Untamed

by Shey Stahl

  Grayer rolls his eyes, muttering something I can’t hear. Sighing, I leave him be for the time being. I have chores to do so he’s going to have to deal with me today.

  Morgan walks by me, smiling, holding a plate with a turkey sandwich on it, and a glass of limeade. Despite nearing tears, I wink down at her.

  “Hey, sissy.” She looks up at me, pretty green eyes, and freckled sunburnt cheeks. “You want me to bring you a sandwich too?”

  “No, thanks.”

  She disappears inside with the food and I hope he’s nicer to her than me. I watch. Just to be sure. He smiles like a fool when he sees her holding food, but as I discovered last night, food is the way to his heart. I guess I should have brought him something before walking in there.

  I go upstairs and change, returning to the barn dressed a little better than before. The afternoon sun beats down on my bare shoulders the moment I step outside. I’m in my jean shorts with a flannel tied up around my waist. My head is reeling from everything he said. Chores are the only thing keeping me from stomping up to him, grabbing him by the shirt and forcing him to tell me what his problem is, and then kissing him. Beg him to take away the pain I have buried deep inside my chest. I want him to cure me, hold me, make me laugh. I want him to tell me I’m pretty and feed me tacos. Doesn’t any girl?

  Mac has a hurt foot, so I bring him inside the stable to check it out. He’s got an abrasion on his left front leg that I cleaned a couple days ago after he got tangled in a barbwire fence. When I examine it today, the skin is turning gray, which means it’s healing.

  I stand up and stroke the side of his head. Mac leans into my touch. He’s the sweetest horse. I’m kinda sad Grayer’s taking him back to Decatur with him. He was Stanton’s horse and came over to us once Stanton got sick last spring. Nipping at the ends of my shirt, he tries to pull me toward him. I stroke his nose. “Stay out of that fence, boy.”

  When I’m finished with cleaning out the other two horse stalls, I spot Grayer watching me, a hammer in hand.

  “Help me out here.” He nods to the side of the barn he’s repairing. “I need an extra hand and you’re distracting me.” He turns, facing the boards, and then back to me. “Might as well help out.”

  I cross my arms over my chest. “So you don’t want me, said mean things, but I’m distracting you, and you now want my help?” I’m teasing, but it’s slightly entertaining the look that comes over his face.

  “You know damn well you’re distracting me.” And then he steps closer, his brow scrunched in determination I know well. “Don’t make me beg.”

  Beg! Oh God, I can only imagine what that would be like. Pull yourself together, Maesyn. Stop the nonsense. Part of me really wants to see him on his knees before me, begging me for something instead of telling me off and acting like an asshole. His words, the harshness . . . they’re too much for me to ignore.

  “Begging might be good.” I lean into the stable doors only to have Mac stick his nose in my ear and then his tongue. I giggle, taking a step away from him.

  I’m not sure, but I think it’s the sound of my laughter that makes Grayer smile.

  He stands in front of me, crossing his arms over his chest with the faintest of a grin tugging at his beautiful lips I desperately want on mine again. I want to reach out, skim the curves with my fingertips and whisper how pretty he is. “Okay, if you won’t help me out . . . and stop teasing me, I’ll tell your daddy what we did in my truck the night I met you.” To get his point across, he tips his head south.

  I burst out laughing, my arms clutching my stomach. “Yeah, I’d actually pay to see you do that.”

  He takes a teasing step toward the door and then stops, reaching for the extra bag of nails. “You’re right. I wouldn’t do that.”

  I sigh, following him. “I’ll help.”

  He looks back at me over his shoulder. “Keep your shirt on this time.”

  I roll my eyes. “Am I too hard for you to handle, Eight Seconds. Why are you all bitchy today?”

  “I don’t have a bitchy bone in my body.” He stops and I nearly run into his back when he does this, whirling to face me, his chest pressing into mine. He smiles. “Stop teasing me.”

  “Stop teasing you?” I raise an eyebrow, fighting back laughter.

  “Yes . . . you know I can’t act on it and you’re making it really hard for me.”

  I take a seat on the crate near him, holding the bag of nails. “You could act on it, remember? But you won’t.”

  “You’re right. I won’t. Now help me out. Hold that board up so I can get it up there.” He motions to the stack of boards.

  It’s clear he doesn’t really need my help and that makes me smile too. He wants me in here with him.

  I do as he says because I want nothing more than to be around him. Even after the verbal lashing he handed me earlier.

  We work in silence for the most part, but it’s unbearable for me, as it usually is around him. So I start asking questions.

  “When did you start riding?”

  He looks back at me over his shoulder as he’s hammering, surprised by the question. “I started riding sheep when I was three and haven’t looked back.” He steps back from the board once it’s secure and sets the hammer on the crate. “Same with my brothers.”

  The idea of him bull riding has me remembering the video I saw of him riding for the championship. I’ve seen countless rodeos, but it was nothing like what I’ve seen Grayer do. I wonder what it was like for him the moment he knew he won. I wonder if he grasped what it meant to be the best, or did the true understanding behind the achievement come later? “How do you stay on the bull with him bucking like that?”

  He takes a seat next to me on the other crate, the one he’d just set the hammer on. Picking it up, he flips it around in his hand. Our eyes meet. He seems more relaxed now and my heart sputters when I realize he’s actually going to talk to me. “It’s all about finding the rhythm the bull has. He moves, you need to find that countermove and he’s doing the same.”

  I want to find rhythm with you. I want to get lost in your eyes and suffocate in your breath against mine.

  He watches my lips when I ask, “Is it scary?” Most people think bull riders are crazy. Insane for getting in the chute in the first place, let alone in the ring trying to hang onto a raging beast who’s trying to buck them off only to attempt to hook them with their horns. I don’t think bull riders are insane. Not me. I’m fascinated by their desire to tame a beast.

  “Well yeah, it’s scary.” He laughs, the sound sparking my own because it’s so damn captivating and he’s so damn pretty. “Probably to a level that it shouldn’t be, but it’s also more gratifying than anything I’ve experienced in my life.” He laughs again, the sound soft in the quiet of the barn. “If you conquer a one-ton beast, you’re thinkin’ pretty high of yourself. Once you do it, that’s it. There’s no getting it out of your blood.”

  We’re quiet, and I think he’s going to get up and leave—there’s an uneasiness in his posture. “I’m about done for the night.” And then he adds, “I’m leaving in a few days.” The way he says this, makes me see that it’s more of a warning than a statement. Like he’s letting me know he sees that look in my eyes. As much as I don’t want that look, I can’t help it.

  It’s nearing one in the morning when Grayer is loading up his tools. I don’t want the night to end. I know it’s considered morning now, but I don’t want him to leave. I’m comfortable around him. Like even if I weren’t insanely attracted to him, I would still want him around. Reminds me of someone I used to know.

  As he’s packing up, I step outside into the horse corrals and sit on the fence posts looking up at the night sky where thousands of stars light up the darkness.

  Just when I think I’m going to hear that throaty rumble of his truck, I don’t. He’s next to me.

  “Hey,” I say, trying to keep my tone casual. Like he doesn’t make me insanely nervous.

  “I gotta
get goin’ . . .” He pauses, taping his knuckles against the post I’m sitting on. “But thanks for the help.”

  Oh shit, he’s being polite and it’s adorable. A welcome change from the coldness I was met with earlier. “I don’t mind helping you out.”

  Squinting at me, he bites down on the corner of his bottom lip, contemplating what he’s going to say, but still, withholding so much. I think he’s gonna turn around and leave, but he doesn’t, and instead, he looks up at the stars. I do the same, breathing in deeply. Shit, say something meaningful, poetic . . . something to let him know you’re not the slut he seems to think you are.

  His gaze returns to mine, saying nothing—at least not with words—and takes a step toward me. My face is suddenly between his palms.

  He’s totally going to kiss you again.

  I’m inches from his lips, his breath on mine as he stands between my legs. The awareness of his skin on mine is electrifying and the sensations so terrifying. He doesn’t grin like I expect him to. I can’t tell what his reaction is at all. Slowly, his thumb moves over my lips, his eyes burning into mine. He studies me for a beat, then brings his lips to mine, gentle, pure, hesitant to go further. That kiss . . . it belongs in a storybook for the magical semblance of hope it gives me. Like I don’t have to be broken. Like it’s okay to be scared and not know who I am. With him near, nothing’s scary.

  And before I have the chance to make something more of the kiss, or decipher its meaning, he’s gone, his body shifting away from mine. Raising his hand, he pushes my hair from my face to cup my cheek. Leaning forward again, he gives me another gentle kiss. My lips part over his, wanting so much more than he’s willing to give.

  He pulls back. Unsure what he’s going to do next, I swallow.

  I blink.

  I wait.

  He swallows, blinks, watches my reaction with his brows pulled together.

  “Say something, damn it.”

  With a sigh, he leans in, his mouth lingering over my ear. “Night,” he whispers, sending shivers through my soul. It’s almost too much, enough that I have to grip the post I’m sitting on to keep from falling off. His eyes sweep over me, land on my necklace I never take off. I can tell, once again he wants to ask about it, but he doesn’t. Instead, he runs his fingertip over the feather. Tears sting my eyes, but they don’t let loose.

  When he’s walking away, I look back up at that starry night and smile. And I have no idea why I am. Maybe because my perfectly flawed heart is crushing on slow drinking whiskey and a scruffy jaw.

  Sometimes a rider gets tossed from a bull but is unable to free his riding hand from his bull rope and therefore is "hung up" to the bull. When this dangerous scenario occurs, the bullfighters often move in to help the bull rider free his hand from his rope and get away from the bull.

  I need fucking help. I’ve discovered, through a bottle of Southern Comfort, when it comes to Maesyn Calhoun, I’m obsessed. Maybe that’s why I kissed her. To torture myself some more. I knew once I tasted the sin of her, I was never going to stop.

  I’m just about to get in my truck when I spot Morgan outside, sneaking around the south side of the barn in Tinkerbell pajamas. Taking a step in her direction, I notice she’s closing the gate to the bullpen, trying to usher Lemon whatever back into his pen.

  I watch her for a few moments and the calf seems less than interested in leaving her. Probably because she lets him sleep in her room.

  “You have to stay out here tonight.” She waves him off. “I told you not to eat my pillow and you did.”

  He doesn’t budge, instead nosing the gate, bristling at her.

  “Don’t give me that look, mister.”

  Smiling, I lean forward and whisper over her shoulder, “What are you doing?”

  With a shrieked yelp, Morgan startles, and whirls to face me, eyes wide. “You scared me.”

  I laugh. “Isn’t it past your bedtime, girly?”

  Drawing in a deep breath, she holds her hand to her chest, probably trying to calm her racing heart. “Isn’t it past yours?”

  “I’m not seven, you are.”

  Morgan’s hands fly to her hips. “I’m almost nine.”

  Raising my hands, I laugh and step back. “My bad.”

  Like she can’t stay mad at me, her expression softens. But then she smiles, the kind of smile she gets when she wants something from me. “I lost a baby chick in your truck.”

  I point to my truck in the driveway. “My truck? What were you doing in there?”

  She shrugs. “I was sitting on the tailgate, eatin’ lunch and I sort let him run along the bed rails. He dropped into the hole thingy at the end.”

  Scratching the side of my head, I drag the little animal lover to my truck. “Where is it?”

  She points to the rear quarter panel. “I think in there.”

  We both listen and sure enough, when Morgan taps quietly on the metal, the fucking thing chirps. Scowling at her, I grab a screwdriver from inside the cab, pop the taillight off and rescue the chick.

  I hand it to Morgan. “What’s with you and these animals? Leave them in their cages and pens where they belong.”

  “They don’t belong there.” She holds the chick close to her chest. “They want to be wild and free and they deserve to be. Not food for people. How would you like it if people ate you?”

  It takes everything in me not to laugh. For a variety of reasons.

  The front door closing snaps her attention toward the house, and she’s smarter than I give her credit for. “Were you out here with sissy? Is that why you’re here so late?”

  I shrug. And grin. Damn it.

  Morgan giggles, her cheeks pink even in the darkness of the night.

  I nod to the house. “You should get inside, kid.”

  “Fine.” But just before she’s at the door, she smiles back at me. “Sissy’s birthday is tomorrow. Bring her something special.”

  Something special?

  You have to know my version of special and hers are probably completely different.

  “Like what?” Why the fuck am I asking?

  Because you know you’re curious.

  Morgan taps her finger to her tiny chin. She reminds me of Wyatt sometimes with the blonde hair and blue eyes. It makes me miss the little guy something fierce. “A dream catcher. She likes them.”

  A dream catcher? Where am I going to find one of those?

  When Morgan’s out of sight, I stare up at the window where I know Maesyn’s room is. I imagine her in there, naked, in bed. She probably doesn’t sleep naked, but it’s that image I’ve jerked off to for the last five days—which has been pathetically fucking often. It’s after midnight. Technically speaking, she’s eighteen now. I could . . . nope. Stop it. Fuck, I’m horny.

  One more day won’t kill you. My dick does not agree.

  I rub my eyes and open the door to my truck.

  When I’m back at my dad’s old place, I shuffle inside and remember I forgot to pick up the last of the boxes in the storage unit he had in town. We ended up having to move him to a nursing home the last couple of months he was alive so most of his belongings ended up getting stored away while Britany arranged for the house and land to be sold.

  This time next year all these eighty acres will be turned into a goddamn strip mall. Shame, really, but the rest of our family lives in Texas. There was no use in keeping it. And besides, once Dani finishes school, she plans on leaving too.

  It’s when I’m inside the house, stumbling around trying to find the damn light switch that I trip over a box near the front door. Dani must have left it there when she was here earlier going through the last of her things.

  The contents of the box spill out onto the hardwood floor. Bending over, I reach down to pick up what fell out. And wouldn’t you know it . . . it’s a dream catcher. My mom’s actually. She loved those damn things and had them hanging all over the house. Over the years, they’d been given to my aunts and maybe a couple to Dani. But this one,
I remember it. It’s the one she had in her bedroom that hung over the bed. I hadn’t seen it in probably fifteen years.

  “Bring her something special.”

  Shaking my head with laughter, I hold the dream catcher in my hand and look up at the ceiling. “Well played, Mom.”

  A bull that is difficult to ride is considered "rank."

  “How’s it feel?” Mom sits down on my bed and hands me an envelope filled with money. Never in a million years did I think she’d give me money for my birthday.

  I gawk at her, a fish out of water look. My eyes dart to the envelope, then her, wondering if this is just a dream or reality. Why would she be giving me all this money? “What?”

  Mom smiles, brushing her hand over my cheek. “Being eighteen.”

  I’ve thought about this day for so long that I actually lay in bed for an hour trying to figure out exactly what it means. My eighteenth birthday . . . the day I can escape this place. Not technically today though. Haylee and I plan on leaving on Friday. She read somewhere that if you’re gonna start a road trip, do it on a Friday. Not entirely sure why that is, but we went with it.

  “So . . .” Mom rubs my knee, drawing me from my thoughts. “How’s it feel?”

  “It’s like . . . freedom.”

  She gives me another smile. This time there’s sadness just below the surface because she knows in her heart it’s only a matter of time before I leave.

  Morgan bounces into the room with a party hat on her head and a big grin. She’s eating a donut. “Happy Birthday, sissy!”

  “Happy Birthday,” Mom whispers, and gestures to my hand with a thousand dollars in a white envelope. “I’ve been saving this for you for two years.”

  Morgan sets the donuts down, and then is distracted by my necklace on my nightstand. She loves to count the beads.

  My eyes drift back to my mom. I think she knows I’ve been planning to leave because why else would she hand me an envelope full of money?

  When I started my senior year of high school, everyone automatically asked me where I was going to college. I suppose in this day and age, that’s what’s expected of a high school graduate. Immediately go to college. But me? I have no plans. It was one of two ways. Stay here and work, go to CWU like everyone else? I want to go to school and see where my love for animals might take me, but I also want to see the world, experience for myself what the world has to offer. I want to be wild and free and let my wandering soul lead the way.