‘That was a mistake,’ I blurt out, glad to say the words, even when I don’t know that I feel them. ‘It shouldn’t have happened.’
His eyes probe mine for a beat, and then, slowly, a smile spreads over his face. ‘If you say so.’
‘I’m serious, Beau.’
‘I know you are, Bailey,’ he teases and leans a little closer. ‘I just happen to think you’re full of it.’
I hate that he sees through me so easily. I look away, staring at the pole across the parking lot, the flag hanging softly, streaked silver by the moonlight.
‘I didn’t come here to become another notch on your bedpost or whatever.’
Even to my ears, the statement sounds prudish and judgemental. I angle my face back to his, daring him with my expression to make a joke of that. He doesn’t.
‘No, you came to get to know me.’
‘To interview you,’ I correct.
‘Same difference.’
I fidget with my fingernail some more.
‘I like you, Bailey. I think you like me too. I reckon it’s okay if we let this thing play out.’
I shake my head quickly—he doesn’t know what he’s talking about. ‘I told you—my career?—’
He nods when I stop talking, letting my concerns taper off into nothing. Then he leans closer, so his voice is a breath against my ear. ‘I love how driven you are, and I understand it. But, Bailey? No one needs to know what happens behind closed doors.’ His hand shifts, so his fingers brush against my wrist. I shiver, despite the balmy warmth of the night. ‘As far as I’m concerned, this is our private business, and no one else’s.’
He’s so persuasive, and I so desperatelywantto be persuaded by him. I want to believe him. But when you’ve been lied to by the man you loved, the man you trusted, it makes it hard to put your faith in anyone, ever again.
I take a step back, a gnawing feeling in the pit of my stomach. ‘Goodnight, Beau. Thanks for the lift.’ I walk into the hotel before I can change my mind, needing to put as much space as possible between Beau Donovan and myself.
For the third time that weekend, I watch Beau on the back of a bull. It’s a final round so just the top competitors take to the field, on some of the meanest—or ‘rankest’, as I’m learning they’re called—bulls. They are huge and fierce. Just looking at them scares the pants off me, so I have no idea how the riders must feel.
I watch from the press area, just like I did on Friday night. Up close to the chutes, so I can see the bulls’ eyes and the rippling of their muscles, hear the gates rattle as the riders climb over them, see the way their hands move over the ropes—pulling tight, testing their grip—note the way they position their bodies, back and forth, until they find true purchase on the bull.
The first rider is thrown in just four seconds. He lands on his back but rolls away quickly, right as the bull is charging at him. Despite the action in the arena, my eyes shift to where Beau’s watching, his expression all shadows and contrast from here. I can only see half of his face and I wish I could see more. Because anytime someone comes off a bull and the bull goes to charge that rider, it must bring back memories for him?
I’ve watched the video of his accident. It’s part of what makes his meteoric rise to the top, second time around, so noteworthy. He was damn near killed by a bull like this, and afterward he retired from the whole sport for years. I have no idea what would possess a man to stare down these creatures again after going through that, but here he is. Impassively watching a rider get tossed to the ground and have a mad-as-hell bull run right at him.
Except, he’s not impassive.
To the untrained eye, he might look that way. Only there’s a tightening in his shoulders, a straightening of his spine, a telltaletapping of his boot against the rails. I glance back to the arena right as the bullfighters are drawing the bull away, containing him in the chutes.
My heart is pounding. I look back at Beau; he hasn’t moved.
The next few riders stay on the bull for the required eight seconds but score low. I make a note to ask Beau about it later. I mean, I get the technical side of scoring—the requirement to dominate the bull, and the bull’s difficulty—but I’m interested in what exactly they did wrong. This round of the rodeo is televised, so I’ll be able to watch it back later too, to get a better understanding of the scoring system.
Beau’s the twelfth rider to take to a bull, and by the time his name is called, anticipation has turned my blood to lava. Or maybe it’s not anticipation, maybe it’s something completely else entirely. Like the dreams that tormented me all freaking night, of him, me, what would have happened if we hadn’t been interrupted …
He eases down into the chute, and from the moment he’s on the bull, the hairs on the back of my neck are standing on end. The local paper’s photographer beside me leans closer but keeps his eyes on Beau. ‘That bull’s gonna get him a shit-ton of points.’
I know what that means.
The worse a bull is, the more points it earns the rider. So this bull that Beau’s on is shit-ton bad. I take a photo of Beau—for the article—then curve my fingers over the metal railing and fight an urge to close my eyes. After only two nights of watching him, Beau’s routine is now familiar to me. The way he pulls on his gloves, then tightens the rope, shifts himself, stares straight ahead, his focus completely on the upcoming ride. I doubt he’seven aware of the stadium full of people watching him. The crowd is as quiet as a crowd this size can be, and it’s kind of eerie in a space this large. The bull stomps, snorts, shakes his head. Beau doesn’t shift his focus. The bull rears back, and the metallic gates of the chute rattle hard. I swallow anOh, holy fuck.
Beau shifts his head decisively, and then the gate opens, the bull slams out. From the moment he tears into the arena, the indignation of the animal is obvious. The sheer, violent fury. He bucks hard—earning those points the photographer mentioned—but Beau bucks right back, his body moving in a fluid line of response to the bull’s. Every muscle in his body seems to echo the movements the bull makes. Somehow, this is his best ride of the three, despite the bull’s brutality. Beau doesn’t look for a second as though he’s afraid, or that he’s not the complete master of this situation.
His free hand is held firm and high the whole time, like he’s riding a wave. For once, the time doesn’t seem to stand still. Eight seconds come and go in a few quick breaths, and then Beau’s tugging his hand out from the rope and jumping down, jogging away from the irate bull, who, sure enough, is bucking and spinning with Beau in his sights.
