There should be some great ones in this lot, hopefully...
Hopeless.That’s what Hadley called me.
It burns. After the debacle with my portfolio, I’m half inclined to believe him. Maybe this life isn’t something I’m capable of.
Rounding the last row of cars, I track for the old oak I parked Betsy under. An old-school two-toned Chevy pickup sits in front of the tree. Whoever is inside it lies on the bench seat, their socked feet sticking out of the window. The windows, illuminated by what I imagine is their phone screen, are already fogged up. The night air is still crisp for March.
Clearing my throat, I round the tailgate and cross the ground to Betsy. I unlock the side sliding door and climb in. Rubbing my hands together, I drop onto my small bunk on one side of the van. The other is lined with a small kitchenette type setup and a lidded box that opens up to a storage space for clothes.
Showers and toilet, I have to make sure I park near to. Otherwise, me and Betsy have got this traveling gig down to a fine art. And it’s only been a week. I change into my warm pajamas and snuggle under the covers before turning the camera on and connecting it to my laptop.
I flick through each bull rider, yawning as I go. It’s been a long day. Intense, with the flash going off and all.
I flick to the second to last photo. Hadley at the bar.
That jawline of his is the focal point of the shot. This one image alone could win awards... If only he’d looked over at the right second.
Deciding I’ve done enough, I shut the laptop and shift my gear to the small table between my bunk and the kitchenette.
I sweep the cream curtain away from the sliding door window as the light in the cabin of the pickup truck next doorgoes out. The guy steps out of the truck, tugging his shirt over his head, running a hand through his dark hair. His biceps flex, sending his corded forearm upward and fingers through the back of his hair.
Oh fuck . . .
His jeans drop and he steps out, down to his boxers. I jump back from the window and slap a hand over my mouth.
He walks to the back of his truck in only boxers... In this crisp night air?
Tugging the tailgate down, he jumps into the back of the pickup in one smooth move.
Holy hell, he’s fit.
My mouth is gaping. Knowing my luck, I’m probably drooling.
I clear my throat as quietly as possible and duck down a little, like that will help keep me hidden as I low-key stalk the cowboy in the pickup next to me.
He lies in what I assume is his swag or some kind of bedding and the tray lights up briefly. I’m guessing he has his phone?
The light snaps out.
He has the right idea. It’s definitely bedtime.
I lay in my tiny bed, trying to ignore the hot guy in the truck mere feet away and find a way to make it up to Hadley Jones. After an hour of tossing and turning I come to a conclusion—if anyone needs to apologize...
It’s him.
