by Roxie Noir
“I watched you walk in,” he says. “I watched you and I thought to myself, that girl oughta ride.”
I narrow my eyes. I can practically hear my mother saying Lula-Mae, you know boys only want one thing, so keep your legs shut.
Momma never covered what to do if I want the exact same thing.
“Do girls even ride bulls?” I ask.
“Not most girls,” he says. “But I got the feeling you ain’t most girls.”
He bends down and kisses me, right there in front of the fire. My head swirls with the alcohol and for a moment I nearly lose my balance and fall over but then he’s got his arm around me, keeping me upright, and my hands are on his chest.
Underneath his t-shirt he’s pure muscle, and I run my hands down it as he opens his mouth against mine, the ache inside me deepening. He tastes like beer, but I couldn’t care less.
When I finally surface, I glance around, but no one’s looking at me. Half of them are making out and the other half are dead drunk.
“I got my pickup here,” he says. “You wanna go sit down?”
I nod breathlessly and follow him. We stop by a twenty-four pack and he cracks a beer and hands it to me. I can feel my classmates watching as I follow him back to his truck.
They’re probably wondering what on earth he is doing with Lula-Mae, of all people.
Let them wonder.
He’s got a blanket and a few cushions in the bed of his truck, and we climb in and lean against the cab, the glass cool against my back in the hot night.
“You just graduated, right?” he asks.
His hand is on my bare leg.
“Right,” I say. “Don’t worry, I’m eighteen.”
He laughs.
“That ain’t what I was asking, but thanks,” he says.
“What were you asking, then?” I say, taking a sip of beer.
I don’t even like beer, but I’m so drunk I can barely taste it.
“Just making polite conversation,” he says, a chuckle in his voice. “What’s next?”
“UT Austin,” I say.
“College girl,” he says. “Fancy.”
I snort and take another sip.
“My front yard’s as full of busted cars as everyone else’s,” I say. “I got a full ride because I want to get the hell out of Lawton.”
“Well, I’m glad you’re slumming it with us this summer,” he teases. “Remember the little people when you’re on top.”
I take another long gulp of beer, my eyes flicking up to the skies. Then I put the near-empty can down.
Now I’m sure I’m drunk, so drunk my face is nearly numb and talking is a little hard.
“Jackson,” I say, his hand still on my thigh. “Did you bring me here to the back of your pickup to talk about my future, or did you bring me here for some other reason?”
He opens his mouth, eyes dancing, but instead of listening I get on my knees and then swing one leg over him until I’m straddling him and we’re face to face.
I have no idea what’s gotten into me.
Wait, yes I do.
An entire bottle of cheap wine and a shitty beer.
Jackson puts both his hands on my butt and squeezes. I giggle, biting my lip, suddenly not quite sure where to go from here.
“Told you you’d be a good rider,” he says, moving my ass up and down in his hands.
“You ain’t quite as dangerous as a bull,” I say, and kiss him hard before he can answer me.
I’m sloppy drunk, but I shove my tongue into his mouth and he pushes back with his own. He grabs my hips and grinds me against the thick, hard rod in his pants.
I frown.
“The hell is in your pocket,” I mutter.
He laughs and grinds me against it again, and it feels good rubbing up against me like that, whatever it is.
“You like it?” he asks.
“Kinda,” I say, breathless. I’m moving my hips against it on my own now.
“Ain’t got nothing in my pockets,” he says. “That is one hundred percent All-American cock.”
I gasp and cover my mouth, and he grins like he’s won the lottery.
“Come on, you liked it before,” he says. “Just give it a chance.”
I do. I think I’ve lost control now, because as shocked as I am that someone said that to me, I still like this.
Jackson kisses me again as he moves his hands under my tank top, me still writhing against him, his fingers pinching my nipples through my bra.
“You like that?” he whispers.
I reach behind myself and unhook my bra, then take it off through the arm hole of my tank top and toss it behind me.
Jackson pushes my top to just above my nipples and then bends his head down, biting and licking at one and then the other, and it feels amazing, like my insides are turning to boiling liquid. I want him to do this forever, it feels so good.
Almost on their own, my hands find the buckle of his belt, and before I know it I’m unzipping his jeans and he’s pushing my tank top back down over my breasts.
Then I stare at his boxers in slight confusion, frowning. I was expecting a dick, and I’m not quite sure how to get it out now.
Technically, I’ve never done this before, but Jackson finds the opening in his boxers and suddenly it’s there, thick and long and straight and very, very hard. After another moment of uncertainty I grab it by the base and squeeze, and Jackson makes a noise like I’m doing it right.
Then he’s unbuttoning my shorts and reaching in and it feels strange to have someone else’s hand there, but it feels good.
Once he finds my clit it feels really good as his rough fingers circle it, making me gasp, my own hand still awkwardly on his erection, not quite sure what to do with it because I’ve only ever touched a penis through clothing before.
His hand moves deeper and then I can feel it on my lips, his fingers gently nudging between them.
“Damn, Lula-Mae, you ain’t faking,” he says.
“Faking what?” I ask, trying to move my hips against his hand.
I desperately want something from him, and to be honest, I barely even know what.
I want this, but more. A bunch more.
He puts his hand over mine on his cock and slides it up and down, from the root to the tip and back, and he leans his head against the cab of his truck and groans.
Oh, I think. I guess that’s what I’m supposed to do.
I do it again, then again, and he slowly slides one finger inside me, the feeling strange and wonderful, his palm still pressing against my clit.
“Jackson,” I whisper.
“Yes, Lula-Mae?” he murmurs.
“Let’s do it,” I say.
I’ve totally forgotten that there are other people around, or that the back of this truck in the middle of a field isn’t exactly private.
I just want to do sex stuff with him.
“I didn’t bring a rubber,” he says.
For a moment I have no idea what he’s talking about or why it’s relevant, and then it dawns on me.
But every cell in my body is pounding with drunken desire, and I don’t give a shit about a condom.
“It’s fine,” I say. “Don’t you want to?”
“Hell yes,” he growls, his eyes sliding down my body, right in front of him, but there’s still something hesitant about the way he says it.
I squeeze his dick again and slide my hand up and down and he looks up at me, in a way no one’s ever looked at me before.
I have no idea what I’m doing, but I lean forward, steadying myself against his chest with my other hand as everything wobbles in front of me, and put my lips practically against his ear.
“Come on, Jackson,” I whisper.
He chuckles.
“You get what you want, don’t you, Lula-Mae?” he asks, grinning, his fingers circling my clit again.
Then: sirens. I look over my shoulder and there are blue lights flashing across the field.
My heart
seizes in my chest and everything spins.
I yelp, try to stand and fall sideways, the metal of his truck bed booming beneath me.
“You all right?” I hear Jackson ask, but I’m panicking.
I’ve never had a run-in with the police before, and I’m positive it’s going to ruin my life. First I’ll get arrested, then the university won’t let me in any more, then I’ll be stuck in Lawton forever. I’ll be working at the McDonald’s for the rest of my life.
“Lula-Mae, calm down,” Jackson says, his hand on my shoulder. “It’s gonna be fine, but you gotta button your pants.”
I zip and button quickly, my hands shaking, and Jackson tucks his dick back in.
“Everyone please remain calm,” a voice crackles through a megaphone.
I can feel the tears rising in my eyes, my hands shaking.
Jackson actually grins at me.
“You never been at a party that got busted up before?” he asks.
I shake my head no. I feel like I can barely breathe, my chest tight with panic as everything just spins and spins.
He jumps over the side of his truck, then offers me his hand. It’s slightly sticky and I blush, but I take it.
“They’re just gonna tell us not to be here,” he says. “It’s fine.”
I jump over the side of the truck and we walk a few steps before there’s a spotlight on us.
It pauses and I squint, trying to see who’s behind it.
Then a voice says, “Lula-Mae Guthrie?”
Everything lurches. My chest tightens.
I’m going to be flipping burgers forever.
“I’m sorry!” I say, bordering on hysterical.
“God almighty, what are you doing here?” the voice asks, and I recognize Phil Warren, a family friend.
I’m trembling like a leaf, and this is where I break. I cover my face with my hands and start sobbing.
“I’m sorry!” I get out between sobs, gasping for air. “Please don’t tell my parents. Please, god, don’t tell my parents.”
“Lula-Mae, are you all right?”
He sounds worried, not mad, but my face is hot and covered in tears and snot and I just sniffle and nod, an absolute mess.
“You been drinking?” he asks, but it’s obvious he knows the answer.
“A little,” I whisper.
Phil sighs.
“All right, come on,” he says.
I walk toward him, leaving Jackson standing there in the field. I’m too embarrassed to even look back at him.
Phil lets me sober up at the station for a while and then takes me home. By some miracle, he promises never to tell my parents as long as he doesn’t catch me partying like that again.
He doesn’t, because that’s the last time it happens. In August I leave for college and only ever visit Lawton again, and I never go to another bonfire party.
I major in photography and have a 3.9 GPA, almost perfect. I lose my virginity to a nice guy from Louisiana. Whenever I’m not studying I’m working, and by the end of four years, I’ve got enough saved to move to New York City and leave Texas behind forever.
I get an apartment in Brooklyn and I hustle my tail off, stringing together enough freelance jobs to pay the rent.
Through it all, I almost manage to forget the time I got wasted and almost had unprotected sex with Jackson Cody.
4
Jackson
Present Day
After breakfast we walk back into the gravel parking lot that connects Sookie’s Diner to the Prairie Motel. Across the street is the Oklahoma fairgrounds, where we’re gonna be for the next seven days. All I can see from here is the front ticket office, done up Old West style, and over it the arc of the Ferris wheel.
In the distance, to the right, is the arena. My belly tightens in excitement.
That’s my stomping ground.
“Y’all let us know if you need anything,” Wayne says. “You doing anything before the opening ceremonies tonight?”
“I’m going to walk around and get a feel for the place,” Bruce says, glancing over at the fairgrounds. “Start talking to some people, that kind of thing.”
Wayne looks at Mae.
“I need to set up my equipment and make sure everything made it here in one piece,” she says. “And I think I need a nap if I want to stay awake tonight.”
Wayne and Darlene both nod politely.
We all shake hands. Bruce, Wayne, and Darlene start to drift off, but Mae and I stand there for another moment. She’s looking across the street at the fairgrounds, and I’m just looking at her. Thinking of her voice saying Come on, Jackson, and getting a half-chub just from that.
“Need any company during that nap?” I ask, and paste on my most charming grin.
Hell, it worked last time.
Mae’s gaze flicks to me and holds mine steady for a moment. Then she laughs.
“I nap alone,” she says, and she says it almost like I was joking.
“You know the saying,” I tell her.
She raises her eyebrows just a little.
“Save a horse, ride a cowboy?”
Mae bursts out laughing.
“Wow,” she says. “You really do live up to your reputation.”
“I had to work pretty hard to get it,” I say.
“Does that work?” she asks. “The ‘save a horse’ thing?”
“You have no idea,” I say.
Usually, I don’t even have to try that hard.
“You want to know the secret?” I ask.
I take a step closer to her, my thumbs tucked into my belt. She doesn’t back away.
“Is the secret rodeo groupies?” she asks.
“If you’re gonna be here, you should learn the lingo, darlin’,” I say. “The buckle bunnies line up for me because women talk, and word’s gotten around about me.”
She frowns slightly.
“Buckle what?” she asks, ignoring the important part of the sentence.
“Buckle bunnies,” I say.
She shrugs.
“That’s what you call rodeo groupies?” she asks, and I nod.
“Rodeo winners get buckles, and bunnies get what’s underneath. It’s debatable which prize is better.”
She lifts her eyebrows again, and her eyes crinkle a little like she’s trying not to smile.
“I should write that down. It’s colorful,” she says.
She’s acting like I’m not hitting on her at all, completely ignoring my advances.
It’s driving me crazy.
“I’ll take a raincheck for that nap, then,” I say.
Mae glances behind me at something, and suddenly I have a bad feeling.
“Jackson,” says Darlene’s voice. “A word?”
“Nice meeting you,” Mae says, and nods at Darlene. “See you around.”
She walks toward the motel, that same look of amusement in her eyes. I watch her walk for a moment, then take a deep breath and turn toward Darlene.
Even though I’m a good eight inches taller than her, I’ve got the sense to keep my mouth shut.
“How stupid are you?” she hisses.
Not stupid enough to answer that question.
“It’s bad enough that your bed might as well be a revolving door of hussies,” she says. “But, hand to God, Jackson, you will not ruin this article for Pioneer Days.”
I smile and spread my hands.
“Come on, Darlene—”
She puts up a hand to stop me.
“Don’t you come on, Darlene me, Jackson. I’m old enough to be your mother and it don’t work on me. But you keep trying to get into that girl’s pants, that is what this story is gonna be about. It ain’t gonna be about rodeo, or bull riding, or the long proud western traditions of this great country. It’s gonna be about a pervert in a cowboy hat botherin’ a nice young woman, you mark my words.”
“I was just having a little fun,” I say.
“Don’t,” Darlene says. “You want to be a big star, Jac
kson Cody? You want your name in lights and a line of cowboy boots? Then don’t let them write a story about how you hounded a photographer to sleep with you from the moment you met her.”
“She ain’t even the writer,” I say, but I know it’s a losing battle.
“You think he won’t find out?” Darlene says. “That man finds stories for a living, and I guarantee a rodeo star sniffing at that girl’s panties like a hound dog on the scent is a story.”
She looks at me, iron in her eyes, and I know she’s goddamn right.
I watch the news, I read the paper and the glossies sometimes. There’s nothing they like better than tearing someone down. If I keep hitting on Mae, that’s the headline.
I glance at her form, almost to the motel.
She turned me down anyway, I think.
“That’s not the story that Pioneer Days needs written about it,” Darlene says.
Right. It’s not just about me.
“All right,” I say. “I’ll try to behave.”
I sneak another glance after Mae, just as she turns the corner.
Behaving ain’t gonna be easy.
“Bed the bunnies and ride the bulls, Jackson,” she says, squeezing my shoulder in an almost-motherly fashion, though my mother would never say that. “And you leave Mae Guthrie alone.”
I nod once, and Darlene turns around and marches off, probably to order someone else around.
I hate it when she’s right.
Still, I think about the way Mae’s hips move and roll, the sweep of her neck as she looks around. For a moment I think about her hips in my hands, peach wine on her breath as she straddled me that summer night.
She looked a little different back then. She was younger, not so self-assured, and drunk as all get out, but I’ll be damned if I don’t still think about it. Hell, I went back to Buck’s house with the worst case of blue balls I’ve ever had, and I still jerk off thinking about it sometimes.
And now, Lula-Mae Guthrie is practically next door and I can’t have her.
It’s gonna be a rough couple days.
5
Mae
Good Lord, he’s charming.
I don’t look back even once as I cross the parking lot, but I’d swear I can feel his eyes on me as I walk. They’re like a hot breeze slipping through my clothes and caressing me, even though it’s downright chilly in Oklahoma in November. I’m starting to understand what all the buckle bunnies see in him.
