9. Walker
Walker
“ C ’mon, DeVille. If I have to spend one more night cooped up with your grumpy ass, I’m going to stick a pitchfork in my eye.
” Jonas is going stir crazy after driving three days straight to get to North Carolina on time.
We checked into the arena, but the competition doesn’t start for two more days.
“I need to interact with someone other than you before I lose my goddamn mind,” he finishes.
“Are you suggesting I’m not good company?” I force the sarcastic question out. I’m tired of him nagging me while I’m trying to pretend like everything is fine. I’ve been riding the edge of a knife ever since we crossed the state line.
“Normally, you’re my favorite person,” Jonas answers. “But since signing up for this rodeo, I’ve wanted to choke you out multiple times a day.”
I roll my eyes. He’s being a little dramatic, if you ask me.
“Whatever. Where are we going?”
He grins at my reluctant agreement to come out with him.
“Research indicates?—”
“And by research, you mean Google ,” I cut him off.
“Well, duh. Did you think I phoned a friend? I don’t know anyone who lives here. Anyway, as I was saying…research indicates there’s a lake with a few bars looking out over the water and the marina.”
“Sounds good,” I mumble unenthusiastically.
Jonas rakes his gaze over my current ensemble. “But you’re going to have to change.”
“Why? What’s wrong with this outfit?”
“Well, for starters, it’s not an outfit. It’s pajamas , Walker . And these places look nice. Dress the part. You’re a champion bronc rider, for fuck’s sake. You could get laid by four different women in one night in places like these.”
That’s not a great argument since I don’t want to get laid by a woman at all, but Jonas doesn’t know that.
“Pick somewhere else then. I’m sore and tired and I don’t want to fight my way into my jeans just to grab some shitty whiskey.”
“Fuck, you’re a pain in my ass, you know that?” Jonas snaps.
I just shrug. I’m not trying to be difficult, but my nerves are shot.
I just want to stay inside the camper, get through my ride, and get the hell out of here.
There’s been increasing pressure in my chest since we checked in at the arena.
I’m trying to meet Jonas in the middle by agreeing to go out, but I don’t want some swanky lakeside bar where the drinks cost twenty bucks and the dress code doesn’t allow joggers and a t-shirt.
He types away on his phone and sighs when he says, “Okay, a couple streets back from the lake there’s a dive bar called Tomahawk. It has a rating of two-and-a-half stars. Does that suit you and your sweats, your Highness?”
Two-and-a-half stars probably means it’s a little sketchier than I was after, but I don’t want to push my luck by asking him to find yet another bar. Besides, it being a shitty bar means there’s a higher likelihood that the man I’m trying to avoid won’t be there.
I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t tried to keep tabs on Phoenix over the years.
I know he lives in this town, but that’s about it.
Once a rodeo star leaves the circuit, the fanfare dies down pretty quickly.
Much to my dismay, all I found on social media were fan accounts, and I’m not interested in what others think of the man I’ve craved since I was sixteen.
Ironically, the night we were together, Phoenix had expressed his disappointment over the lack of information about me, and now I’m the one left with nothing to go on.
“Sounds perfect,” I tell Jonas. “Let’s go.”
I’m working on my second whiskey and Coke—I had the bartender add the Coke because the whiskey was so fucking awful, it shouldn’t have even been considered for the lowest shelf—when a guy plops down on the barstool next to me and calls the waitress over by name.
“Wendy!” he shouts.
“Hey, Hud. Who’re here with? You want the usual?” the bartender replies.
I listen intently to the exchange for no reason other than I’m bored and the guy is kinda cute.
“The whole gang’s here,” the guy replies, obviously a regular. “We took the table in the corner. Cassie’s in town. Would you mind sending someone over when you can?”
“It’s just me tonight since it’s a Tuesday. I’ll come grab your orders in just a sec,” the bartender replies with a warm smile.
Once he’s gone, I return to watching one of the T.V.s over the bar without actually seeing it. I do that a lot. When something’s on my mind, my eyes may be open, but my brain is a million miles away.
“Whoa, DeVille, get a load of that chick,” Jonas says, tapping my shoulder.
I spin to get a look at who he’s talking about, and so does everyone else in the bar.
The woman’s gorgeous . Long, black hair, a skin tone telling me her ancestry isn’t strictly Northern European, and a tight body.
She’s standing next to the jukebox, scanning the sheets slowly, wearing a short jean skirt and a bright red tube top.
“Way out of your league, buddy.” I pat Jonas’s chest and signal the waitress for another round.
She takes my glass and smiles sweetly. “Give me one second to grab some orders, and I’ll have your refill right over, hon.”
I nod and spin back around to people watch.
It’s more entertaining than the shit on the T.V.
The woman at the jukebox makes her selection and heads back to the large table in the corner.
The same table the waitress is walking toward.
I recognize the guy that was next to me at the bar, and as my eyes land on the person next to him, I hear Jonas draw in a breath, right as my world tilts on its axis.
“Holy shit. Isn’t that Phoenix Harding?”
What are the fucking odds?
I spin back to the bar top, placing my forehead on my forearms in an effort to get the room to stop spinning, when Jonas taps my thigh.
“Look, man! I think it is him!” he says excitedly. Mainstream rodeo media may have moved on, but those of us still in the game never forget the greats, especially those whose careers have such tragic endings.
Even more especially if we contributed to that ending .
When I still don’t answer, I feel Jonas turn in his barstool to face me.
“Walker, what the fuck is wrong with you?”
I’m trying to hide my panic because while I trust Jonas, I don’t trust Jonas. And I sure as shit don’t want to cause a scene and attract attention to myself.
Beside me, Jonas returns his attention to the corner where Phoenix and his friends are sitting.
Against my better judgement—which quite honestly is non-existent where Phoenix is concerned—I turn to look again, my eyes greedily taking him in.
Fuck me , twenty-eight looks good on him.
His eyes still shine bright green even in the dim lights of the bar, although his exuberance seems to have faded since we last met.
My stomach does a somersault as I watch a girl from a neighboring table swing by and talk to the group before handing Phoenix a piece of paper which undoubtedly has her number on it.
She turns to leave, but he pulls her back and gives her a kiss as his buddies hoot and holler.
The woman takes it as an invitation to deepen the kiss before letting go and giving him a wink.
Phoenix makes a show of tucking her number in his wallet as she heads out the door with her friends.
“We need to leave,” I finally announce.
“I’m not leaving until I get his autograph,” Jonas declares. “Dude’s a legend. One of only two riders ever to achieve a perfect score.”
Like I don’t know that.
“Please, Jonas, I’m begging you, for the love of God, don’t go over there.”
He must hear the panic in my voice and realize I’m serious because he stops fangirling long enough to ask for the second time, “Walker, what’s going on?”
Desperate to get out of the bar, I promise to tell him everything if we can just leave without a single glance at the table in the corner.
“Fine, but this better be one helluva story,” he agrees, no doubt dying to finally get to the bottom of what’s eating me alive. “I just need to pay the tab.”
The bartender is now busy making drinks for the large party, and I know it’s going to be at least ten minutes before I can get the hell out of here. I slide off my stool, hoping to wobble my way to the bathroom, so I can have my meltdown privately, when I crash into someone on my other side.
“Hey, Wendy, can I add—whoa, there. You okay?” he asks when I knock into him, placing his hands on my shoulders to steady me.
I swear to God my heart rate is close to three hundred beats per minute as I look down into the beautiful face of Phoenix Harding. I’m slightly taller than him now, which feels weird.
Recognition hits us at the same time and for a brief moment, I drink him in, cataloguing every line, every freckle, every perfect feature of his face.
What strikes me the most is how tired he looks.
Not in a sleepy sort of way, but in a wary-of-life sort of way, and it punches the air from my lungs.
I mean to say I’m sorry . I’m sorry for leaving back then. I’m sorry for being here now. I’m sorry for literally running into you…but what comes out instead is a broken whisper. At least this time, when I answer his question, it’s the whole truth.
“I haven’t been okay in eight years.” And then I crash into the bar stool, sending it skittering to the floor and haul my ass outside, gasping. I should be able to pull in lungfuls of air, but my airway is so tight, nothing’s getting through.
I scramble into the passenger seat of my truck, shaking from head to toe, still hyperventilating as I drop my head between my knees. A few minutes later, Jonas climbs into the driver’s seat .
“Start talking,” he commands, turning the key in the ignition.
I blow out an uneven breath and try to decide what I’m comfortable divulging.
“You might as well tell me the whole fucking story, Walker, because no way in hell am I letting you enter that ring when you’re like this. You’ll get yourself killed.”
I huff a strained laugh. “Yeah, well, I’m past due.”
“The fuck is that supposed to mean?” Jonas barks.
“It means I’m a coward and I’ve messed a lot of shit up,” I answer both cryptically and truthfully. “Including my first meeting with Ph…” I can’t get it out so I pause and try again. “Especially with Phoenix.”
“Well, I can’t say you didn’t make an impression,” Jonas laughs, not understanding.
“That wasn’t the first time we met,” I correct, “but I wasn’t sure he’d remember.”
“Now that you mention it, the way his face lost color right after yours, I’d say it’s safe to assume he remembers whatever there is to remember.”
It’s cruel sometimes, how our minds work. How in the span of milliseconds, I imagined he still thinks about that night, that he’s followed my career, that he’s proud of me. Instead, Jonas breaks through my thoughts with questions I don’t want to answer.
“What the hell happened between you two?”
“Something that never should have, but neither of us could stop.”
“Jesus, you make it sound like you buried a body together,” Jonas says, driving us back toward the arena and the parking lot that will be our home from now until Sunday.
There almost was a body to bury…mine, I think to myself.
I hadn’t planned on ever seeing Phoenix again.
But now that I have, it all comes rushing back.
The way he smelled, the way he tasted, the way his fingers felt inside me.
The way his cock felt inside me. The connection we shared and how only in those precious moments alone with him, did I feel like I could breathe.
And that brief second when his eyes were locked onto mine tonight told me I’m even more desperate for him now than I was back then.
My feelings for Phoenix make me do crazy things.
Like risk my career.
Like lose my ass virginity on the dirty floor of a barn.
Like do everything in my power to make sure I see him again since I’m already here.
It seems even after all this time, I’m no better than the broken boy I was eight years ago, and only one man can put me back together again.
Just like last time.