5. Rosie
When I pull up to my deteriorating apartment complex, I park in my usual spot. I try to avoid the potholes in the parking lot, but my car jostles into one anyway. My teeth chatter as I jog up to the third floor, looking over my shoulder every few steps to see if anyone unseemly has entered the vicinity.
Verbal harassment at this complex isn’t unusual, so getting in and out quickly is ideal. When I get closer to my door, I gasp at the sight of a shadow standing nearby.
“Shit, Mom, you scared me.”
My mother turns, her auburn hair in a bun on top of her head. She has streaks of makeup down her face.
“Rose, darling, I’m so glad you’re finally home. Your father spent the night with another hooker.”
I sigh, leaning up against the doorjamb as I insert my key. “Let’s go inside to talk.”
Once I get the stubborn, rusted lock to twist, I shove open the rickety door. No matter what I do, the inside always smells like leftover cigarette smoke from the previous tenant’s nicotine habit. I’ve tried every deodorizing spray, bleached the walls, and steam-cleaned the carpet. It still hangs around like an unwelcome houseguest.
My mom follows me inside, shutting the door behind her. She doesn’t dead bolt it, so I move around her and secure the lock.
“This isn’t the Hilltop Heights, Mom.”
The gated community my parents live in is extravagant, to say the least. The entry has a twenty-four-hour security guard.
“I am just disgusted with him and his gross need to stick his dick inside every willing girl in La Pradera. It’s like he doesn’t have a single shred of self-control!”
My mom moves to set her oversize handbag on my small round table. The legs wobble as she pulls out a bottle of vodka, twisting off the top.
I sigh, kicking off my tennis shoes to give my aching feet room to breathe. I worked all day, cleaning and cooking at Redford Ranch. The tension in my shoulders is more stiff than usual, probably because I was under the watchful eye of the eldest Redford brother, who seems to have a stark disapproval for my employment at the ranch.
My mom makes herself at home in my little kitchen while I grab the plush throw blanket from the basket and curl up on the corner of my sofa. I might not have the nicest place to live, but I will always splurge on cozy blankets.
After pouring herself some vodka over ice, she sits on the other end of the sofa with a big sigh. I would tell her to leave him, get a divorce and her own place, move on with her life and start healing, but I know it would fall on deaf ears. I’ve told her the same thing many times. I’ve realized that she just needs me to listen to her rant. She needs someone to care that she’s in pain even though it’s becoming increasingly difficult to hear the same story over and over and elicit a compassionate response.
Her eyes pool up with tears. “I know what you’re going to say. I know what I need to do. I’m just … I’m too old now. I’m turning fifty this year, Rose. I can’t get a job. I can’t date. I can’t start over. I still love your father.”
She exhales before taking a long sip of the pure alcohol.
“You can sleep in my bed tonight. I like the couch better anyway.” I scoot closer to her, sharing my blanket with her and wrapping my arm around her slim shoulders. It’s all I know to do.
My mother was a pageant queen in her early twenties. Sheri Belle was crowned the most beautiful woman in Kowata County five years in a row and once as Miss Texas in ’97. My father proposed to her that night, right after she walked off the stage, while she was still wearing her crown and sash.
“I really don’t think I could even get a job if I tried. What would I do? Work at the Walmart in Elmott? Become a night stocker at the gas station?”
She starts shaking and crying silently. I squeeze her shoulders tighter.
Once, when I was fifteen, I called her, ugly-crying, to come pick me up from school because I’d been cut from the cheerleading team. She scolded me at pickup, reprimanding me with a harsh reminder that we only cry when we absolutely have to, in private, and even then, we keep our grief quiet.
I’ve never heard my mother cry out loud, and I’ve never been able to cry out loud since.
“It’sthe second-best day of the year, Rosie! We’re making enchiladas.”
Dolly’s eternal good mood seems to still be with us. She’s always been an optimist, but since Holden’s release, it’s like she’s on Prozac. She canceled the welcome-home party at his request. We’ve been cooking big meals every night.
“What’s the second-best day of the year?” I ask.
“Bull testing day! Holden’s release is the first best, obviously.” She pulls a nine-by-thirteen pan out of the cabinet before gathering up ingredients.
“I’ve actually never been here for bull testing day.”
Dolly’s mouth drops open as her eyes grow wide. “Oh, honey, you’re going to love it. They’re flushing out the real competitive, money-making bulls from the duds. They could use weighted dummies to test them, but the ranch hands and my brothers just prefer to risk their lives instead. After we get the food in the oven, we’ll go watch with popcorn and mimosas.”
I laugh, nodding my agreement. “I can’t turn that down.”
We work quickly, making homemade chicken and beef enchiladas. I don’t mind cooking, but baking is my preference. Dolly loves it all. She was made to be barefoot in a giant ranch kitchen. I’ve tried to encourage her to write a cookbook because she’s always creating new recipes.
“Okay, I’ll just set the timer on my phone so we can go out to the arena,” Dolly says after we put the big pans of enchiladas into the oven.
I already made us popcorn and filled our tumblers with champagne and orange juice. We put on our boots on the back porch—a very necessary step before venturing out to the muddy arena, our arms filled with our snacks.
“It poured rain last night. I know they’re all going to be filthy. Installing the outdoor shower was the best decision I ever made for this place.” Dolly leads the way over to the enormous red barn. We walk through it, passing the stacks of hay bales and bags of cow feed piled up.
Every time I’m in here, I inevitably flashback to when I walked in on Holden and Madi in an unseemly position in the hay. I’ve tried to forget everything that happened that night, but it’s forever burned into my memory, like a recurring nightmare I can’t escape.
Dolly is speed-walking ahead of me, eager to get to the arena. We’re both wearing high-waisted jeans, but I have on a red tank top with an unzipped gray hoodie over it, and she’s wearing a pale blue sweater. We’re nearly the same size, except my boobs are a few cup sizes bigger than hers. We share whatever clothes we can both fit into.
We hear them before they come into view, hoots and hollers in male voices filtering through the barn doors. I push open the heavy sliding door, the mid-morning light illuminating the scene before us.
Mud is caked on the hide of the animal in the middle of the oval-shaped arena. The cowboy currently riding the bull gets thrown off, flying into the air before he lands on the muddy, trampled ground.
Dolly is still leading me quickly over to the raised platform that overlooks the main area of the bulls and their riders. Cash is up on the platform already with Mr. Redford—Pops. Cash is making marks in a notebook, clearly not having taken his turn on a bull, as his jeans, boots, and button-down shirt are still clean. The tattoo that covers his entire arm and hand is peeking out beneath his sleeve. Pops is smoking a cigarette, but he smiles at me and his daughter when we climb the last iron stair.
“Hey, ladies. Come to see the boys get their asses kicked?”
Dolly hugs her dad’s neck before pulling a bench closer to the railing. She pats the seat next to her, and I plant my butt on it.
“Who’s up next? Any good bulls this season?” Dolly asks.
“Got a couple winners. Ain’t seen many yet,” Cash replies, clearly focused on making his notes. He never says much.
I pop a piece of popcorn into my mouth, shading my eyes from the glaring sunlight to see who’s riding next.
Cash stands up, leaning against the iron rail. “You sure you’re ready for the big boy, brother? Been a while.”
My eye catches the broad, toned shoulders of the next rider climbing up onto the copper-colored hide of a massive bull. These animals weigh upward of two thousand pounds, and they’re trained and bred to be aggressive and deadly. The ones they ship off for the Pbr are tame compared to the ones they rent out to The Riders.
I glitch for a second when Holden removes his black cowboy hat and gives it to a ranch hand before peeling off his muddy T-shirt and tossing it over the nearest fence railing. He takes the hat back, placing it back on his head. He glances up at the platform, almost black eyes making brief eye contact with me, before his steely gaze flicks over to Cash’s. He settles down on the bare back of the bull.
“Wanna bet on it? I’ll stay on this fucker for eight seconds, first try.”
Cash chuckles, shaking his head. Holden looks back down as he wraps the rope that’s tied around the bull around his hand. His shoulder muscles ripple with each movement. My mouth waters involuntarily. The taut planes of his abs are smeared with mud, so it must not be his first ride.
Abs, shoulders, back muscles …
Holden’s body is shockingly chiseled for how big he is. All six foot three inches of him is packaged to perfection, complete with fit Wrangler jeans, mud caked on his upper thighs, and sweat dripping down the center of his chest.
His height and size have always been intimidating, but in the three and a half years since I last saw him, he’s noticeably bigger, stronger, and scarier.
Well, he’s an ex-prisoner now. You should be scared of him.
Holden dips his cowboy hat, signaling that he’s ready to ride. They open the gate, releasing the animal. I hold my breath as I watch him being spun around by the bull. He holds one hand in the air, the other tied to its back, muscles tensed and rippling with each twist of the animal’s body that Holden seems to follow naturally, like he was bred for it the same way the bull was. His ancestry is all cowboy, so I guess he kinda was.
The thrill of watching a bull rider is something I’ve felt down in my bones since I was a little girl. Growing up in a small Texas town, surrounded by ranches overflowing with cowboys, I’ve seen my fair share of rides, both in official competitions and the unofficial ones.
Dolly gasps as the buzzer goes off right when Holden loses his balance, half falling, half jumping off into the mud. He lands on his knees, but the bull suddenly spins around, feet kicking up right in his face. His body jerks backward from the force of the blow.
My heart drops into my stomach, which cramps tightly as Dolly screams beside me.