Chapter 5
Maggie
Mad Max the Third spins violently in the arena below me. A rough hand grabs my arm, hauling me off the rails and down to the dirt.
“Shit! The hell was that?” An older guy in a black hat has me in his grip.
I try to shake him off. He snatches my camera from my hand.
“Hey! What are you doing?”
“Flash? Really, been doin’ this long?”
Oh no.
“I—” Oh fuck.
“No flash. Basic fucking rule.” He snaps his gaze at the raging bull tossing the poor cowboy around like a rag doll. “Fuck, Jones.”
He releases me, climbing the rail as the clipboard hits the dirt.
I hug the railing peering through as Jones, or whoever, gets hung up. My heart is in my throat, and I don’t even know the guy. A bullfighter closes in, holding him close to the bull as they try desperately to release his hand from the rope.
“Oh god.”
Dammit, is this my fault? My gut flips, bile crashing up my throat. All I want to do is bolt at seeing another human in trouble because of another of my bad choices. Well, forgetfulness this time, but still. I want out of Dodge, now. Or the ground could swallow me whole, I’m not picky.
A chuckle hits my cheek. I turn to find a cowboy in silver chaps and a black hat. Unlike everybody else, he’s smiling. Everybody else hangs on tenterhooks for the guy still strapped to the manic bull.
This guy is . . . laughing. “First time, hey?”
The vibes from this guy are all wrong. I ignore him, hoping he’ll leave. He props his forearms on the rail and watches as Jones is extracted, finally, from the bull.
“Nice work. Least Jones is off the board for tonight. Not that I needed the help, but thanks.” He winks at me, pushing off the rail and sauntering three chutes down.
Levi finds me, pulling me away from the chute. “Look, I know you’re new, but no flash. Don’t get in the way. Always ask every single cowboy if taking their picture is okay. Got it?” He glares at me.
I guess I deserved that.
“Yes, sir.”
“Sweet Jesus,” he mutters as he walks away.
Um, okay.
Turning back, he calls out, “Welcome to the circuit, Maggie.”
Hats turn, and every cowboy not busy strapping down stares at me.
Guess I deserved that, too.
Heat floods my face.
Straightening my shirt and checking over my camera, I walk to the next chute where a bull rider is getting ready to buck out.
Three Wrangler-clad asses stick out from the guys helping the bull rider onto the animal. How do I . . . I tap the closest cowboy’s boot. When he looks down, I offer a small smile before lifting the camera in lieu of asking the question. He nods and moves over a little.
With shaky hands, I climb the rails again and face the bull rider. “Are you okay with having your picture taken?”
He glances up. His brown hat tilts up.
No helmet.
God, has nobody told him how this will end? My heart hammers.
“Sure, sweetheart.”
I force a smile and flick the flash off before snapping him in action strapping down. These few will look incredible in sepia. The speckled bull under the denim-clad cowboy . . . His brown hat as he looks down over his hand is just—
His head nods in rapid succession and the chute gate flies open.
This time, I watch as he rides with purpose, poise, and strategy as the bull spins, ducks, and turns back.
The digital clock at the end of the chutes flicks over to eight seconds, and he tugs his hand free and practically leaps off the back of the bull.
Landing on his feet, he jogs for the rails as two bullfighters distract the animal, guiding it toward the gate leading back to the holding pens.
“Next chute, Maggie,” one of the cowboys says as he climbs down and makes for the rails holding a huge cream-colored bull.
The guy in the black hat with the attitude stands by the chute, his head bowed. He’s praying?
Good luck to him.
“Are you okay with pictures?” I interrupt his prayer or whatever.
He throws me a glare. At this rate, I’ll have enough to start my own Ye Ole Glare Shoppe. “Sorry, but I have to ask.”
“Now?”
“Yup.” I pop the P and let him stew before he mounts the rails. I wait until he’s over the rail and settling onto the giant cream animal and then follow up the rail where the cowboys have left me space.
“Ten seconds, Maggie.” The words come from a disembodied voice beneath a hat, his hands busy holding the bull rope taut as the guy on the bull rubs his hand up and down it hard and fast. I snap a couple of takes on his hand, then zoom out for the whole cowboy.
His black hat snaps down. Then just like that, he’s out the gate.
He’s vicious.
Taking every thundering twist and turn in his stride as he spurs the bull with his outside leg, his hand high in the air.
“Oh shoot,” a voice drawls from below me.
“Hey!” a man barks.
I turn back to see a bull rider stalking for the chute I’m perched on.
I hesitate for a second, not game to climb down. After a beat, I slide my camera to my side and make my way down. As my feet hit the dirt, he rips his helmet from his head. It bounces when it meets the ground.
“What the actual fuck were you thinking?”
I back up to the chute, but set my shoulders back as I take him in.
His brown hair is a mess. His chocolate brown eyes are homed in on me and burning. The square angle of his jaw is set in a grinding action as he keeps coming, not stopping when he’s in my space. My back hits the rails.
He towers over me. “Well?”
“I—”
“Let it go, Jones,” the older guy with the clipboard growls from two chutes down, pointing said clipboard at the man towering over me.
“You know what you just did?” The cowboy rips at his vest and the Velcro gives way under his ropey forearm. “What you damn well cost me?”
I swallow the stone that rose with his proximity. The scent of man, dirt, sweat, and animal is overwhelming. Pursing my lips, I try to steady each breath. “I’m sure you’re about to tell me.”
His head tilts as he snarls, “Fuck.”
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 migrates from 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 and snap the shot of him and his whiskey and what I imagine are a thousand thoughts.
He looks lost in those.
No flash, only the lightest of clicks . . . as he tilts his head toward me. Brown eyes raise to meet my gaze.
Leaning on the bar, I slip from the stool. My finger depresses the button once more. Annoyed, I pull the strap over my head and pack my equipment away. My art has gotten me in trouble enough for one day.
His head swings back to the glass in front of him. I suck in a lung-stretching breath and walk his way. Hovering, I hesitate, chewing my bottom lip. He has every reason to hate me. I’m not only inexperienced at this type of gig, I could have cost him a lot more than lost points.
The man beside him stands and offers me his seat. I try my best to deflect, but Jones’s brown eyes meet mine from under his black hat. “Sit down.”
“O-okay.” I fumble with my bag, putting it on the bar before shifting it to the floor by my feet. After a moment I rustle up the courage to—
“Hadley Jones.” His hand extends toward me.
I slip mine into it. His wraps around mine so easily.
“Maggie Gallagher, who is very sorry.”
His eyes narrow. “Yep, that’s not going to cut it, I’m afraid.”
He releases my hand like it’s on fire and turns his attention back to his drink.
“Look, I really am sorry about the flash. I didn’t really know.”
“How do you not really know?”
“Well, I mean I forgot, I guess.”
“So you did know, you just forgot.” It’s a statement, not a question. His voice is harsh. Guess he’s not going to forgive me anytime soon. Fair enough.
I shuffle closer, wanting to explain myself. For him not to hate me. Like Levi said, it’s a long season.
“Hadley,” I start. He downs the last mouthful of the amber liquid and stands. Unlike many other cowboys that were behind the chutes today, he isn’t sporting a shiny belt buckle. If I thought he towered over me before, now, sitting here, he’s intimidating as he closes the distance between us.
“To think I was going to give you a break since you didn’t have a clue about the flash. Turns out you’re just hopeless.”
My mouth gapes.
He slams his glass down on the bar beside me. I flinch on the stool. We’re only inches apart. His cologne shrouds my space. My gaze wanders up his freshly shaved neck and jawline.
He’s gorgeous.
A gorgeous asshole.
What is with these fucking cowboys? They’re either all over you or assholes.
I prefer the latter, but still.
“See you around, Gallagher.”
He walks away from the bar, rounding the crowd gyrating to some trending song, then heads for the open field area where the pickups and cars are parked.
Well, that went well.
“Howdy, darlin’,” a voice drawls to my left. “Needin’ some company?”
An old cowboy sways on his seat. He sends a finger into the underside of his hat, pushing it up as he smiles. At least three teeth are missing and he slurs, “Those bull riders are no good, darlin’. You come home with me.”
Hell no.
I’m off the stool so fast, I almost twist an ankle. I need to go back to my van ASAP. I’m not sure I’m cut out to be in this rough redneck world. Once I’m safe inside Betsy, as Mom named her, I’ll flip through my images before I call it a night.
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 door goes 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.