9. Wilder
9
WILDER
CALGARY, ALBERTA — EARLY JULY
“T he coroner’s report ruled the death a homicide, noting severe blunt-force trauma to her head, as well as evidence of strangulation. Additional tests came back showing sexual assault ? —”
“That’s enough! I can’t listen to this anymore!” I punch the button on the console, cutting off Charlotte’s favorite true crime podcast. It’s the fourth episode we’ve listened to today on our drive to Calgary. I have learned all manner of disturbing facts about serial killers, mysterious deaths, missing persons, and murders that will, for sure, give me nightmares. “I can’t believe you enjoy listening to this. Especially alone. ”
In the passenger seat of my truck, Charlotte affixes me with an incredulous stare.
“I don’t listen to them to scare myself,” she begins, picking up her phone from the cupholder and scrolling through before tapping. She pushes another button, and Sam Hunt plays through the speakers. “I find them informative. As a young woman who—until very recently—spent a great deal of time by myself on the road and in places that could be described as less than safe, it felt important to know what to look for. What mistakes to avoid. What people. ”
I don’t miss the way her voice dips at the end, a playful insinuation coating the word, as though I’m a stranger and not her boyfriend. At least, that’s what I think I am. We haven’t defined what our relationship has become over the last six weeks, and I have absolutely no experience being more than a passing fling for anyone. But there hasn’t been anyone since the night I met Charlotte. She ensnared me with her sassy mouth and beautiful face.
Since Charlotte’s birthday, we had previously committed to schedules that have kept us apart except for two rodeos. We’ve exchanged thousands of text messages, stayed up nightly on FaceTime, fallen asleep together, and made out like teenagers behind the outbuildings in Boise and Cheyenne between events. But we haven’t spent this kind of time together when there’s no hurry, and it’s a feeling I’m not accustomed to: the need to be with her. Be the reason she smiles, watch for the little crinkle at the corner of her eye when she laughs, and know I’ve kissed her right when the perfect sigh escapes her.
Hell, we haven’t even had sex yet. A fact my dick reminds me of when Charlotte reaches across to bury her fingers in my hair at the nape of my neck, blunt nails shooting bolts of lightning up and down my spine when she draws back. I chance a quick glance at her before I subtly readjust myself while she stares out her window at the passing landscape. My desire for her hasn’t waned in the time we’ve been together, but I’ve taken my cues from her. Her training, routine, and everything she’s built her life around are really important to her, and I refuse to fulfill her biggest fear about taking a chance on me—that I’ll mess this up for her.
“When we get to the grounds, the email said to follow the blue arrows to our spot. Are you okay setting up the rig while I take Rooney to the boarding barn?” Charlotte asks.
“No problem,” I tell her, keeping my voice even. It was Charlotte’s idea for us to travel and stay together for the Calgary Stampede this weekend. The event is, arguably, the biggest rodeo in North America, spanning a whole week of events, exhibitions, carnivals, and fireworks. I look forward to it every year because the livestock are some of the best in the competition, the atmosphere is electric, and even when I don’t ride well, I always get a prize to take home. At least for the night. One year, I had two to take the edge off a bad ride: a really pretty blonde and a feisty redhead.
But that was the Wilder before.
The Wilder now has Charlotte. And I can’t wait for it to be just us at the end of the night.
“Once Rooney is tucked in, want to explore the carnival?” I ask, pulling off the highway to navigate the familiar roads leading to the event grounds. “I’m dying for a funnel cake, a ride on the Ferris wheel, and kissing you under the fireworks.”
“Ferris wheel, yes. Funnel cake, no. I’m a kettle corn girl. And I very much like that plan for the fireworks.” Charlotte smiles. It exudes the enthusiasm and energy I’ve come to love so much about her. In the arena and around our peers, she’s nothing but business. She rides hard and wins. She has zero tolerance for bullshit and those who don’t take things as seriously as she does. And that includes me. I don’t receive half as much shit from my fellow riders as I do from the beauty riding shotgun. “Oh! How are you at the midway games? I know they’re almost always rigged, but I can’t help but try anyway. I came really close to winning once.”
There it is, I think, as her voice drops a little at the confession. The softness and sweetness I have discovered is a privilege to see because she doesn’t show it off. There’s a beautiful innocence to her that draws me in.
“I’m shit at them, but I’d be happy to spend my winnings trying to get you a stuffed teddy bear,” I reassure her, playfulness in my tone. Charlotte rolls her eyes.
“So damn cocky, Cowboy,” she mumbles but gives me a smirk of appreciation.
* * *
The sky looks like the cotton candy hanging from the booth we just walked past. Bright stripes of pink, puffy clouds swirled into the periwinkle-blue of twilight bring a steady, luminous glow to the bustling carnival. With Charlotte’s hand wrapped in mine, I navigate us through the food vendors as their decorative lights blink on.
“Look, the line isn’t very long!” Charlotte points to our destination and pulls a little at me as her pace picks up, a half-eaten bag of kettle corn swinging from her other hand. I trail behind, chewing the last sugary bite of my funnel cake before tipping the trash in a nearby bin. The queue is only a half dozen deep: a family with two small children and a pair of teenage girls more interested in scrolling on their phones than each other. We take our place behind the family, a little girl of two or three watching us over the shoulder of her mother while her older brother impatiently waits for his cowboy hat to be placed back on his head by his father.
“Don’t leave it on the ground again like that, Colt,” the dad says gently. “Always rest your hat on its crown—the top—or you’ll get bad luck. You don’t want that before your mutton busting ride tomorrow.”
“Yes, Papa.” His little voice is full of conviction as he looks up from underneath the brim of his tan hat. His father stares back affectionately when the kid’s attention switches to me. His eyes go as wide as saucers, and he reaches blindly for his father’s shirtsleeve, tugging. He sucks in a big breath before his mouth opens. “That’s a cowboy .”
I press my lips together tightly to keep the laughter in. Colt’s whispered awe is about as quiet and subtle as a bull in the chute, but it’s achingly sweet, and I can’t help but feel myself puff up a little as his other hand raises an innocent finger at me. When I started riding, I always made it a point to say hello to the kids who signed up for the mutton busting competition. They were some of my first fans. Talking a kid down, shaken with nerves at the prospect of holding onto the back of a sheep for as long as possible, healed a small part of me. I rarely get to talk to kids anymore, their aunties, older sisters, and sometimes mothers push them aside in their quest to reach me. I don’t think I realized how much I miss the opportunity until right now. I like kids. They’re honest and open, completely untouched by things in the world.
“Please don’t point, Colt. It isn’t polite. I’m so sorry,” the mom says, her attention on her son and holding her daughter. Beside me, Charlotte squeezes my hand. I check in with her briefly as I wave off the mom’s apology. Charlotte gives a little nod, releasing me from her grip and pushing me forward a step. With her encouragement, I crouch down until I’m at eye level with little Colt.
“It’s Colt, isn’t it?” I ask as the kid’s head nods like a bobblehead, all excitement and no finesse. It makes me smile when I cock my head to give him a once-over. He has big hazel eyes and blond hair under the hat that’s perched fittingly on his head. He’s in jeans and a T-shirt, scuffed boots, and a small belt buckle. “Well, now,” I start, gesturing to him. “Looks to me like there’s a cowboy right here.”
“Me?” Colt's answer is laced with surprise. I catch sight of his parents smiling over his shoulder.
“Absolutely,” I agree. “You’re competing in the rodeo, right?”
“Yes!” He bounces on the balls of his feet. “It’s my first time mutton busting, but I’ve been practicing with our neighbor’s sheep for weeks.”
“Sounds like you know what you’re doing!” Little Colt beams with pride as I acknowledge his efforts. “You’re not nervous, are you?”
“No, sir.”
“Not even a little?” I reel back in pretend surprise, once again assessing him. He shakes his head purposefully, all business. “You sound like someone else I know. She’s a real cowgirl. Wins every race she’s been in this year. Practices and works hard, just like you.”
“Is it that pretty lady with you?” Colt’s cheeks flash pink, and his mother giggles with tender affection. I stand then, reaching back for Charlotte. She kneels easily next to me, the pair of us giving Colt our full attention.
“This is Charlotte Stryker, the best barrel racer I’ve ever seen. She and her horse, Rooney, practice every day, and they are unbeatable,” I introduce them like I’m old friends with the seven-year-old. With care, Colt lifts the brim of his hat to Charlotte.
“Hi, ma’am.” His voice softens a little, as though he hasn’t done this many times before, but still knows the drill. Colt’s younger sister has wiggled free of their mother’s arms, taking up a place next to her big brother.
“Hi, Colt.” Charlotte waves. “Sounds like I’ll have someone to cheer for during the rodeo tomorrow. All that practice and determination is bound to pay off.”
“Pretty.”
The little girl walks right up to Charlotte, interrupting the conversation, and takes hold of the chiffon ribbon, playing peekaboo through the ebony waves Charlotte has cascading over her shoulder tonight. It’s a cornflower-blue color that brings out the tiny pattern of her sundress. She didn’t wear a hat tonight, and I’ve enjoyed seeing the sunlight bring out the deep chestnut streaks in her hair. Just as the girl’s father steps forward to disengage his daughter’s grabby fingers, Charlotte easily guides them out of her hair gently.
“Thank you,” she says before pointing at the girl’s own sundress, layers of purple frilly material making it far more feminine than Charlotte’s. “This is very pretty, too. You look like a princess.”
“Rapunzel! Princess!” The little girl claps. Charlotte’s eyes cut to the parents, a kind smile and question on her face.
“Her name is Marie, but she’s obsessed with Rapunzel right now,” her mother explains. With practiced ease, she brings the little girl back on her hip and gently clasps Colt’s shoulder with her other hand, steering him into the family group. Charlotte and I stand, and I wrap an arm around her waist. This seemingly insignificant interaction fills my chest with an unfamiliar warmth.
The ride operators have finally opened the gate, preparing to usher all the queue through to find their assigned bucket seats. I give everyone one last smile and raise my hat to Colt.
“Good ride, cowboy,” I tell him, pleased when he responds in kind.
“Why are you looking at me like that, Charlie?” I explore the fondness and quiet surprise on her face as we settle into the bucket seat. There’s a disconcerting groan from the mechanisms of the ride as we’re lifted into the air, but it’s just the usual churning of carnival rides. Half the fun is thinking you might die when you get on one. When the bucket swoops, Charlotte scoots closer, looping her arm around mine and pulling me close.
“I just think you were really sweet with that little boy. I didn’t expect it.” I try not to feel any offense, and any hint of it dissipates as soon as she leans her head on my shoulder and sighs. “I think it’s become my favorite thing about you, Wild. You’ll never be what I expect. You’re better.”
The confidence she has in her statement sends a pang of want through me, warm and heavy. But it isn’t only the desire I’m used to feeling when I’m with her. There’s something deeper tangled with it. Affection so strong I’m momentarily blinded by the surety of my subconscious whispering at me a singular word— love. It’s too early to feel that, but I can’t help how right it sounds. How having this incredible woman see me, value me, and want me has changed nearly every fiber of me in such a short period of time.
I hook a finger under her chin, bringing her gaze to meet mine. The breeze, as we circle in the air, blows wispy strands of her hair around her heart-shaped face. When her eyes find mine; the dying sun and bright lights of the carnival make the various chips of emerald and jade shine like a kaleidoscope. Moving my hand to trace the fine angle of her jaw until I can brush a thumb across the apple of her cheek, I relax into the moment, shutting out the rest of the world. Here, gliding effortlessly through the air, I pull her close, pressing my lips to drink her in.
Charlotte’s lips are soft, yielding, and warm under mine. The remaining flavors of salt and sweetness from her kettle corn somehow perfectly blend with her usual taste. A flavor I have come to need nearly as much as the air I breathe. Cupping the back of her head, I angle her exactly where I want her, deepening the kiss as a soft moan reverberates in her throat. She opens for me at the first swipe of my tongue, and then we’re tumbling into a fevered kiss. Tongues sliding against each other, desperate gasps of air, and barely restrained groans covered only by the squeals of other riders as the bucket drops toward the ground.
I pull back, proud of the way her lips have plumped and reddened from our kiss. Desire shows clear in her blown pupils looking back at me, the green nearly eclipsed by the swollen black. Her soft pants fan across my skin.
“I suddenly hate the Ferris wheel,” she whispers, taking me by surprise. But before I can ask, her small fingers glide along the line of buttons on my flannel, stopping just at the metal of my belt. She traces them back and forth. “I need you alone. Uninterrupted. The way I’ve been dreaming about for weeks.”
“You don’t want to watch the fireworks?” I tease, running the back of my fingers along her arm, smiling when I see goosebumps in their wake.
Charlotte twists her hand, reaching between my legs to cup my rapidly hardening cock. I can’t help the sharp intake of air, the smile on my face faltering even when she gifts me a playful wink.
“Let’s go make our own.”
Without hesitation, I flag down the ride operator and motion for us to be brought to the ground immediately.