“What are you doing, Garth?” she’d asked, giving me a careful but a genuine smile.
“Stealing you away,” I’d replied.
“Jesse’s coming right back.” She’d sounded like she was putting up an argument for why the whole last dance thing wasn’t a good idea, but her body wasn’t. She kept coming with me, her hands planted in mine.
When we’d reached the middle of the floor, I drew her close and looked her in the eyes. “Finders keepers.”
That night, that dance, that girl . . . had messed me up something fierce. In good ways, but mostly in bad ways. I had to watch the girl I’d grown up wanting be happy and in love with my best friend. The three of us still hung out, but nothing was the same after that dance. For Jesse and Josie, for Jesse and me, and for Josie and me as well. Everything changed in one night, and all I remember thinking was how badly I wanted to go back in time to the first time I set eyes on her on that bus and blurt, Choose me. Be mine. I know we’re only in kindergarten, but promise you’ll go with me to Homecoming our freshman year. Be happy and find love with me.
Those were the thoughts I was lost in when the chute flew open. Bluebell threw me with his first buck out of the gate. At least when I hit the ground, it was on my left side. My right side had already taken so many blows, I would be black and blue. I muttered a curse, sat up, and threw my hat. I’d gone from staying on four seconds last month to barely staying on two this month. Eight seconds of glory was not my friend.
“You spend any more time rolling in the dirt, and you’re going to turn into a pig,” Jason hollered from his perch on the fence.
I wanted to introduce him and his smiling pretty-boy face to my left hook, but I’d worked too hard lately to ruin it. Jason wasn’t worth it. Since I couldn’t let my fists do the talking, I let my talking take the jabs. “I thought your mom and sister already told you—I am a pig.” I lifted a brow and grinned cockily.
Shooting me a scowl, Jason leapt down and followed the other guys leaving the arena. “Excuse us, Black. The real bull riders are going to get a few drinks before getting laid.”
“Just so you know,” I hollered after him while standing, “your hand and imagination don’t qualify as getting laid!”
I knew he heard me, but he didn’t reply. Probably because I was right. That guy was getting laid about as frequently as I was lately. Which was a whole lotta nada. When I’d told Jesse how long I’d gone without sex after promising him I was up to the task—mostly—of being his best man, he was silent for a whole ten seconds before breaking into a fit of laughter that went another ten seconds. I guess me going weeks without getting laid was one of the funniest things he’d ever heard, but I wasn’t laughing. Neither was my dick.
“You want me to fetch you a bandage? Maybe an aspirin? A tissue?” Will crossed the arena, shaking his head. “It looks like you need all three, but all I really want to give you is a swift kick in the ass.”
“Your damn bull’s inflicted enough damage, so it’s only fair you have a go at me, too. Take your best shot.” I patted my ass at Will.
“As much as I’d love to kick it, I’d rather see that ass of yours stay on a bull for a whole eight seconds. Hell, I’d settle for the old four-second routine you had going a few weeks back.”
“And I’m paying you good money why? Coach,” I added with some sarcasm.
“To make what used to be a good bull rider into a fucking great one.”
“Hoorah,” I grumbled with a weak salute. I’d been a decent bull rider, but I wasn’t anywhere close to “good” anymore. If Will thought “great” was even an option for me, he’d been knocked in the head too many times.
“Son, you can be as big a smart-ass as you want, but it doesn’t change the fact that you came to me because you know I can help you be better.” I dusted myself off and lifted my eyebrows. Will chuckled. “Well, and you came to me because, in my day, I was one of the best. You don’t become the best without learning from one of them, right?”
“It seems the only title I’m capable of winning after training with the best is ‘the worst.’”
Will seldom found my humor funny. And by seldom, I meant never. His face ironed out. “Any time you’re ready to shut up and let me do what you’re paying me to do, I’m ready.” I clamped my mouth shut and waited. “You’re one hell of a rider. That’s as obvious as it is that you’ve convinced yourself you’re not. You come from good stock. Your daddy and his daddy before him were championship riders until a couple of accidents and a whole hell of a lot of booze got in their ways.”
“Thank you for bringing up the family tree. Always a thrill hearing about the line of assholes I came from.”
Will stuck his finger into my chest and then my face. “The point I’m trying to get through your thick head is that you’ve got bull riding in your blood. That’s a point in your corner these others pretenders would sell their soul for.” After tapping me a few more times, he leaned back a bit. “But that’s not where your talent stops. You’re a hard worker, and you’ve got an intuition that few people in this sport have. I saw you ride back when you used to still be on top of that bull when the buzzer went off. You moved before the bull did every time, like you knew exactly what that animal would do a split second before he did. You have the intuition. You’ve got the golden ticket. It’s a hell of a shame you seem to have lost it.”
My mind went to a dark place. “I have a knack for losing things.”
“Listen, son, I don’t have a psychology degree, and even if I did, you’re not paying me to work on your head. You’re paying me to keep you on that bull, but in my professional opinion”—I gave Will a look. Professional opinion . . . no psychology degree, my ass. Will tapped my temple—“you need to fix whatever’s going on up in there before you’ll get back to your eight seconds of glory.”
“If I spend all of my time fixing what’s wrong up here”—I drilled my finger into my temple—“I’ll be dead of old age before I’m on a bull again.”
Will nodded, studying me. “It’s like you’re restless, son. So damn restless you can’t even manage to stay in the same spot for eight seconds. Whatever it is or whoever it is that’s messing with your head, you either need to let it go or grab hold of it. Once you figure that out, you’re going to be unstoppable. You’ve got what it takes. It’s in your blood and you’ve put the sweat and tears into it, so don’t let that God-given and God-taken ability go without a fight. Find that thing or that person that puts you at peace, and you’ll remember how to stay on the bull again.” Will went from straight-up preaching to turning his back and heading out of the arena.
“Thanks for the gentle, not-at-all confusing words of wisdom!” I shouted. “Doctor Will.”
He didn’t reply. He didn’t stop. He’d said what he needed to and kept going. I was ready to pack up my gear and get the hell out of there so I could get back to the Gibsons’—and Josie’s and my bedtime ritual—when a loud rattling from a certain bull that’d worked its way into one of the chutes changed my plans.
After retrieving my hat from across the arena, I marched toward Bluebell with determination and a steely glare that damn bull returned. I didn’t know who hated the other more, me or Bluebell, but the hate feelings were definitely mutual. I hadn’t made it to the underbelly of life by making good choices. However, I hadn’t made it to the underbelly of life alive by making really bad choices either. What I was about to do might have qualified as a really bad choice, though.
But right then, I didn’t care. All I could think about was me, a bull, and eight seconds.
Someone had left the gate from the holding pen to the chutes open, explaining how Bluebell had made his way into one of them. What I couldn’t explain was why he chose to go into one. All of the bulls needed at least some—or a lot of—encouragement to slide into the chutes. But Bluebell . . . hell, the bull had worked its way into one of its own accord, and he practically had a smile on his frothy, ugly mug. Damn bulls. If they weren’t p
art of the deal, I’d want nothing to do with a single one of them.
Sliding my hat on, I climbed the gate and managed to work the bull strap back into position. God, I was an idiot. Bull riding might be an individual sport, but it required a team of people to actually carry out. Mainly because it took everything the rider had just to stay on. Forget about throwing open the gate, prodding the bull out if it needed it, distracting it when the cowboy flew off, and coaxing it down into the holding pen. I’d been told more than once that I had the ego of ten men and the stupidity of twenty. Let’s hope the ego was riding that night, not the stupidity.
Bluebell snorted as I crawled on. Once I had a good grip, I grabbed the rope that opened the gate and got ready to pull it. Before I did that, I cleared my head. It took a few seconds, long enough for Bluebell to let out another series of snorts, but finally, my head was empty. No dreams, thoughts, or memories of Josie. I was Josie free. Time to ride. I pulled the gate at the same time I opened my eyes. The first thing I saw when they opened? Josie. The second thing I saw? The floor of the arena.
I hit hard. Harder than the times before, and I’d barely made it out of the gates. I’d gone from bad to being an insult to the sport.
“Holy shit! Please tell me you’re not dead!”
I wasn’t sure which was more comforting: knowing I hadn’t conjured up some imaginary Josie or that I still had use of my legs. “Not dead. Not yet.” I spit out more dirt as I sat up.
“Not paralyzed, mortally wounded, or internally bleeding either?” Josie stood across the arena on the other side of the fence with a look of horror on her face. She’d seen me ride plenty, but riding a bull was a hell of a lot different than cartwheeling off of one.
“Now, Joze, why would you be so concerned about me being paralyzed? Is there something of mine you might be interested in keeping in good working order?” Even giving her a tilted grin hurt. Once I finally managed to stay on that bull for eight seconds, I would eat Bluebell steak for a straight year.
“I can tell you what I wouldn’t mind no longer being in such fine working order,” she replied with a tight smile. “That part of you you think is a sense of humor. It’s not funny. Or cute. Or even ironic. So give it a rest.”
Josie and I’d been together for two weeks, or we’d been together trying to figure out if we could make it work “together,” and as much as she was a pain in my ass sometimes and I was a pain in her ass all the time, I was glad that part of us hadn’t changed. Giving each other a hard time was the only constant in our years of knowing each other. Well, I’d had one other constant, but I wasn’t ready to share that with her just yet.
“Whatever you say, Joze.” Gritting my teeth, I got my knees beneath me and struggled to a stand. For a notoriously tough son of a bitch, I was sure taking a beating. I felt like one of my ribs might have been cracked, but that was as frequent an occurrence as anyone else stubbing their big toe. Josie must have seen the pain somewhere in my eyes or expression because in one swift movement, she was climbing the fence and throwing her leg over.
“Hold it for one hot second!” I yelled, rushing toward her. Cracked rib be damned. “Would you please think twice before leaping into an enclosed area where the orneriest, meanest bull this side of Montana is wandering around?” I glanced at Bluebell—who was just standing down a ways, not in a hurry to go into the holding pen—staring at me with those black beady eyes. I hated that bull. “Go on! Get going!” I clapped and took a few steps in Bluebell’s direction, hoping to encourage him to get going. All he did was stare before tilting his head. On top of being mean, bulls were stupid, too. That’s why people ate those critters and didn’t keep them as pets. “Go! Come on, get out of here!” I banged on the side of the fence, but it did a whole lot of nothing.
Josie’s hand grabbed my shoulder, and she gave it a gentle squeeze. I’m not sure if it had been her intention, but it silenced me. Looking at Bluebell, Josie waved her hand. “Shoo.” One sweet word, one soft wave, and that bull did a one-eighty. It jogged down the arena until it ended in the holding pen.
Shaking my head, I headed down to close the holding pen gate. “I didn’t know you were a bull whisperer.”
“You should have,” she replied.
“Why’s that?”
“You haven’t managed to run me off like you have everyone else, have you?”
I double-checked the gate to make sure it was closed before heading back to her. “And you’re saying that’s because of your bull-slash-Garth whispering skills?”
“That’s one of the many reasons, yeah.” She finishing crawling over the top of the fence and jumped down.
“And the others?”
“Too many to list,” she said, coming toward me with that concerned look.
“I’m okay. Really,” I added when she didn’t look convinced.
“I guess this explains how you’ve been getting so banged up.” Stopping in front of me, Josie investigated my face with a grimace. Probably because it was coated with mud, blood, and sweat. “I was starting to worry you’d found a woman to fulfill your sadomasochism fantasy. At least I can put my mind at ease about the other woman part.”
“And the other part?”
She ran her eyes down me then back up. The rest of my body matched my face. “The sadomasochism part is pretty obvious, but it’s just as obvious the bull is taking it out on you, not some woman.” I threw a glare toward Bluebell down in the pen. “What are you doing here, Garth? Why didn’t you tell me?” Josie grabbed my hat and dusted if off before replacing it.
“You didn’t ask.”
“I didn’t ask because I assumed you were working late at Willow Springs. I was heading into town just now, and guess whose truck I saw parked outside of Will Jones’s bull-training arena.”
“You seemed surprised. I’m a bull rider. I ride bulls. Why is it so shocking that I’d be training at a bull-riding facility?” I wasn’t upset by her questions, just as she wasn’t upset by my responses. We were merely curious.
“I don’t know. I just thought with your dad dying, and what happened to him bull riding”—she crossed her arms and shrugged—“I thought you didn’t want the same kind of life.”
“What does my dad’s life and how he chose to live it have to do with mine?” I grabbed her hand and led her toward the chute. I had to get my things, and then I was out of there. I’d seen more than enough of that arena for one night.
“Just that you’re twenty-one, riding bulls, and drink like a fish.” I lifted my eyebrows, making her shake her head. “You used to drink like a fish—all of two weeks ago. I mean, your dad and mom had you pretty much just out of high school, right?”
I nodded before sliding out of my protective vest. They’d been high school sweethearts, minus the sweet part. Well, and minus the heart part, too. They’d been something, and their something had created me. I was a preschooler by the time Clay could walk into a bar and order a beer.
“And Clay was close to your age when that bull busted his leg up, right?”
I nodded once more, tugging off my gloves. I didn’t like where she was going. I didn’t like being compared to Clay, and while I knew Josie wasn’t doing it out of malice, that she was comparing us made me uneasy. I never wanted to be compared to Clay, unless it was to say I was totally opposite. That Josie, the person I cared about most in the world, was comparing us made my stomach turn. “Yeah, you’ve got Clay Walker’s life story down. He was born, he got his girlfriend knocked up, and I was the result. He was a high school dropout at eighteen. A bull over in Bozeman came down so hard on his leg it shattered, ending his bull riding career and, to him, his whole life. Fast forward a couple of decades, and he died inside of a white-trash trailer because he was so passed-out drunk the whole thing going up in flames around him didn’t rouse him.” I’d managed to keep my voice calm, but I punched the metal gate at the end. Too much emotion charging through me.
Josie grabbed the hand I’d just used to punch the gate and
sighed when she saw a couple of the knuckles open and bleeding. “How are you doing with that? You haven’t said anything since Clay’s funeral. You do know I’m here whenever you need to talk to someone? You know I want to be that person you come to when you have to talk to someone, right?”
Josie dabbed the sleeve of her shirt against my knuckles before I could pull it away. I didn’t want to ruin her nice clothes. “I certainly don’t miss dodging whiskey bottles or fists, that’s for sure.”
Josie brought my fist to her mouth and kissed it. “But what about the other things? Isn’t there something you miss?”
“There wasn’t anything else to miss.”
“Garth—”
I gave my head a swift shake. “No. You’ve known me for long enough to know I’m not the person who likes to talk this kind of shit out. I accept the hand I’ve been dealt, I deal with it, and I move on. I don’t miss something or someone when they’re gone. I move on.”
The skin between her eyebrows came together. “What about me? You wouldn’t miss me if I was gone?” Her voice was almost sad.
Whatever I was feeling made sad look like a newborn lamb. I lifted my hand to her cheek. It was the only clean part of me thanks to my gloves. “I’ve been saving up all my missing for you.”
“Planning on leaving me after all, aren’t you?” That she didn’t sound or look surprised broke my heart.
“No, I’m certainly not planning on it. But no matter what happens, no matter how long or how far we take this thing, one day we’re going to be separated. Whether that’s because I did what I do best and screwed things up. Or whether another guy came riding in and stole you away. Or whether death separates us. One day, it’ll happen . . . and because I know that day is coming, I’m glad I’ve saved up all my missing for you. Because I’m going to need every last ounce of it when you’re gone, Joze. Every last ounce.” I smiled at her, feeling like a damn fool for saying what I just had. It was true, but I wasn’t the kind of guy who said that kind of truth.