He turns back, fists curling. Pacing a tight circle, he glances at me, again and again. A heartbeat passes before he’s back in my space. “Stay the fuck away from me.”
I tilt my chin up, meeting his steely gaze with my own that took a little too long to find. “So, no more photos?”
An incredulous look sweeps over his expression. “You?—”
I tentatively lift the camera, I can’t even help myself. Every angle of him is stunning. His body is alive with tension. I would call this shot “Rugged and Raging.” Or something equally ridiculous. But to have it...
No, Maggie. Not appropriate.
I lower the camera and give him my best ‘I’m so sorry I got you hung up on a rabid bull’ face. “Look, I?—”
“Build a bridge, Jones.” Clipboard man stops what he’s doing, moving closer than before as his gaze alternates between us.
The bull rider flings a hand up between us a second before he spins on his heel and stalks away.
“I’m sorry!” I call out, but he disappears around the rails out of sight.
Great start, Maggie.
Just great.
I photograph the rest of the bull riding sections and decide to grab a bite to eat when the rodeo wraps up and the night’s entertainment starts, a live band set up on the back of a semi with party lights and enormous speakers. The crowd migratesfrom the stands to the after-party. Not much of a party person, I order one drink and sit, people watching, camera still in hand.
“Well, you’ve had an eventful first night,” a low voice hums. I turn to find the older guy, sans clipboard, as he drops onto the barstool by mine.
Releasing a lame chuckle, I drop my gaze to my drink. “Some would say disastrous. I prefer your choice of words.”
“He’ll get over it. Hell, at least you didn’t end up on a gurney like the last photographer.”
My mouth pops open. “What?”
Now he chuckles. “Got in the way. Bull sorted her out. Happens a lot around here.”
I wince. “Is the bull rider who got hung up okay?”
“Jones? Ask him yourself.” The man nods to a seat down at the end of the bar. The hung-up cowboy sits with a glass tumbler in hand, swirling amber liquid.
Oh . . .
“I don’t think I’m allowed in his space, so...”
“I doubt he’ll hold you to it.”
A blush creeps up my neck, flushing my face for some ungodly reason. I decide to change the subject. “Sorry, I didn’t catch your name earlier.”
“Levi. Arena manager, at least for the foreseeable future.”
“Oh, are you leaving?”
“Not voluntarily.”
“Oh.” Is that all I know how to say? God, I’m a blubbering idiot.
Levi glances at Jones. “Why don’t you two hash it out? It’s a long season.” He downs the drink the bartender brings before tipping his hat and walking into the dancing crowd.
I spin a little on my stool. Jones’s attention is drowning somewhere in the bottom of his glass. I raise the camera andsnap the shot of him and his whiskey and what I imagine are a thousand thoughts.
He looks lost in those.
