by Monica James
I can’t help but laugh. “There is no way I’m riding that thing,” I say, shaking my head.
Saxon smirks. “Yes, you are. Get on.”
“You’re so bossy,” I mumble under my breath.
He passes me a black helmet before mounting the beastly bike with ease. I watch as he straddles it, shuffling forward to give me minimal room on the back.
“You want me to sit there?” I ask, horrified, pointing at the tiny space behind him.
“Don’t worry, I won’t let you fall,” he confidently replies, removing his baseball cap and slipping his helmet on.
Taking a courageous breath, I slip the helmet on before very awkwardly climbing onto the motorcycle. I instantly press my chest to Saxon’s back and grip around his waist like a spidermonkey, clinging on for dear life.
He chuckles, the sound vibrating through my fingers. “Ready?”
“No.”
“Hold on tight,” he sarcastically quips once the engine roars to life. I yelp.
With one last throttle, Saxon takes off and my body jars backward with the force. I can feel his hardened abs underneath my fingers, and the faster he goes, the tighter I squeeze, afraid I’m going to fall off.
He steers the bike down the driveway and before I know it, we’re on open road. As we ride through the quiet streets, a sense of freedom overwhelms me, and I feel like someone other than me. It’s similar to how I felt when riding Potter bareback and into the darkened night.
Every inch of my body is telling me to close my eyes, but I don’t. Tonight is about forgetting because my woes will still be there tomorrow. I take in the sights around me, feeling like I’m flying as the night sky passes me by. Wheat, corn, and potato farms are our backdrop for the ride, however when Saxon takes a left, we’re surrounded by fields filled with hundreds of sunflowers.
The towering yellow plants take my breath away, their beauty reminding me of a forever summer, mingled with constant happiness. It’s absurd to think a simple flower can make me happy, but I’ll forever associate them with this night.
We ride for countless moments, but I don’t care. The further away we go, the easier it is to forget why we’re here. Feeling a little more confident, I loosen my grip around Saxon, relishing in the way the air whips at my face, shooting a charge throughout my body.
I’ve driven this road a thousand times before, but somehow, it feels like my first time. When Saxon picks up the speed, I scream, but not in terror. No, I scream in excitement.
“Faster!” I yell to be heard over the whipping wind. Saxon obliges and pushes this beast to full speed.
I know it’s incredibly dangerous riding this way, but I trust Saxon one hundred percent. The way he handles himself on a motorcycle is similar to how he carries himself—with confidence, elegance, and control.
As I’m nestled against his back, my arms secured around his strong form, I can’t help but think back to our kiss. I shouldn’t, but I can’t stop. From the very beginning, Saxon has given me a sense of freedom. I was so busy comparing him to Samuel, but they are worlds apart. The way he makes me feel isn’t the way Sam does, or did. With Saxon, I feel…alive. And I feel free.
Saxon turns down a dirt road, gravel kicking up as he zooms towards a glowing hue. The closer we get, I come to realize the glowing hue is actually a lit up old barn. The imposing wooden building however isn’t your average barn. The tall white sign out front with red letters reveals just exactly where we are.
Sawbuck Saloon.
The patrons out front are dressed in cowboy boots, hats, and western style shirts, laughing rowdily while drinking beer. The loud country music cuts through the night air and as the door is an open panel, I can see people dancing inside.
Saxon pulls the bike over, reversing into a spot by a beat up old Chevy. Once he kills the engine, I take a moment to catch my breath. I attempt to dismount without falling onto my face. My head feels like it weighs a thousand pounds as I look around at my surreal surroundings. Peering inside, I see a horde of people in a line, dancing.
I turn around so quickly to look at Saxon, I almost give myself whiplash. “Is this a honky-tonk bar?” I can’t hide my excitement.
Saxon chuckles as he runs a hand through his mussed hair, reminding me that like an idiot, I’m still wearing my helmet. Before I have a chance to unbuckle it however, he strides forward and pins me with a heart stopping stare as he unfastens the strap from under my chin.
He works with deft fingers, the soft contact buttering my skin with goose pimples. I lick my lips, tasting peach. As he slips the helmet from my head, I smile, but his gaze is filled with a look I’ve come to know. It’s a look that can only lead to trouble.
“First round’s on me,” I say, clearing my throat to break the palpable tension. This is not how friends behave. Saxon snaps from his lusty trance, and nods.
Sawbuck is exactly how I envisioned a honky-tonk bar would look. The huge bar, stocked with every alcohol imaginable to mankind, runs down the length of the wall to the right. Neon Budweiser signs sitting in cowboy boots with spurs and Bud Light signs are scattered around the enormous room, highlighting what the beer of choice is for these thirsty patrons.
When Saxon points towards the ceiling, I stifle a laugh behind my hand as I see tattered cowboy boots and hats dangling from the wooden rafters. Fairy lights are tangled amongst the creativity, setting off the lively atmosphere perfectly.
We wait in line patiently, while I can’t stop taking in the sights. Wooden barrels line the front of the stage where a five piece band is playing an upbeat country song. Behind them are black and white photographs of John Wayne, Clint Eastwood, and Johnny Cash. Large wagon wheels are nailed to the walls, complementing the rustic vibe.
“This place is amazing,” I shout to be heard over the electric banjo. “How on earth did I not know it existed?”
Saxon shrugs his brawny shoulders. He’s too polite to say what we both know to be true. Samuel wouldn’t be caught dead in a place like this, and because this isn’t really his scene, it wasn’t mine, either. Saying it aloud in my head, I realize how pathetic I sound.
“Is everything all right?” Saxon asks, narrowing his eyes playfully. “You look like you’re about to punch somebody and seeing as I’m the closest person within reach—I won’t lie, I fear for my life.”
And just like that, I feel my rage lessening.
The pretty bartender wipes down the bar before asking what we want. “I’ll have a Budweiser. Lucy?” Saxon looks down at me while I bite my lip.
Looking over at the specials board, I realize I may as well be reading Swahili as none of it makes any sense. Remembering an episode of Sex and the City I watched when Samuel was away for the weekend, I smile. “I’ll have a Cosmopolitan. Thank you.”
* * * * *
No wonder Carrie and the gang got hooked on these drinks. They are delicious. They are also very, very potent. That might explain some of Samantha’s poor life choices.
“How about we get you some water?” Saxon suggests, subtly yanking the cocktail glass out from under me.
“Hey!” I yell, making grabby hands for it. “I was drinking that.”
We’re sitting around a barrel, my alcoholism openly staring at me as I give up on counting the amount of unknown glasses sitting inches away.
“Water,” Saxon firmly repeats, but his lopsided grin tells me he’s enjoying my drunken state. “You got a thing against coasters?”
I try and focus on the blurry Saxon, who points to the table. Peering down with one eye open, I see I’ve made confetti out of my coaster.
“Seriously, are you going to tell me what’s bugging you? You go from happy to homicidal in point two seconds. What’s going on?”
I shrug, reaching for his beer. When he attempts to stop me, I raise a brow. He raises his hands in surrender.
“You were right. Sam is a big, fat a-hole.”
He sits higher on his stool, not masking his surprise. “I could have told you
that years ago. Why the sudden change of heart?”
Sipping my stolen beer, I sigh. “I think I’ve been sleepwalking.”
One of the many things I like about Saxon—he doesn’t need a manual. “And now you’ve awoken from a very long sleep?”
I nod.
I’m unsure if it’s the alcohol, or the fact I find talking to Saxon so incredible easy, but I decide to divulge it all. “This entire time, I thought Sam’s bad behavior was because he was frustrated, confused, and scared. But now…I’m not so sure. What if you’re right? What if this Sam is the real Sam and I’ve just been too blinded by love to see it? Both of you have said it. Am I just a hopeless romantic, desperate for my happily ever after?” I’m questioning everything and I hate it. I know Sam, the old Sam loved me, but why doesn’t the new Sam remember me?
“No, Lucy.” Saxon’s tone is sympathetic. “You’re just a girl who fell in love. Unequivocally and wholeheartedly. Sam does love you. He always has.”
I wipe my eyes, brushing away impending tears. He’s right, but I still feel helpless. “I’m a love struck fool, that’s what I am.” My engagement ring catches my eye, confirming my foolishness. Tugging at the ring, I attempt to slide it off my finger.
However, Saxon’s hand gently rests over mine before I can take it off. “Leave it. It’s yours. When Samuel gave that to you, he wanted you to have it.”
Looking down at his hand, I frown. “Why are you defending him?” I don’t understand. I thought he’d be jumping at the chance to have a major bitch session about his brother.
“I’m not.” He shakes his head. “I’m defending you.”
“I don’t get it.”
He smiles. “You’re drunk, you’re upset, and you’ve been thrown a massive curveball. I want you to make that decision when you’re sure. Right now, you’re running on emotion. It’s a dangerous thing.”
When his fingers squeeze mine, my heart does a tiny flip flop. “Have you always been this smart?”
He smirks, and the sight, it takes my breath away. “I’ve always been the practical one, while Sam was always the pretty one.”
I know he’s joking, but the alcohol lowers my guard as I reach out to stroke his whiskered cheek. “You’re pretty too.”
The surprise is evident on his face. And honestly, it’s on mine, too. But I don’t question it. I accept and embrace. Just how I should accept and embrace Saxon’s words of wisdom.
A loud roar has us both turning to see a group of people cheering and clapping as a young man rides a mechanical bull. He appears to have done this before, as he’s riding the bull like a pro. Above him sits a sign stating anyone who can stay on for eight seconds wins unlimited drinks and a cowboy hat.
The grin reveals what I want.
“C’mon,” I say, jumping up from my stool and dragging Saxon to where the action is. “That hat is mine.”
He doesn’t protest and chuckles as we push through the rowdy crowd. When we speak to the guy running the show, he initially thinks its Saxon who wants to ride, but when I tell him otherwise, he looks down at my small frame and laughs. His response has me even more determined.
“All right. Just wait here. I’ll call on you when it’s your turn.” I watch as another cowboy takes to the bull like a duck to water. Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea.
As Saxon stands beside me, arms folded as he watches on with interest, a group of girls to my right have deviously migrated closer to us, not bothering to mask their appreciation of the tall, dark, and handsome next to me.
“Ask him,” I hear one girl whisper.
“No, you ask him,” another says.
“He’s gorgeous,” girl number one says—the girl who is about to get her eyeballs gouged out. “Excuse me?” She rudely leans across me and taps Saxon on the arm.
He looks at her and smiles.
“My friends and I were just wondering if you were going to ride the bull.” I bet they were.
“Not me, but this little cowgirl is.” He playfully nudges me with his shoulder, while I try not to glare at the hand still attached to his bicep.
“You’re up, pretty thang,” the man at the controls says, snapping me from my uncharacteristic thoughts of ripping out the groper’s long fingernails one by one.
The pretty brunette sizes me up, seeing me as competition. Well, I’m about to show her just how competitive I can be.
Guzzling down the last of my beer, I pass the empty bottle to Saxon. “Tell them I drink Bud Light,” I boldly say from behind my hand, hinting I’ve got this in the bag.
I kick off my boots before stepping onto the inflatable red round ring where the bull sits dead center. The bouncy surface will provide all the cushioning I need when I fall face first. What was I thinking? Eight seconds is a long time when riding a crazed bull. Not to mention, I’m wasted.
I mount the bull as I would my horse, but the shoulder span of this thing is huge, so it takes me three attempts before I get on. Digging my heels into its wooly sides, I grip onto the handle with one hand and raise my other in the air for balance.
“All right, little lady. On three, two and one!”
The moment the deafening buzzer sounds, the bull begins moving underneath me like it’s possessed. I scream, but that panic soon turns to determination when I realize I didn’t fall off as soon as the thing started bucking. I grip on tighter, squeezing my thighs and finding my balance to stay afloat. My drunken state is long forgotten and I focus.
Looking at the clock counting down, I see that I’ve made it to three seconds without flying off. When four seconds ticks over, I know I’ve made this bull my bitch. I hold on tighter, refusing to let go. I won’t let this bull, or any other bully beat me. I feel free.
I use my horse riding skills and athletic build to guide me and before I know it, the buzzer sounds, the bull stops throwing a bitch fit, and the crowd goes wild. My eyes search the spectators for Saxon, who smiles, giving me a thumbs up.
Jumping off, my inner thighs hurt like crazy, but I bounce across the floor and fling myself into Saxon’s arms. He catches me, laughing.
“I did it!” I shout, unable to contain my excitement.
“You sure did,” he says, hugging me tight. “You ready to claim your prize?”
Being wrapped in his arms this way, enveloped in his fragrance and warmth, I know that this, him, tonight, this is my prize. But I nod. I’m surprised when he walks with me still clinging to him, arms and legs wrapped around his neck and waist.
The controller doesn’t hide his disbelief that I stayed on as he passes me a straw hat with a pretty turquoise strap. “Congratulations. Looks like I bet on the wrong horse.”
“I’ve been riding since I was eight,” I smugly reveal, before hiccupping—looks like I could only evade my drunken mess for eight seconds.
“Well, god damn, shame on me.” Both Saxon and I laugh as we leave the next hopeful to try and conquer the bull. He doesn’t put me down and carries me over to the bar. As I look over his shoulder at his posse of pissed off admirers, I can’t help but smugly grin.
I feel silly being carried this way, but I also don’t want him to let go. Talk about push and pull. “So,” he says, reaching for the hat in my hand and placing it on my head. “What would the cowgirl like to drink?”
Adjusting the hat, I purse my lips in contemplation. He spins around so I can see the bar over his shoulder. Being pressed to his chest this way suddenly has me appreciating all the hard contours and muscular planes that make up Saxon Stone. I begin to feel that flutter in my belly—the flutter which leads to wicked thoughts.
A drink catches my eye, just for the name alone. I shouldn’t, but it’s out before I can stop myself. “I think I’ll have a sex on the beach.”
A choked breath gets trapped in Saxon’s throat, while I grin.
* * * * *
“No, you can’t leave her out here. She looks lonely,” I say, pointing to what I thought was Saxon’s bike. When he turns me around however
, I realize I’m pointing to a Vespa.
“It’ll be fine and she? Since when has my bike been a female?”
“Since forever,” I reply, scoffing.
I have no idea what time it is because I lost track after my tenth shot. Saxon gave up with the water card after my third slippery nipple— the drink, I mean. I feel so educated in the world of spirits after tonight. I don’t know how educated I’ll feel tomorrow morning when I’m throwing most of it up, but I’ll deal with that when I’m crouched over the bowl.
Saxon slips his cell into his pocket once he calls a cab. He refuses to ride his motorcycle home, afraid I might fall off. I told him I was fine. However, when I tripped over air while walking to the bathroom, I knew he was right.
I can’t believe how much fun I’ve had. A shitty day has actually turned into one of the best days of my life. Fingering the woven straw in my hat, I smile, still on high from riding that bull and hanging on. It’s silly, but accomplishing that put forward the notion that I need things to change at home. There is no doubt in my mind that I love Sam, but is the Sam that I love someone I’ve put on a pedestal all these years? Have I been too blinded by love to see the cracks beneath the surface?
My memories of him are filled with nothing but love, happiness, and fun times, but if I were to dissect each one, would they be as perfect as I believed them to be? I do know that my journals will help me find those answers.
“Are you cold?”
I look up at Saxon, snapping from my thoughts. He really is incredibly gorgeous, and I know that’s not the beer talking. “A little,” I confess, as the night has taken an unexpected cold turn. He steps forward and gently rubs my arms.
Instantly, my traitorous body purrs at the contact and I’m too drunk to fight it.
“Better?”
My head wobbles as I nod.
The moonlight catches off his curved lip, highlighting his scar. Before my brain can reprimand my finger, I’m tracing the outline of his mouth He’s visibly shocked, but he doesn’t pull away. “What happened?”
I don’t remove my finger to allow him to reply. His warm flesh feels too good to break contact.
