9. Augustus
NINE
AUGUSTUS
February 16th, 2014
“Tell me her name.” My frustration is mounting, the bite in my voice obvious to even my ears.
The guy just spits, his blood coated teeth flashing back at me in a sneer. I never expected someone with no skin in the game to be so difficult to break. But I’m quickly realizing he likes the fight—and thinks he will get the upper hand soon.
I don’t think he actually cares about the girl, or about keeping her identity secret. I’m not even convinced he knows who I’m talking about.
But he’s your typical alpha-male, driven by bloodlust and bravado, and I’ve challenged him. Fuck, I’ve nearly beat him, and now I have no hope of getting the answers out of him. Which is a fucking shame.
All I want is her name. But I don’t exactly know a healthy way to express my needs to others. I too am an alpha male, and fists and fucking are the only tools I know how to use to get what I want.
Since I have zero interest in fucking this rat, fists are what I have .
“Fuck. You,” he spits, and I roll my eyes. Sorry big guy, still not my type.
“Let’s try this again. Do you even know the girl I’m talking about? She was here last week with a group of girls, standing in that corner—” I point toward the back corner, near the coffee counter where the group was standing, my girl off to the left. “She was the one with long, golden blonde hair and sad eyes. She didn’t talk much and was stand-offish to the other girls.” The guy stares at the corner, his chest heaving. He had been the man working behind the counter that day, so I know he interacted with her. Or the group of girls, at least. I shake him, his head snapping with the motion.
“No!” he finally snaps, his hands slick with his own blood as he tries to wipe away the stream from his nose. “One pussy is the same as the next. I don’t fucking keep track.”
I close my eyes, oxygen wheezing out of my lungs. I don’t care about women as a general rule—most of them use me as much as I use them, and that’s fine by me—but this scum talking about my girl like that? Like she’s just some girl ? Like she isn’t the greatest thing to ever grace his miserable fucking life?
If his nose wasn’t already broken, I’d break it again. Simply for speaking about her in such a derogatory way.
I’d kill him if he spoke of her in desirable terms, but that’s a point for a different day.
She has me all twisted in knots. And I still don’t know her fucking name.
I shove him to the floor, where his head smacks with a sickening thud. He howls in pain, but I just step over his flailing body. Yet another person in this town who failed to pay attention to the one person who most likely needed them most.
How can so many people have seen her and not know her? How lonely a life that must be; not so different from my own.
But I see her. Awake or asleep, I see her, and I will know her. I will know every single thing about her. I will go to the ends of the world to find her. And when I do, I will brand my name into her heart.
March 1st, 2014
“Are you paying attention to me, Augustus?” McCrae growls the words, and I huff, crossing my arms. He damn well knows the answer to that question. No, McCrae, I don’t give a fuck what you’re saying because I haven’t been able to think about anything other than finding my girl.
It’s consumed every single cell in my body in a way that hurts. I physically feel on fire with my need to find her, every nerve-ending sparking and alive, just beneath my skin. If I don’t find her soon, I will surely burn from the inside out.
“Listen to me Gus, or you’re going to end up hurting yourself in a way you can’t come back from. The horse you drew tonight is ranked in the National standings; he’s vicious—really fucking vicious. And you can’t afford to lose this rodeo. Just because you won the entire stock show a couple months ago, doesn’t mean you will this time. Your horse this time isn’t like the last one.”
I know what he’s saying is logical. But what he doesn’t understand is I don’t care. I want to be done riding. I’m twenty-five years old, for fuck’s sake, but I can’t seem to shake him. I can’t seem to get out from under the weight of needing to please him—to make him proud.
Besides, if I quit riding, what will I do with myself, then? Who will I be if not a bronc rider?
Hers. The thought hits me like a bolt of lightning, and I shiver with the impact of it. Whatever I am, it will be hers at the end of the day. Just as she will be mine. But fuck! I have to fucking find her.
“Are you seriously still thinking about that girl?” His tone is not angry, but instead, holds a note of disbelief. Like he cannot even fathom how I could even remember her by now.
Which, if it was anyone else, I might be able to understand. But with her, it’s different, and even if I want him to, he will never understand my obsession with her.
How I’m already in love with her.
I sigh, the action deflating my chest, and I sit up. “Yes, McCrae. I cannot stop thinking about her.”
His face wrinkles in disgust. “Just fuck someone else and get over it. You have an entire career that is going to go down the drain if you don’t quit this childlike obsession with a girl you don’t even know. It’s pathetic.”
It might honestly be pathetic—I’m mindful enough to know I would probably think the same thing from the outside. But it’s also the most real thing I’ve ever felt.
She’s my way out, my future, my chance at a life and a home. And I won’t give that up no matter how long it takes.
I shake my head, turning back to face the window. No way will he understand. He doesn’t want to.
Right as I am about to turn away, I catch a glimpse of golden hair, and I bolt up, my hand gripping the handle of the truck, my body coiled to jump out and roll at twenty-miles an hour. “Stop the truck.” The wheels continue to turn, and I yank on the door now, pushing it open. “Stop the fucking truck!”
McCrae finally heeds my words, the tires squealing with the effort to halt the thousand pound machine. “What the fuck, Gus?” But I ignore him, unable to tear my eyes away from the shimmering waves of hair and plush curves floating across the crosswalk on the other side of the street.
It’s her.
How is it her? How is she here? How did I find her like this?
And then I remember her comment about seeing me at the stock show last year. Of course, she must know someone here in Denver. But Denver is a giant place, and for me to find her, at a crosswalk of all places, feels more like divine intervention than anything else.
Thank you, God.
I watch her, unable to move or blink or even breath. This moment feels far too fragile to alter in any way. It feels too unreal, and I’m terrified I’m making it up—willing her to appear the way I had back in Moztecha when she had come upon me that night.
Fate. Fate is pushing her toward me again.
But now that I can see her fully, in the warm rays of sunshine, and full light of day, I see how innocent she really is. The world might have made her into this sexual icon, but beneath it all, is a girl who needs to find herself. Who needs to find her place within her world before she has any hope of making a relationship work.
So, even though it kills me, I vow in this moment to let her have her space. She can have relationships—even though the thought of others’ hands on her makes my blood turn to ice—she can move and adventure, and hurt and break, and explore and rebuild until she knows who she is. And I will be there, every step of the way, in the shadows.
And when the moment is right, I will make her mine.
She walks closer to the truck, the vehicles behind us growing impatient, but I’m too sucked into the trance that is her to notice. She shifts, throwing her hair over her shoulder, and I notice the small name tag—the kind you have to wear at a dinner or something—sitting just above her breast.
“Stetson,” I whisper her name, branding it into my brain, and heart , forever. McCrae cusses, the truck lurching forward, but I have what I need now to begin the rest of my life.
You know that moment when your life changes forever and you can see “what might have been” float past like a movie clip? That’s what it feels like right now as I walk into the small tattoo parlor, the faces all turning to take me in.
I’m no doubt a confusing sight.
Not because cowboys can’t get tattoos—hell, it’s a wonder I’ve made it this long without craving the heat of a needle against my skin—but because of what I’m wearing. I’m supposed to be getting on the back of one of the rankest broncs in the National standings right now. I’m supposed to be spurring and hollering and winning . But instead, I’m standing here, in a shady tattoo parlor, still decked out in my vest, cowboy hat and chaps. I still have my riding glove on, already taped around my wrist; I hadn’t even bothered to change.
I couldn’t be bothered to change.
Because I needed to do this, worse than I needed to see tomorrow. Which is a slim chance, knowing how pissed McCrae is going to be.
But it will be worth it.
“Can I help you, cowboy?” The woman’s voice hits me, the magnitude of my choices pressing down on me like a crate of bricks. I nod and take the black cowboy hat from my head, eyeing her.
“I need to get a tattoo,” I state, the words like fire pouring from my lips. “Now, if possible.”
She nods, her pierced brow raising. “I see. Well, we do walk-ins, and lucky for you, you came at a slow time. Curious, though, what’s with the get-up? ”
I roll my shoulders and look back down at my taped, gloved hand. I really do look like a lunatic. I start unwrapping the tape and then look back up at her, slightly embarrassed, but too desperate to stop now. “When you know, you know.”
Something about my words strike her, and she smiles, a silver bar peeking out from beneath her top lip. It’s not my style, but she looks like a badass. And if I am ruining the plans for my future tonight, I’m glad I have a badass here to help make it happen.
“Well, let’s get you ready. You’ll need to take off—” she points at my gear, “whatever that is, before we get started. What do you want and where?”
“A name, and on my leg.” I get the remaining tape off my wrist and yank at the glove.
Her brows raise at that. “A name, huh? Anyone special?”
Her question catches me off guard. Kind of nosy, if you ask me. “Yes.” No sense in lying.
“I only ask because most people would say getting a name on you is bad luck, unless they’re dead. Are they dead?”
Her bedside manner could use some fucking work. But then again, I’m a growly bastard, so what do I know? “No, she’s not.”
“Hmmm.” She swivels in her chair, a thoughtful expression taking over her heavily metaled face. Surely she isn’t going to deny me. They can’t do that, can they? “Are you sure you want to risk ruining what you guys might have by inking yourself permanently?”
I step toward her, her questions making me more and more irritated. And desperate. I just gave up any future I might have had as a bronc rider to get this tattoo. Tonight. Right now. Because it is my new beginning. And she is really questioning me about that? About how serious my intentions are?
She might be a badass, but I’m starting to fucking hate her.
As if hearing my thoughts, she raises her hands in defeat. “ Just want what’s best for you, is all. I’ll do it. Don’t get your nuts in a bunch.” Standing up, she walks around the counter and waves for me to follow her into the back, where the sound of buzzing and quiet chatter fills my ears. “Ever got a tattoo before, cowboy?”
“My name is Gus. And no.”
She whistles, the sound shrill amongst the buzzing. “You’re in for a treat. Now take off that riggin’ stuff and drop your pants.”
“I have a girl,” I start with a snarl, already beginning to unfasten my chaps, but she cuts me off.
“No fucking shit. You’re permanently getting her name on your skin. And by the way, so do I, so glad we can clear the air.”
I bite my lip and silently curse myself for assuming she was into me. She doesn’t look like the type that would be. But Stetson has my mind all fucked up, and I don’t know up from down anymore. I sigh raggedly, pulling my pants off, and prop myself on the table. “Sorry, I just have made some major life-altering choices to get to this point tonight.”
She snaps her gloves on and then snorts. “Lucky girl. Now, any font you want this in, or can I freehand it? I have pretty good writing skills—” She points toward some samples on the wall.
I shake my head. They’re good, her talent not at all the problem. “I want it in my own handwriting.”
“Fuck, why didn’t you just carve it into your skin with a knife?”
“Trust me, if I could reach the spot I want it at, I would have.”