Untamed

by Shey Stahl

  “No.” He shakes his head, his voice a soft murmur. “I’ll remember this.” He touches my cheek with calloused fingertips, pursing his lips as he searches for the words he wants to say. “I can’t forget this.”

  I’m not sure what that means because it’s clear, come morning, I’m untouchable again. I know by his face.

  His mouth inches toward mine again, his eyes fluttering closed. His lips give me what his body won’t. I can settle for this, for now, because it’s him, and I can’t get enough of this cowboy and the pleasure he’s giving me tonight.

  He pulls back and looks at me, struggling to pull away. “I’m not good for a girl like you.” I hate the way he says “girl like you.” There’s that predetermined assumption of who I am. My hands shake, my heart sputters. Does he think I’m a slut like they do?

  It’s clear Grayer doesn’t want to stop, but the look in his eyes tells me something else. He’s scared. Of me, of my age, of this. . . .

  “Why?” I reach out and touch the fire between us, his lips, with my fingertips. They part and give me his breath that scorches my skin. “Why do you fight this so much?”

  “I’m just as troubled as you.” The way he says it makes me sad he believes it so much that he’s warning me. My hands slip off his shoulders completely—the last little piece of me that was connected to him falls away. Setting me down, he steps back, swallowing over a lump in his throat. “I can’t bring my problems on anyone else.”

  A bull on the PBR tour.

  Three days more and I’m out of here. I don’t remember much about last night, but I do remember I was in this barn with Maesyn, and I kissed her. Turns out, I’m not so great at listening to myself. Instead, there’s a fucking magnet dragging my ass to her.

  “Do you have a girlfriend?”

  And this kid, this tiny little version of Maesyn, she can’t take a fuckin’ hint that I don’t want to talk to her. “No.” I don’t have it in me to tell her to leave. Ever since Wyatt came along, I have a soft spot for kids.

  “Do you like my sister?”

  I want to fuck her. I want to protect her. Does that count as liking? Don’t ask a kid that. “Why?”

  Morgan shrugs, twirling around in her sundress caked with dirt. She’s also barefoot. “Curious.” Her cheeks tint pink when she says, “She thinks you’re cute.”

  I don’t answer. I’m hoping not to. The idea of Maesyn thinking I’m cute is laughable. I bet if I fucked her, she wouldn’t think of me and cute in the same sentence.

  Reaching for the hammer to my left, I catch sight of Morgan’s nervousness around me. Her cheeks flushing when I glance at her or make eye contact.

  She shifts her feet indecisively. “Everyone likes my sister.”

  “I’m sure they like you, too.” Holding up a board with one hand, I steady the bottom with my knee and motion for the nails. “Hand me that box of nails.”

  She thinks about my answer, the corners of her mouth tugging. She reaches for the box of nails and hands it to me. “Can I tell you a secret?”

  “Sure.”

  She leans in, her eyes wide like she’s about to give me nuclear missile codes. “Lemon Lou slept in my room last night . . . and he made a mess. How good are you at patching walls?”

  “Patching walls? He’s a baby bull. Why you letting him in your room?”

  “Because he gets cold at night and likes my room. Can I come watch you ride a bull?”

  “Maybe.” I take a nail from the box and raise my hammer. I look at her, a side-glance.

  “Why are you here? I heard you used to live here. Why’d you leave?”

  Distracted, I nearly miss my nail and take my thumb off. “Why are you talking so much?”

  She grimaces, and I see a flash of hurt feelings. Her expression makes me want to take back the words. “Are you mad?” Her eyes dart around the barn.

  My voice softens, and I drop the hammer to my side. “No, I’m not mad.”

  She smiles, like a weight’s been lifted. “I ask a lot of questions. Daddy says I talk too much.”

  Now I feel like a dick. Running my hand through my hair, I nod to the house. “What’d Lost Lee do to your room.”

  “Lemon. Lou.”

  I laugh and follow her outside the barn. “My bad.”

  I fix the hole in her wall, because apparently, I’m a slave to this kid too. And she talks constantly, like she warned that first day I met her. “Do you like Texas?” is her twentieth question as I’m packing up my tools on the floor of her room.

  “I’m not there much, but I suppose I do.”

  “Why?”

  I look up at her. She’s twirling locks of her hair around her finger and chewing on a piece of gum she tells me she snuck into her room. “Why what?”

  “Why aren’t you home much?”

  “I’m on the road most of the time.”

  “That seems lonely,” she says, like she’s asking a question, but not really. She sighs and looks at the newly patched wall. “Do you think Lemon Lou will be mean?”

  “He’s a bull, kid.”

  She watches me walk out of her room, falling close behind me. I want out of this house. “So?”

  Running my hand over the back of my neck, I adjust the bag on my shoulder. “I’ve never met a friendly one.”

  Morgan blows me off, like I don’t know a goddamn thing about livestock. “Lemon Lou is nice.”

  “He’s also still a calf,” I point out, as if it should be obvious. “And if he was nice, I wouldn’t be fixing the hole in your wall.”

  “Good point. He once pooped in my closet.”

  “I’m not fixing your closet. That’s on you.”

  She lets out a giggle, covering her mouth and then points to a door to our left. “That’s sissy’s room. Wanna see it?”

  No. Yes. Fuck me.

  Everything inside me screams for me to walk out of that house, but something about that room roots me in place. Hundreds of thoughts haunt my mind, but it’s the ones of how many guys have been in there that sends a rush of jealousy through my veins. Her bed’s pushed up against the wall, near an open window I imagine her staring out, watching sunsets like I saw her doing last night by the river and the wildfire burning in her eyes.

  Clearing my throat, I walk down the hall. “Sissy’s birthday is on Monday. I made her a card.”

  Don’t think about it. You know I am though. I can’t stop myself knowing in just a few short days, she’d be legal and none of this would matter.

  I nod. “Go play and leave me alone.”

  My harshness does nothing to deter her. She follows me regardless. Kind of like her sister.

  It’s when we’re outside and her mom calls for her that she takes off running. I’m just about to get started on the barn for the day when Archer finds me. “We need to have a talk.”

  Immediately I know where this is heading, so I nod and say nothing.

  “I’m only going to warn you once, son.” Archer pauses and levels me a look that screams, I’ll kill you for looking at my daughter. But then he says, “Maesyn’s trouble. Do yourself a favor and stay far away from her.”

  For the first time since I met this man, I want to punch him in the face for talking about his daughter that way. She might be trouble, but the bitterness behind his words irritates me. It’s like she’s too much for him to bother with.

  He’s waiting for my reply. I shrug, keeping my eyes on his. “I haven’t touched her.” I know it’s a lie, something I never do. I was raised to only tell the truth, regardless of the consequences you fear. But you can lie to protect, and if it means keeping Maesyn out of trouble, I’ll do that for her. For God knows what reason.

  I don’t know if Archer believes me, but he nods. “Keep it that way.” And then he motions for me to follow him toward the bullpens.

  Did you catch the look in his eyes? He’s probably going to try to kill me now.

  A rider’s glove is made of thick, soft leather. It is designed to let the rider
grip the bull rope with ease while protecting his riding hand from rope burn.

  My mind drifts to Grayer and the way he watched me last night. The kiss, the things he said to me. . . . My skin burns at the memories, the sensation of his warm body pinning mine against the door.

  It’s not often I think about a boy as much as I’ve thought about Grayer Easton lately. I can only think of one other.

  I’m in my room late Sunday afternoon, when I notice my dad out in the arena standing over the bullpens with Morgan. Grayer approaches wearing chaps and a glove on his right hand. He climbs over the chute when Hammer, Lemon Lou’s dad—and our mean as fuck bull—enters the chute.

  My eyes widen at what I’m about to see. Grayer Easton riding a bull.

  When Grayer’s in position, Dad tells him something and then he climbs over the side of the gate and gets a rope tied around Hammer behind his front legs. Before I know it, the gate opens and Hammer starts bucking and rearing.

  I’m in absolute awe. I’ve seen bull riders before. I’ve been to the Ellensburg Rodeo every year since I was a kid. What gets me is Grayer’s confidence on the bull. There’s never a question of whether he can do it. He can. And he does. My eyes are riveted to him and the motion of his body as he does what he’s damn good at, bending and twisting as he tames the beast.

  Holy. Crap. That’s . . . insanely hot!

  The sight has me rushing downstairs.

  I’m not quite fast enough because when I get down there, he’s off the bull and dusting off his jeans with a smile and Morgan’s cheering him on.

  My dad laughs and by the look on his face, I can tell he’s impressed by what Grayer just did. “Ain’t nobody rode ol’ Hammer.”

  Grayer tips his head and then removes his hat, dusting it off too. I’m learning that hat is his favorite since he’s worn it every day I’ve seen him so far.

  I wait until my dad has disappeared on his tractor out to the south field and Morgan runs inside to apparently make him a sandwich. At least that’s what she tells me when she runs past me. With a deep breath, I look down and realize maybe I shouldn’t have worn this out here, but oh well. I go looking for Grayer. He’s walking toward the barn when I catch up with him, hoping maybe he might be a little nicer after kissing me in the barn last night.

  “You definitely know how to stay on the full eight seconds, don’t you?” I can’t believe I just said that to him, but my tone has him turning around to look at me. He backs up a few steps watching me walk toward him, his eyes move over my body, the bikini top; they linger longer than I expect. His jaw tightens, then he turns back around. Definitely the wrong thing to say. Damn it.

  “You don’t know what you’re talking about.” His voice is harsher than before, full of bitterness that I’m beginning to get used to. Curiosity gets the better of me and I follow him, just like I have the last two days wanting to figure out why he claims he’s trouble. My motto? If it sets your soul on fire, be fearless. And he certainly sets my entire body on fire. I’m beginning to think they’re just words to get me to leave him alone. “Are you always such a jerk after a girl sucks your dick the first night you’re in town?”

  Sometimes I wish I didn’t say the things I do, but I’m cursed with being mouthy.

  Grayer grunts and digs the pitchfork to throw hay into Mac’s stall. “What’s that say about you?”

  Seriously? I hope you stab your foot with the fork. Jerk. Asshole. Dickhead. I really could go on here.

  “What the fuck—” I’m just about to tell him off for being such an asshole when he beats me to it.

  “You’re seventeen fuckin’ years old, Maesyn. You got no business actin’ this way.” He throws down the pitchfork and begins to walk away, his shoulders tense. His body language is telling me to stay back, but I’m not a very good listener, as it turns out.

  It’s reality, but it hurts. It hurt really bad to hear him say that.

  “Age doesn’t mean a damn thing.”

  He turns on his heel and faces me again, anger lit and fuming. His tongue peeks out, sweeping across his bottom lip. His arms open wide, inviting, but challenging in the way he’s implying. “It should. That’s the goddamn problem. It fucking should matter.” He gets more flushed and angry with each word. Taking a deep breath, he holds my eyes, repeating, “It matters.”

  I place my hands on my hips, scowling at him. “Why’d you kiss me last night then?”

  “What are you doing?” He ignores my question, searching my eyes for an answer he assumes I have. Stepping forward, he reaches for me. The pads of his thumbs brush over my heated cheeks lightly. “You’re letting these guys treat you like you’re some kind of slut. That’s not you. I see it. You don’t.”

  It’s easier to believe the lies than to set them all straight. It’s easier to play the role, than be someone I don’t know. I may act tough, but I don’t know myself. Does any seventeen-year-old? Does anyone at any age? Having faith it will work okay is dangerous. It drives you to make a change, try harder, but when you do and you fail, then what?

  My eyebrows dive down. “Is that why you don’t want me?” I murmur nervously.

  For a second, it looks like I’ve gotten to him. He catches himself, his lips pursing. “Wanting you is not the problem.” His face and the way his eyes are stone cold and bleeding with an invisible pain means I should walk away before he says something that hurts me, but being near him is like dancing on the edge of a cliff and I can’t help it—I want the rush.

  I furrow my brow. I’m close to tears, reality sinking in. He’s so angry that his confidence and pride waver. He’s breaking a little and it’s making him uneasy, and I see it. He wants to show me I don’t know what I’m talking about, but his stubbornness gets him too. It’s easy to say he’s not one that gives up easily. “You think you know, don’t you? You think you’re so fucking smart, yes?”

  “Grayer.” I sigh, knowing I’ve crossed the line. His name on my lips is something he wants to hear. I see his face twist when I say it, the word washing over him. I wave my hand around, a little flustered. Oh man, he’s getting to me. “Don’t act like this.”

  “Like what?” His expression is suddenly livid as if that one remark sets him off. His eyes search mine, the piercing blue depths of his meeting sea green. They collide like waves crashing against a rocky shore.

  “Be this way.” My eyes dip to his chest, so tense his muscles seem tight and rigid underneath his dusty black T-shirt.

  “What way? This is me.” He backs away about a step, dropping his hands to his side. “You’re the one fooling yourself.”

  I blink at his harshness. “You’re an asshole.”

  He rolls his eyes, shaking his head at me. He’s mocking me. “It’s not a way. It’s me. I am an asshole. Took you long enough to figure it out. Most women figure it out the first night.” When I take another step back, he knows I’m pissed with the words he’s saying, but he doesn’t stop; he’s going for the full eight seconds, the entire ride of destroying me. “I can’t be anything you’re hoping I will be. It’d be a goddamn disaster.”

  I swallow over my irritation. I don’t know how to reply to that other than I want him to see it has nothing to do with me wanting him. Or at least I’m telling myself that for now. I couldn’t tell you what I want from him anymore. It started out as one thing and now . . . it’s not that.

  He brushes past me without another word.

  After a few minutes, Grayer returns with a stack of barn boards. He notices I’m still there, leaning against the horse stables.

  “What do you want from me, Maesyn? Am I just another way to piss off your daddy?”

  “No.” You can’t miss the sadness in my tone, but it also doesn’t stop him.

  “Then what it is?” When I don’t answer, he cocks an eyebrow at me. “Does your daddy know about Joel?” There’s a little more to his words than he’s leading on, as if he knows the answer to that. “Does he know about me?”

  I shake my head because m
y dad doesn’t know shit. And he never will.

  “Does he know you’re lying to him?”

  I won’t give him an answer and I think it pisses him off.

  “That’s what I thought.” He laughs with a nod and then leans down to pick up one of the boards. Tossing it over his shoulder, he waits for a second, giving me another chance to convince him otherwise. I don’t. I’m not sure what to say.

  His eyes are bloodshot, watching and waiting for me to say something. I see through him. He’s the kind of guy who rolls into town, gets what he wants, maybe fights for my honor, but there is still a part of Grayer that will always be that rebel kid.

  With our eyes locked on one another, he nods as if to let me know my assumptions are right.

  “What am I to you then?” I finally challenge. “If you say you don’t want anything to do with me, why are you roughing up Joel and trying to make me walk the straight and narrow? Why go to that much trouble if you’re leaving town in a few days?”

  His eyes close and he sighs. “Maybe you’re someone I can’t fucking resist. Someone I have no right to want,” he says, walking away.

  But he can and he is avoiding me. I despise what he’s doing to me, making me crave his harsh words and southern drawl, specs of blue diamonds that shine so bright. Because of him, I find myself staring at the stars every night just to remember the way his eyes give me a sense of hope. He demands my attention in ways he doesn’t even realize.

  I follow him, refusing to let it go. He walks outside the barn and into the field where Mac is now. As if Grayer can’t stand the dirt, he kicks at it, then the hay. After a moment, he reaches down for his tool bag he left out last night and then walks back into the barn.

  “What is it about you?” He throws a saddle to his left out of the way and reaches for the boards. He takes a box of nails and carries them over to the wall he’s repairing. “Didn’t your daddy tell you to stay away from me?”

  I blink, leaning against the stable and crossing my feet. “He did.”

  “You don’t usually listen, do you?”

  “Not really.”