4. Wilder
4
WILDER
JONESBORO, ARKANSAS — APRIL
“Y ou’re not going to stop calling me ‘Charlie,’ are you?”
The flaring green of her eyes matches the annoyance in her voice, ensnaring me as her fingers continue to play with my hair. I don’t think she realizes she’s still doing it, but it feels so good that I have to bite back a moan. Everything about Charlotte feels good. The softness of her curves against me; the perkiness of her tits brushing against my chest is like the worst kind of tease. The heat of her body radiates into my palms, where I have them resting just above her ass and the curve of her hip. The hint of peach hits me when her black braids sway as she yells at me. I inhale deeper. The scent smells like her: strong at first, almost overpowering, but there’s a softness underneath the delicate floral undertones.
“Probably not,” I admit, shrugging. Her lips part in protest, but I push at her hip, my arm trailing under the length of hers before catching her hand to spin her out and back to me. She lands against my chest ungracefully, her feet wobbling for a moment before I hold her tighter, righting her and keeping her closer than she was before. I like her here, especially when she glides her hands up my chest to loop around my neck once more. The soft, tender way she moves contradicts the look she gives, eyes narrowed just slightly and plush lips pressed into a thin line. The tail of a braid sits atop the swell of her right breast. I lift the black strands tied together with the fiery-colored ribbon, toying with the bow as I drape it back behind her shoulder, letting my hand drag down her back before resting it on her hips again.
“I’ll stop if you really want me to,” I tell her. “I can’t promise it won’t be replaced by a different—potentially more awful nickname—but if you hate Charlie, consider it gone.”
Charlotte’s breath is sweet as she huffs an exhale, eyes rolling before she sucks her lower lip between her teeth. I flex my fingers to keep from pulling it free.
“It’s fine,” she relents after another moment. I watch closely to see if she’s lying, but her fingers have started in the ends of my hair again. A smirk spreads, and the green of her eyes lights with laughter. “Given the events of tonight, you don’t strike me as someone who makes the best decisions. I’d hate to see what would happen if you had to come up with something else to call me.”
“It wouldn’t be that bad,” I say. The couples around us have shifted apart, the song switching to something faster with a stronger bass. But I don’t let Charlotte go, and she doesn’t step away. Maybe she doesn’t notice the new melody. Maybe she likes being in my arms. Maybe I like having her here, too. “We could make a game of it until we find something just right.”
“That would mean subjecting myself to being around you even more.”
“Song’s over, Charlie. Nothing’s keeping you with me now—except you.” I’m not sure why I say it because I want her here.
It’s an unfamiliar feeling for me. Normally, I don’t have to chase after a woman; they tend to be here when I show up. Wearing denim so tight I have a preview of what will be wrapped around me after a couple of drinks and some sweet talk. It’s fun and easy. The routine is almost a comfort because it means I don’t spend my night alone, and my ego stays perpetually fed. Big & Rich saved me a lot of time by convincing women to “Save a Horse, Ride a Cowboy,” and when the band strikes up that song near the end of the night, whichever woman I’m talking to is more than happy to make it a reality.
But with Charlotte, she’s been the complete opposite of what I’m used to. She cuts me down with a look, reminding me that I’m not special in her world. I’m not a novelty she’ll giggle her way through telling her girlfriends about later. I’m a man who isn’t offering her much beyond a smile and a fuck. Neither of which she seems particularly interested in at the moment. She’s a challenge. An enigma I want to unravel.
Awareness comes to her slowly, a blink before a little shake of her head. Then, she’s looking around at the way the dance floor has changed, the way the buckle bunnies at the edge are not-too-subtly watching us, and she stiffens. Her hands fall away from me, when she steps back, and I immediately miss her touch. Her eyes flick to the opening in the tent, her intention clear as she swipes her hands up and down her thighs. She’s leaving.
“Well,” she starts, licking her lips, bringing my attention there for a moment, before she clears her throat to continue, “try not to get yourself killed, Cowboy.”
“Where’s the fun in that?” I spin as she brushes past my shoulder. Charlotte glances once over her shoulder, her boots slowing for half a step before she gives me another eye-roll and steadily saunters out of the tent. I watch her go, the couples and people on the dance floor slowly filling the path she cut, curious eyes watching me as they bounce past. She doesn’t look back except for the barest twist of her head as she slips out of the exit. It’s enough to give me hope.
When the last of Charlotte’s scent fades, I shoulder my way through the crowd to the table in the corner of the tent beside the stage. It’s overflowing with fellow rodeo cowboys: bronc riders, steer wrestlers, and bull riders. Travis sits at the unofficial head, his dark brown hat sitting on the crown of a buxom and beautiful brunette perched on his lap. A wry smile spreads as I approach, greeting the others. He lifts to whisper in the woman’s ear, her eyes flicking quickly to mine before she gives Travis a pouty smile of understanding. After carefully shifting her off him into the chair, he rounds the group to make his way to me.
“I’m only two shots deep. But either Rayna’s pours have gotten stronger, or I’m seeing things because it looked like you were dancing.” Travis cocks an eyebrow at me.
I spread my hands and shrug, my friend knowing exactly how to call me out. I might come to every single one of these things, but it’s only to numb the pain of a bad ride with a little alcohol or dull the pang of loneliness with an easy hookup. I never dance.
“I owed her something, and a beer wasn’t cutting it.”
“You’re so full of shit, man,” Travis laughs, slapping at my back.
“Yeah, all right,” I acknowledge. Travis is regarding me with his usual perceptiveness, a trait I fucking hate right now. “I think she’s gotten under my skin.”
“That’s an understatement.”
“Thanks.” I level him a look in response, sucking in a breath. “I don’t think she likes me very much.”
“Oh, she definitely doesn’t like you.”
“Fuck, Trav, you’re not really helping me out here.” I drop my chin to my chest, my ego taking a bruising tonight. Travis nudges us in the direction of the bar.
“Yet. She doesn’t like you, yet ,” he encourages me. We hold our conversation until we cross the short distance. Leaning on the bar top, we watch Rayna sling drinks and wait our turn. “But you’ve spent about ten minutes with her, and if I know you, you’ve let her see your actual personality for about a minute.”
I nod. He’s right. I have no claim on Charlotte or her feelings about me beyond an initial impression because I haven’t tried. I haven’t offered her anything to try and hold onto.
“Yeah,” I tell him. Rayna finally makes eye contact and heads our way, two bottles in hand. “She certainly doesn’t put up with my shit, I know that much. I think I like her a little more for it.”
Travis reaches across to take our drinks as Rayna glances past my shoulder before locking her eyes on me. She cocks a hip, settling a fist on top of it and throwing her towel on the bar.
“Charlotte’s got no time for it, you hear?” It takes a minute to realize she’s talking to me. I point at my chest for confirmation, Rayna gives an unimpressed smile in return. “Yes, you. Don’t think I haven’t seen you waltzing through these tents, a different woman in a different city, for the last few seasons. You haven’t won yourself a riding title yet, but that doesn't mean you’re lacking notoriety, Wilder McCoy. Your reputation follows you like a cloud of dust.”
I open my mouth to defend myself. A swift poke of Rayna’s finger makes the words curl up and die on my tongue.
“I’m not saying there’s anything wrong with it. I am saying that Charlotte knows about it, and that type of fuckery is exactly why she’s never on the dance floor. Why, until tonight, you didn’t even notice her.”
Rayna’s right. I’ve been on this circuit for three years, and I can’t think of a single time I’ve seen Charlotte.
“In his defense, isn’t this Charlotte’s first season after the juniors’?” Travis steps up for me, but even as Rayna glares at him, I know she’s right. This season is almost a month old, and not once did I see the ebony hair I know I’ll be dreaming about tonight.
“You’re right,” I concede, rubbing at the spot that feels a little tender from her strong finger. “But I wasn’t looking for her. I am now. That girl is something else, Ray.”
“Damn right, she is,” Rayna acknowledges. “She’s determined to win the title this year. And aside from the wild amount of talent she has with Rooney, I think it’s her spirit that’s going to make her impossible to beat. I’ve been around riders and ropers my entire life, dedicated, talented people—she puts all of them to shame.” She shakes her head in awe. I lean in closer, finding I feel a little desperate for these crumbs of information about Charlotte.
“We watched her race tonight.” I gesture between Travis and myself. “Left an impression. At least a better one than I did.”
“You really want to make an impression on her, Wilder?” Rayna scoffs. I nod, the realization that my interest is going to last longer than the next sunrise barely registering. Rayna purses her lips, the information I want sitting just behind them as she weighs my worthiness. When she blows her lips loose, I stand a little taller. “Don’t get in her way.”
* * *
I make it back to my trailer after a round of beers with Travis. The beautiful brunette, who immediately returned to his lap at the table, introduced me to her blonde friend, who wasted very little time making her interest clear. I indulged her innuendo-laced questions, the fingers that trailed up and down my bicep, and the repeated commentary on the band’s song selections, but I politely sidestepped her less-than-subtle offer to make sure I got back to my rig. Unlike most nights for the past few years after a rodeo, the idea of leaving with her was unappealing. I craved the emptiness of my trailer and the space to sift through the complicated thoughts swimming in my head.
After locking the little door behind me, I hang my hat on a hook before collapsing on the bench seat of the eat-in kitchen, wrestling with my boots. When I’m free of the worn leather, I set them on a tray by the door, mindful to keep the dust and dirt off the beige carpeting as much as possible. I stand with a small groan before releasing the buttons on my shirt cuffs and undo the line of them down the middle, leaving the two front pieces to hang loosely as I set about opening one of the pantry doors. I extract a package of Cup O’ Noodles, peeling the wrapper and filling it to the waterline. With my dinner spinning in the microwave, I work my belt buckle free, the heavy silver hitting against the button of my jeans when I pop it loose. At the indication that the noodles have cooked, I pull them out and grab a fork from the top drawer, impatiently slurping the too-hot food.
“Ah, shit!” I try to inhale air to cool the bite while keeping everything in my mouth, pushing the noodles around with my tongue and cussing when they burn a new spot. I wander around my small trailer, repeating the poor decision until the cup is empty. Eating most of my meals while standing next to the sink is an unglamorous part of rodeo life, but as I look out the window at the collection of other trucks, trailers, and motorhomes that fill this dirt lot, I can’t think of any life I would rather live. My eye snags on the corner of a familiar silver trailer, one I hadn’t noticed or visited before tonight. Now, I can’t help but stare at it and wonder what Charlotte is doing.
The entire night replays as I undress and slide under the worn covers of my bed at the back of the trailer. The mattress is comfortable but cool, the space feeling a little big and empty tonight. I think of raven hair and emerald eyes. A warm, curving body pressed against mine in the dusty barn, slotted against me with near perfection, like two magnets finding each other. A wicked tongue lashing my ego with deadly precision, the sting more amusing and arousing than awful. I hum a little as I think of the fierceness of the cowgirl in ribbons and braids who couldn’t see over my shoulder if she weren’t wearing her boots.
“Don’t get in her way.”
Rayna’s warning douses the pleasant and teasing memories of Charlotte with a flashing red light. It bathes my thoughts with unease and insecurity. I consider everything I said and did tonight, concerned that I’ve already dug myself too deep to recover. The parts of myself I let her see might not be enough to make up for the usual mask I wear. It’s become second nature—the bravado and lies I hide behind to keep people from getting too close. I barely fought against it when I was with her tonight. But the truth is, I lied to Charlotte earlier, and unlike the times I’ve done it with women in the past, tonight it stings.
I was never the salutatorian of my high school. Homeschool class or otherwise. I didn’t even finish high school. I ran away from a controlling and dangerous father at the age of fourteen and never looked back. The man who was partially responsible for my existence was also a world-class asshole and drunk. He drove my mother away before I was in kindergarten and gave a consistent, daily effort to see our family’s farm reflect the desolate darkness that comprised his soul.
I count myself lucky every day that I looked older than my age, allowing the farmers and ranchers in neighboring counties to take a chance on me and hire me for seasonal work until I found a local rodeo nearly two years later. Curtis Stanton changed my life the night I watched him ride. He found me a place to call home in Colorado, three states away from my father, not that my father ever came looking, and started teaching me everything he knew when he came back to town and stayed a while.
But I don’t make a habit of thinking about my childhood, and I actively avoid conversation that touches on anything beyond my choice to ride murder horses for money. Lying about my past comes easily to me because I never bother to try connecting with anyone beyond what they can give me for a night. Travis is an exception, not only because he’s not my type, but because the asshole never leaves me alone.
As if summoned by my thoughts, my phone chimes from the small bedside table, a text from the closest approximation of a best friend I have.
Travis
If you’re thinking of ignoring Rayna’s warning, and I’d bet you are, she says Charlotte’s next race is in Kansas City. She likes to get in a day early and practice at sunrise.
Me
Of course, she does. Good thing I’m going to Kansas City and can brew a good cup of coffee.
Travis
Your coffee is shit. Good luck.