6. Peyton #2
He nods. “Awesome. The strategy for tonight hasn’t changed.
First, we’ll want you to integrate yourself with the crowd so it looks like a natural decision for you to ride the bull.
When you’re chatting with patrons, make sure to mention you’re from Texas, so you’ve been to a lot of different western bars before, but Saloon 313 is the most authentic. ”
I scan the walls, with their shiny plastic deer heads and blinking neon “Cheers, y’all” sign. Looks the opposite of authentic to me, but I’m not getting paid for my opinions, so I nod enthusiastically.
“You got yerself a deal, pal,” I say in a (hopefully) flawless southern accent.
He throws me a funny look, but gives me the green light to begin my assignment nonetheless.
I find a group of girls near the bar. Perfect. Much easier for me to strike up a conversation with them than the men.
“Howdy, y’all! Are y’all from around these parts?”
A brunette wearing a shirt with the words “Saddle Up!” across her chest smiles and says, “Yeah, we’re all from the Detroit area. You sound like you’re not, though. Where are you from?”
I preen, blissfully adjusting my hat. Suck it, Romy. My southern accent is great.
“I’m from Texas. I wasn’t sure what to expect up here, but doggone it… this place is even better’an Holler Honkytonk I got back home.” For some reason, my voice lowers along with the accent, giving it a slightly menacing edge. Even to my untrained ears, it’s leaning a tad Russian.
Thankfully, Eric’s voice comes through on the microphone, cutting me off. “The bull is waiting for a rider. Will it be you? Check in with the operator for the experience of a lifetime!”
Of a lifetime seems like overkill, but my eyes spark with fake delight nonetheless.
“Well, butter my biscuit! That there bull sounds right up my lil’ ol’ alley. I’m fixin’ to go check it out. Y’all have fun, now.” I give them a little wave and move deeper into the bar.
“Peyton?”
I flinch. Shit. I know that voice. That slightly-frustrated-yet-determined, oddly attractive voice. When I spin around, I find Callum’s chin dimple at my eye level. Seeing me on three different assignments is going to make this man lose his ever-loving mind.
I appraise his outfit of choice tonight—a brown leather bomber, blue jeans, ivory henley. He looks good. And he smells even better. Like cloves and fresh laundry and tangerines. Spicy, but not overpowering.
I cross my arms and ditch the Southern accent. “Are you stalking me? I’m starting to think you’re not a real officer, after all.”
He scrubs a hand down his face. “I’ve been telling you I’m not a real officer ever since I met you, actually.”
“Hm, when was that again?”
“Somewhere between the Chinese kitchen you didn’t work at and the smoothie shop you kind of worked at, I think,” Callum says, releasing a long exhale.
“Have you figured me out yet, then?”
He runs a hand through his thick auburn hair. “Not even a little. Why are you here?”
“I think the better question is why are you here? I thought you didn’t go out willingly.”
“Exactly.” Callum looks over his shoulder at a man with the same color hair as his own, standing a few feet back. “My brother dragged me here for his birthday under duress.” He raises his voice on the last two words, catching the attention of the man behind him.
“You’re such a drama queen, Cal! Stop being mean to the Birthday Boy!” his brother shouts with a giant smile on his face.
I can’t help but giggle. I’d love to have siblings like Callum does, but as my childfree parents’ mid-forties oopsie baby, they were never in the cards.
I don’t think Mom and Dad knew quite what to do with me.
When they heard that a local pageant scout was looking for someone new to work with, Mom didn’t hesitate to sign me up.
Looking back, I think I spent more time with my coaches than her.
But, in a way, I guess I could thank my parents.
All of those experiences prepared me for my career today.
His brother waves to me. “Maybe you could keep his moody ass away from me tonight as my birthday present!”
Callum scratches the back of his neck, grumbling, “My brother is a dumbass. Don’t listen to him.”
I shrug, glancing at my watch. “Couldn’t even if I wanted to. I’m on the clock.”
He shakes his head slowly. “Wait a minute… Do you work here?”
I’m about to respond, but Eric motions to me behind Callum, gesturing for me to join him across the room.
Callum twists his head, glancing at Eric, who points to me, then the bull.
“Nearly fifteen hundred injuries happen every year from mechanical bull-riding. Is your manager making you do this? It’s not very safe.”
“How do you even know that statist—actually? I’m not surprised.” I reacquaint myself with the little line that appears between his brows when he’s befuddled. “I appreciate your concern, but let’s be honest. It’s not really your area of expertise. We’re not talking about raw pigeons here.”
He shakes his head. “I just don’t think it’s a good—”
“Why did the Staphylococcus want to move out of their colony?”
Callum looks disoriented. “Huh? I mean, what are you… What do you mean?”
I smirk. “Because the culture became toxic.”
He blinks slowly, and I almost see the wheels chugging along in his brain, trying to catch up with my distraction. When he realizes it’s a joke, joy steals his expression, and he laughs.
Callum’s laugh isn’t loud or demanding, but the warmth of it fills the space between us anyway.
His head dips down, almost like he’s hoping no one will notice the happiness spilling off his skin.
I soak in his low chuckle—not just from a pitch perspective—but because it feels earned. Like I had to work for it.
After a few moments, he lifts his head to meet my eyes again, but the smile hasn’t left his face.
I tug my corset a little higher and readjust my cowgirl hat. “I was reading The Waterton Herald, and that was a joke in the comics. Made me think of you.”
Callum’s head rears back. “You thought of me?”
Eric’s booming voice blasts through the bar. “Here! We! Gooooo!”
I point to the speakers behind me and set my jacket down near the attendant. “That’s my cue. Time to save a horse, I guess. And the environment. The bull is stainless steel, so it’s sustainable. A bull for the people. Well, bye.”
I leave a concerned Callum by his brother and step into the ring.
The music doesn’t stop, but the people seem to quiet as they gather around the ring. I’ve never ridden a mechanical bull before, but I’d also never been an audience plant at a magic show, a human sculpture, or a fake tourist before a year or so ago. Somehow it always turns out fine.
I give one last glance at the inflatable padding surrounding the area, preparing myself for an inevitable fall in maybe a minute—if I’m lucky.
Wedging the toe of my boot into a stirrup and swinging my other leg around, I tip my hat toward the operator. He gives me a small nod.
It’s time.
A chorus of cheers sounds from the bar as the bull comes to life. It starts subtly enough, rocking back and forth. I lean into the movement with a blinding smile, like I’m having the time of my life.
The pace speeds up to a persistent-but-manageable rock, and I shout “Yippee-ki-yay!” from my perch to an enthusiastic crowd response. As the bull starts to turn, I see a line forming behind the operator.
Easy as pie, I think to myself.
The easy pie quickly turns into a difficult pie—an impossible pie—with the first real buck of the bull. It lurches forward, and my right boot slips out of the foothold. It pauses, but only for a second, before it bucks me again, loosening my other foothold.
The third buck sends me flying into the air cushions below, flat on my back. When I open my eyes, I find two very concerned hazel orbs staring down at me.
“Callum?”
He blinks down at me from his place behind the rope. “Are you okay?”
“…yes?” I prop myself up on my elbows. “I’m literally lying on inflatables. It’s like sitting in a bouncy house.”
“You closed your eyes, and I… wasn’t sure, I guess.”
Eric’s voice barks through the speakers. “She did it, folks! Round of applause to Peyton, our Bull Christener!”
I wobble on the heel of my cowgirl boots when I stand, and the operator reaches out to touch my shoulder in an attempt to stabilize me. I swerve so far to the left in avoidance of him that I topple over and fall back on my ass.
“Peyton.”
Callum’s there again, towering over me. He holds out a hand to help me off the floor but doesn’t look the least bit surprised when I stand up on my own.
I brush myself off. “I’m all good.”
Eric shoves the microphone in front of my face, and I squeal an obligatory “Yeehaw!” into the microphone.
The crowd erupts, cheering for me, as Eric turns away to speak with the operator.
“…yeehaw?” Callum raises an eyebrow. “That’s something you say?”
That eyebrow. Adorable.
“What’s wrong with ‘yeehaw,’ Callum?”
He narrows his gaze. “Nothing’s wrong with yeehaw, inherently. You just don’t seem like the kind of person to say yeehaw.”
“This is the fourth time you’ve seen me. In your whole life,” I say flatly.
“I’d like it to be more, I think,” he mumbles.
I lean forward and attempt to hear over the loud music. “What did you say?”
Instead of responding, he’s shoved to the side by his brother.
“Hell yeah! You crushed that!”
Up close, his brother’s a couple inches shorter than Callum. Groomed hair and stockier, with beefy muscles in his arms. Callum certainly isn’t lean, but he’s long.
I laugh. “I’m not sure about crushed, but it was fun! Thanks.”
His brother shakes his head. “Nah, you looked great up there.”
Callum throws him a glare, but his brother’s smile grows wider in response.
“I’m Carter. And you are…”
“Peyton. Nice to meet you.” I grab my jacket from the table near the attendant and put it on.