“Exactly,” Wyatt says, reading my silence. “So tonight, you’re going to do something totally ridiculous.”
“I am not getting on that thing.”
“We’ll see.”
The mechanical bull gets set up in the corner where they’ve pushed back tables and laid down thick padding. Tommy, the operator, is a guy who looks to be in his forties and has a handlebar mustache and the kind of enthusiasm usually reserved for rodeo announcers.
“Who’s first?” he calls out.
Immediately, three guys volunteer.
I watch from the safety of the bar as customer after customer climbs on. Most last less than thirty seconds. A few make it to forty-five, and everyone ends up on the mat, laughing.
It actually looks a little fun, in a terrifying, potentially humiliating kind of way.
“Your turn,” Presley says.
“Absolutely not.”
“Come on!”
“Presley, I’m thirty-four years old. I’m not riding a mechanical bull in front of half of Copper Creek.”
“Why not?”
“Because I have dignity.”
“Boring,” someone yells from the crowd, and I realize half the bar is now listening to this conversation.
“Eleanor, Eleanor, Eleanor!” The chant starts somewhere and spreads like wildfire through The Rusty Spur.
I look at Wyatt, who’s watching me with an expression of pure challenge.
“Scared,” he mouths.
That does it.
“Fine,” I announce loudly. “Fine. But when I break something, you’re all witnesses.” I point my finger at everyone.
The bar erupts in cheers and applause.
I make my way to the bull on shaky legs. This is absolutely insane. I’m wearing dark jeans and a black fitted T-shirt I bought at the local clothing store that seemed professional enough for bar work, but definitely was not designed for mechanical bull riding.
Tommy helps me climb on. Up close, the thing is much bigger and more menacing.
“First time, I assume?” he asks.
“That obvious?”
“You’ve got the look. Don’t worry. I’ll start easy. Just grip tight with your thighs, hold on with one or both hands, your choice, and try to move with it instead of fighting it.”
“I’ve never ridden anything in my life. Like, not even a horse.”
“Well, then today’s your lucky day,” he grins. “Ready?”
I grip the handle with both hands, and I don’t care if it’s proper technique. I just want to survive. I’m not ready to die yet.
The bull starts moving, slowly at first, a gentle rocking motion.
