empty, it’s obvious he’s not here for the girls. He’s here to forget and that’s what he’s doing bringing the bottle to his lips every few minutes. He never flinches at the burn. It seems to me like it gives him the pleasure he’s looking for. I watch his eyes as they scan the field and stay on the pasture. The song “Daddy Never was the Cadillac Kind” by Confederate Railroad and it’s like he’s caught up in a memory there, one that keeps his stare on the field longer than I would expect.
More people have shown up, crowding the very edges of the pasture, but there’s about ten of us standing around the fire, some talking while others keep their eyes and voices silent, captured by a crackling fire and a sense of isolation from the rest of what this place offers.
Some nights this field is so loud I’m convinced you can hear the sound five miles away. Tonight’s not like that. With the sounds of Merle Haggard, there’s a laying-low ambiance to it I appreciate. Sometimes it’s nice to just be here and value not having to entertain or talk to anyone.
My attention returns to the man on the other side of the fire. He shifts his stance, his worn boots scrape against the dirt and gravel. It’s then it hits me. I finally remember how I know this guy.
He’s Grayer Easton, the rowdy Easton brother who left town four years ago and is now a professional bull rider. I’d let him wrap a belt around me and ride me any day.
That’s why people call you a slut, girl.
But thinking and doing are entirely different. When I glance up from my beer, his eyes catch mine and his smile draws me in first. It’s no longer boyish in the sense he’s a man now. He’s captivating. His smile tugs at the corners of his mouth and then fades, only to return a moment later when our eyes catch. With his hat tipped up, I’m offered a better look at his face. His nose is a tad crooked, probably broken a few times and even in the dark, his shocking blue eyes stand out. He certainly has a rugged sexiness about him I find insanely hot.
Despite the smiles thrown my way, because well, I am only half dressed after all and naturally, men look. This guy seems distant, never keeping eye contact or conversation long with the ones that make their way to him, no doubt a product of being recognized after returning home.
I do
n’t know the whole story behind the Easton brothers. There’s a lot who do, but being only fourteen and incredibly sheltered, I was too distracted at the time to know the truth behind them leaving. Or I didn’t care.
When he senses I’m staring again—because I am—his eyes return to mine and travel the length of my body with no amount of discretion. It’s like he’s decided to let me know he sees me and this could go somewhere.
Um, yes, I do.
Leaning against the truck in a relaxed manner, it’s pretty obvious he’s still trouble. I know for sure when I slide down off the tailgate and his eyes make another blatant pass over my body.
When I raise the bottle in my hand, our eyes meet, again and the shyness is pushed aside while his confidence returns. He knows he’s just been caught checking me out. Only he doesn’t care. I’ve been staring too, despite telling myself not to. Telling yourself to stop staring at a hot guy is something similar to telling yourself you won’t eat four tacos at dinner, only to eat six—overachiever here—or Nutella straight from the jar. Let’s face it, there are just some things we have no self-control for. Mine are tacos, because—obviously, and as stated above, Nutella. And now bull riders with ridiculous pretty blue eyes and a smirk that drops panties.
The crowd wanders, almost everyone finding their place to either get high or laid. Grayer looks around, his eyes shifting back to me. With a smile, he gives me a nod to his truck.
It’s an invitation.
Just as I’m about to go over to him, Haylee joins me on the tailgate. “This party sucks.”
