by Shey Stahl
We stand facing one another, our breaths heavy, mingled with the comforting smell of the bales of hay when he looks at me. He scratches his head, a bemused expression on his face. “I came to pay off a debt for my dad. That’s all this should be and that’s all this is going to be.” He’s walking away from me, his dirt-clad boots mimicking the steady thump of my heart.
“That’s what you think, Eight Seconds,” I say under my breath.
A bull that is said to "change directions" exhibits a bucking pattern in which he changes direction laterally forward and backward or side to side.
This is fucking torture. I don’t know how long I can avoid her. I think about her for reasons I can’t explain. Or maybe don’t want to. Fuck, I need to get laid. And then I wonder what the fuck am I doing here.
Because I’m a man of my word.
That’s why.
My brothers and me—not my kid sister, Dani—but us boys, we were raised with the mindset you work for a living. When there’s work to be done, you put in the dedication to get it done. When you want to be the best, you bust your ass to be it. There’s no easy way out. In bull riding, you go from being a kid to a man real quick. I faced my share of tragedy growing up—Mom died when I was five giving birth to Dani, and I was raised by one of the harshest old men you can imagine, but I think he brought us up to be men. When we owe someone money, or you make a promise, you honor it. You make good on your word.
When my dad got sick, and eventually passed away from kidney failure, there was a lot he didn’t get a chance to do and honor.
That included cattle that was never paid for to the Calhoun’s. I wasn’t going to let that go. Dad would have skinned my ass. Sure, I could pay Archer the money Dad owed him, but labor meant a hell of a lot more to a man with a ranch. I wasn’t due in Biloxi until next week, so I had some time to tie up loose ends for my family.
Now if only I had thought about that before I went and messed around with Archer’s daughter.
Fuck me. No, seriously, I fucking knew better, yet those pleading green eyes and that carefree determination got the better of me, and I caved. It didn’t help that there had been a goddamn magnetic pull dragging my ass toward her.
I’m a man who tells it like it is—loyal to a fault—I’m always me. You get one version. And I want a woman who stands up for herself, puts me in my place when I’ve pissed her off and you know, I’m all about control, but I’m not afraid to let a woman boss me around between the sheets. Outside the bed, that’s another story altogether. My point being, I go for the ones who can handle me.
Maesyn, oh, she can fuckin’ handle me all right, but she’s also seventeen. Had I known that, no goddamn way would I have ever looked her way.
And here’s why.
When I was eighteen, I’d just gotten my pro card for professional bull riding, something I’d been working toward my entire life. I was set to make my debut in Billings, Montana. I’d been riding since I was fourteen and had been makin’ a good amount of money doin’ it too. Coming from a long line of bull riders, I knew what I wanted to be, and nothing was going to stand in my way. Or so I thought.
My older brother, Reid, he had been dominating the tour and ranked number one in the world leading into that weekend. Ty, my little brother, he’d been seeing this chick for about six months. Selena. I didn’t know her and had little interaction with her. And never had I spent any time alone with her.
And then came one Friday night in late April when Selena was raped. There’s a long story behind what actually occurred that night, most of which I don’t care to know. Ty called the police when Selena showed up at the house, bloody and crying, but she refused to tell him who did it. The last he knew she’d been at a college party with her older brother.
After days in the dark, she blamed the rowdy Easton brothers because no one would question her given our unruly, “known to be a little on the wild side” nature. Reid and I were arrested and charged with rape. Rape of a minor. She was sixteen.
We weren’t even in the same goddamn town as her that night, yet because her daddy was the mayor, it didn’t fucking matter. Dad got us a good lawyer out of California but being in the public eye and pro athletes, it didn’t matter. A statutory rape charge might as well be murder in their eyes, despite if you’re guilty or not. Once PBR found out, the board had something to say about it.
Reid was suspended for six months and out of contention for the championship. My pro card was revoked and suspended for six months as well. We appealed immediately.
Not long after that, she came out and said she lied, still refused to name who actually hurt her, but the damage had been done for Reid and me. They reinstated our pro cards, but we’d missed so many events by then Reid had fallen out of the top ten in the world with no chance of making up ground by October.
Reid and I moved to Decatur, Texas, while Ty and Dani stayed in Ellensburg with our dad. And until now, I had no plans of coming back to this town. Not after the way they turned their back on us and believed a lie, all because the mayor’s daughter got drunk and took off with a group of college kids she didn’t know.
But still, I’m a man of my word and I wouldn’t let my dad down, knowing he had unfinished business out there. He gave up any dreams of his own to raise us kids and he deserved to rest in peace.
And here I am, making good on my word and quite frankly, regretting it.
I’m out in the back field, eyeing the damage to Calhoun’s barn when I notice a shorter version of Maesyn standing next to me, her hands on her hips. She’s scowlin’ at me too. Apparently I’ve pissed her off too.
She sighs, staring at me. “Do people call you Gray?”
“Not if they want me to answer.” Reaching forward, I rip off a few boards that hang haphazardly by loose nails.
“So you’re really a world champion?”
“For bull riding.”
“Not for anything else?”
“No.” Glancing down at her, I frown. “What’s the point of this conversation?”
“How are you at fighting?”
I raise my eyebrows. “Fighting what?”
“For things.”
Who the hell is this kid? “Like?”
She looks at me blankly. “Things.”
Christ. She’s as persistent as her sister. I stare down at her, irritation twitching my jaw. “What do you want?” I ask, because, obviously, where’s this going? “I got shit to do.”
“I’m Morgan.” She reaches for my hand and shakes it. “And a boy stole my bike. I need you to go get it back for me.”
“What boy?” I ask, but don’t actually care. I drop my hand from hers and step back from the barn.
She does the same, shielding her eyes from the sun. “Not that it really matters who, but he’s the neighbor boy.” Now she’s the one getting irritated. “Will you go get it? I’ll bring you some lemonade.”
A laugh bubbles in my chest but doesn’t make it past my lips. This kid’s a piece of work. “I don’t like lemonade.”
Her face falls in disappointment, tears surfacing in her eyes. “Oh.”
It’s not my problem. It’s not my business. I’ve got my own shit to deal with.
Here’s the thing. I don’t have a lot of experience with crying females. Britany never cries. Dani? Does she even produce tears? Empathy isn’t my strong point. I make a concentrated effort to avoid situations like this. But this little version of Maesyn . . . fuck if she doesn’t get to me and the need to help her takes over.
“How about limeade? You got limes?”
Her face turns eager. “We do. My sissy loves it.”
Goddamn it. I sigh, already knowing I’m going to regret this. “Where exactly is your bike?”
And that’s how I go from avoiding one sister to defending the other. I’m not exactly off to a good start. For my own sanity, I need to get this barn fixed up and get the fuck out of town immediately.
“Next door. In Saylor’s garage.”
&nb
sp; Dragging my hand through my hair, I gesture with my other hand toward the driveway. “All right, let’s go. Then you owe me some limeade.”
We walk over there together. She never shuts up, rambling on about pigs who like marshmallows and a baby bull calf named Lemon Lou who sleeps in her room sometimes. Not always.
At this kid’s garage, here’s the moment I wonder if coming over here was a mistake. The kid, who Morgan told me was Saylor, stares at me with flat, emotionless eyes I find unsettling for a child. They’re almost clear. Strangest fuckin’ thing ever.
I don’t say anything. Not at first. Not until Morgan nudges me. “Tell him I want my bike back,” she whispers, keeping her eyes on him like she’s afraid to turn her back on him.
“Are you Grayer Easton? I know you. You’re like a bull rider.”
I ignore him. “Give her back her bike.”
“I don’t think so.”
“Do something.”
I look over at the kid with scary eyes. “Why are you taking kids’ bikes?”
He snorts, scowling, and his clear eyes seem even more wicked. “Is that what she told you? That I took her bike for no reason?”
“Yeah . . .” I glance at Morgan, who, guess what, isn’t looking at me any longer. “Why did you take the bike?”
“She said I couldn’t talk to any other girls. I told her she’s crazy. So she kicked me in the balls and took my boots. So I took her bike.”
Can you take a wild guess as to what shoes this little half-pint with attitude is wearing?
I’ll give you a hint. She’s not like her older sister and constantly barefoot. “Really?” I ask, because again, obviously. I stare down at the thief. She grabs my hand like we’re best buds, holding it. “I liked them.”
“I don’t got time for this crap. Give her back the bike.” I let go of Morgan’s hand and gesture to her feet. “Give him his boots.”
Crossing her arms over her chest, she pouts, a set firm line to her cherry red lips. “I don’t want to give back the boots. I like ’em.”
“Then you can’t have your bike!” the boy yells, sticking his tongue out for good measure.
“You’re a big dummy head!”
I have to physically separate them after this and all the while I’m thinking to myself, what if Wyatt acts like this? Surely he won’t, will he? “This is ridiculous. Morgan, give him the damn boots.”
Plopping down on the ground, she rips them off and throws them at the boy. “I don’t like you.” And then her eyes find mine, like she hates me too.
“I don’t like you more,” Saylor says, scowling at her with a snarled lip.
But then they walk toward the garage together and I leave. What the hell did I agree to here? Babysitting a kid and avoiding her sister? Seriously, I gotta get this shit done and leave immediately.
Back in the barn, I curse that little blonde kid and I can’t help the direction my eyes move to. The house where I know Maesyn is. Fuck, I want her. I want to rush inside that house, push her up against the wall and kiss the fuck out of her. Then take her up to her room and show her how pissed I am that she lied to me. Then fuck her. I know, so goddamn backward, but it’s the truth.
I can see Maesyn standing in the kitchen, looking out toward the barn. Our eyes catch, hold, refusing to let go. I can’t deny it. I have a possessiveness toward her. I’m always quick to stand up for what I believe is right and despite her lying to me, something’s keeping me just within her sinful reach. I’m not sure I can let this girl go as easily as I want to. Desire can be the death of a man.
An event's gate man is positioned in the arena in front of the designated chute from which a ride is about to start. The gateman, holding onto a nylon rope tied to the designated chute's gate, waits for a bull rider's cue to open the chute gate, thus allowing the ride to begin. The gateman must quickly open the chute gate as wide as possible and immediately get out of the way as the bull and bull rider exit the chute.
“Stay away from that boy, Maesyn.”
Those are my dad’s first words to me when I get inside the house. And then I think to myself, Grayer Easton . . . even his name burns my memory. He’s no boy. He’s all man.
Who is he to tell me who to stay away from? My dad, sure . . . but if he only knew half the people I hang with, he’d have a coronary. “And what about Morgan?” I ask, pointing to where I see her talking to Grayer near the barn. She’s picking her bathing suit out of her butt cheeks again and wearing nothing but the suit and a pair of cowboy boots.
He gets a tight look at his face. His shoulders shift, the movement barely perceptible yet gives me a subtle hint. His warning is not to be ignored. “I didn’t say Morgan. I said you.”
Rolling my eyes when he walks away, I watch out the window. Morgan leads Grayer down the driveway. For what reason, I don’t know. But this is Morgan. She’s probably hoping to get her bike back from the boy next door and when she sees an opportunity, she takes it.
I’m not sure what to make of the interaction with Grayer. I get why he’s mad, I do.
I’ve never had someone turn me down and it throws me a little. I start going over everything I’ve said to him, and it really does come back down to my age.
I walk into the kitchen, looking for some limeade and hoping Morgan didn’t drink it all. She likes to give it to the goats she sneaks up to her room. Mom’s in there, peeling potatoes for dinner. “How was the river, honey?”
I shrug and open the fridge. “Nice.” I reach for the limeade and pour myself a glass. “Morgan had fun.”
Mom laughs. “That child could have fun with mud.”
It’s true, and she does. That’s the great thing about childhood. It doesn’t matter what you’re doing. You find fun in all of it.
“Are you heading out tonight?” Mom asks, dropping a peeled potato into the pot.
I lift the glass to my lips, watching Grayer staring at me from the barn like he’s trying to burn a hole in me. “Yeah.” Grayer tucks his hands in the pockets of his jeans and shakes his head, walking away toward the tractor that doesn’t run. I wonder if this is what he had in mind coming here to help out. It’s probably something similar to what I had in mind for a future here. Endless nothing.
“Make sure your chores are done first,” Mom reminds me. “You don’t want your father getting upset.”
Yes, God forbid I upset that man. Pretty sure I upset him the day I was born and a boy wasn’t.
Not only do I get up at the ass crack of dawn every morning to feed animals, collect eggs, clean stables, but I also do the same thing every night before I’m allowed to do anything for myself. Which, if we’re honest, has taught me a lot about being responsible. I just wish I didn’t have to do it every damn day.
“Only a few more days,” Haylee says to me when I’m showing her the bruise on my thigh where Tulsa—my sister’s favorite goat to sneak inside the house—rammed his head into me. He’s a bastard.
“And then we’ll be free,” I whisper, hoping it will be true.
The last place I need to be is at Joel Peterson’s house. Being here makes my stomach sick with anxiety. I hate being here. It reminds me of Jamie. I think of him and tears sting my eyes. I don’t think of him as often as I used to, but when I do, the pain is the same. I picture his face. I remember being angry at him, at the world, at everything I didn’t understand when I was fourteen and had my first broken heart.
Haylee wraps her arm around my shoulder, her stacked purple, pink, and baby blue bangle bracelets clanging together. “We don’t have to be here.”
I raise an eyebrow. “What else are we gonna do?”
She laughs. We keep walking. “What’d Eight Seconds say?”
“Wouldn’t even look my direction.” You can hear the annoyance in my voice.
“That sucks.” Haylee looks at me as we make our way toward the party at Joel’s parents’ property on the Yakima River.
The river looks different at night. Unlike the quiet afternoon we spen
t here, now it’s crawling with river roaches, and I don’t mean bugs. I mean the usual sluts who hang out here. They’re the ones with their tops off, running around with star stickers on their nipples. It’s trashy.
While I’m the confident country chick with a free spirit and a need to be barefoot, I don’t show my damn nips to just anyone.
“Why is he acting like that?”
“He’s mad I lied to him. Morgan talked to him though.” I raise my eyebrows, still not believing he ignored me. “I don’t get it.”
Haylee laughs, again, and gives my shoulder a nudge. The thought that a guy turned down Maesyn Calhoun is amusing to her. Probably because it’s never happened. Reaching inside her bra, she pulls out a flask of Southern Comfort she keeps hidden. “This should take the edge off.”
Walking toward the river, Haylee’s wind-blown hair falls from her hat. She stops to adjust it, a flawless movement that makes her look even more amazing, and then continues to walk with me. She tells me about her latest dream where she pulled out her own tooth and it was black. She always has wild ones. Once she dreamed she was a fly and traveled through time and into people’s ears and dropped eggs inside their brains. Weeks later they became zombies.
This dream, the one she had last night, seems actually kind of normal. “So you like, just ripped your tooth out?”
She nods, kind of disturbed. “Yeah.”
I gotta admit, I am too. “Did it hurt?”
“No. That’s the weird thing.” She stops walking. “It didn’t hurt, but it bled like crazy.” And then she gets a strange look on her face, something similar to confusion and mortification. “Last time I had a dream like that was right before my dad died. I had a dream he cut my toe off and stuck it in the microwave. Then the display read diseased. He died a week later.”
Chills run through me, the hair on my neck standing up. “No shit?”
“Yep.” She pauses and takes another pull from her flask. “Looks like Violet’s busy. Lover boys looking lonely tonight.” She gestures toward the river and places the cap back on the flask.
