Chapter 9
9
Colt Bishop
“ Y ou did what ?” Whit’s eyes widen behind his thick-framed glasses.
We’re each a few beers deep, a buzz barely going, but it’s enough for me to spill the tea , so to speak. My chest rumbles with a chuckle at the absolute aghast look on his face. I’ve never seen Whit look so scandalized.
“It was only one time,” I murmur. “And it was, like, two years ago. It’s not a big deal.”
“Colt, he is your father’s best friend .” His voice is nothing more than a whisper-yell. “That is not , ‘not a big deal.’”
“Okay, maybe it was a big deal.” I hold my hands a decent length apart from one other, wagging my brows at Whit suggestively.
Whit scoffs. “You know what, Colt, I could’ve gone my entire life not knowing that little piece of information.”
“Not little,” I chirp.
“You know what I mean,” he hisses. “Will is close with Conrad, and when we were married, I got to know him pretty well, and I do not need to picture the size of his penis every time I see him.”
“It’s a nice penis to picture, though.”
“I swear to God, you’re as bad as Shooter,” he grumbles. “How is there two of you?”
Puckering my lips, I blow him an air kiss before chuckling and tossing back another gulp of beer.
Whit miraculously had a dolly in his garage that he used to bring the giant box inside. He’s got it opened up, and all of the parts sprawled all over in his living room as he scans the directions with a furrow in his brow.
“Do you want some help?” I offer, setting my beer down on the coaster on the table.
“No,” he snaps. “You can’t help. I’m not going to be responsible for you injuring yourself more.”
“Whit, I’ve got an injured shoulder and wrist. My eyes still work,” I deadpan, ripping the sheet of directions out of his hand. “Let me help.”
“How did this even happen?” he asks after he finally gets himself squared away. “What were you doing in Seattle in the first place?”
“A buddy of mine from high school lives out there now, and it was his twenty-first birthday. He invited me out, and I had nothing better to do, so I went.”
“Okay, and?” Whit makes a ‘get on with it’ gesture with his hand. “How did that lead to sleeping with Will?”
“I’d booked my hotel for two nights,” I tell him. “The birthday party was the first night I was there, and my plans were wide open the next night. I’ve always heard how great the queer nightlife is in Seattle, so I decided to check it out for myself. William was at the bar I went to.”
“By himself? ”
“Yup.”
“And then what?”
“I wasn’t a hundred percent sure it was him at first. It had been quite a while since I’d seen him; he moved out of Copper Lake when I was in, like, middle school. I tossed back a few shots, got a little closer, and when we made eye contact across the area, I knew it was him.”
Whit’s looking at me like I’ve grown a second set of arms. “And there was no point once you realized who he was that you thought maybe you should leave?”
“Fuck no.” I laugh. “Are you kidding? Do you know how many times I fantasized about William when I was growing up? He spent so much time at my house because of my dad, and I would drool over him the entire time.”
Rolling his eyes, Whit asks, “Who made the first move?”
“Me, of course,” I drawl with a smirk.
Whit looks thoroughly unamused, yet the questions keep coming. “What happened?”
“I brought over some shots, and after a few rounds, I asked him to dance.”
Brows furrowed behind his glasses, Whit glances up from screwing in one of the wood shelves. “And he just…agreed?”
I nod, finishing off the rest of the beer. “At first, I thought he was going to shut me down. He definitely gave it a second thought, but in the end, yeah, he agreed.”
Whit downs the rest of his beverage too. “This is… Wow.”
Standing up off the couch, I swipe my empty beer bottle off the table. “Want another?”
“Sure.”
“What the fuck is with all of these toy planes all over your dining room table?” I call out to him as I toss the empty bottles into the garbage can before opening the fridge.
“They are not toy planes,” he responds as I stroll back into the living room, handing him a fresh beer. “They’re model planes.”
“What is the difference?”
“A toy is for fun,” he offers, gaze focused on the task at hand. “These are not for fun. They’re for display.”
“Uh, okay. But why do you have so many of them? Your table is covered.”
“Yeah, there’s more on the floor behind the table too.” Pausing what he’s doing, Whit brushes the hair back from his forehead with his arm as he glances over at me. “I enjoy building them. It’s a nice way to fill my free time, and I like how they look when I’m finished.”
This is so fucking random. “Okay, but why planes?”
“Honestly, I’m not sure. When I was a kid, my dad would build them from time to time, and eventually, he let me help him. I guess it stuck.”
“How did I not know this about you?”
“Uh, I don’t know. Maybe because I don’t advertise my hobbies on my forehead, and it’s never come up? I don’t ask you about your hobbies.”
“Yeah, but you know mine. Rodeo.”
“Why are you asking me so many questions? We’re here to talk about you and your smutty affair.” Whit mutters, cracking open his beer and taking a sip. “Did you guys go back to his place? Back to your hotel?”
Shaking my head, I say, “Neither. He took me to some apartment above the bar.”
“This is wild.”
“Wanna know the most fucked-up part?”
“I’m kind of scared to ask,” Whit mumbles, making me chuckle. “But yes, tell me.”
“The entire night after we went up to the apartment is so hazy, I barely remember most of it. The next morning, when I woke up in my hotel room, I had to think for a good, long second about what happened the night before.”
“Is it possible nothing happened, then?”
I shake my head. “Nah, we hooked up. I didn’t fully black out, that much I do remember. And as more time has passed, little bits of the night have come back to me. It’s just…I don’t know how to explain it. A foggy type of memory, I guess. Like I remember things we did, but I don’t necessarily remember what we said during or how we got there.”
Whit sits with that for a moment. “Do you think he remembers?”
“Oh, a hundred percent. I knew he remembered from the moment I laid eyes on him when I found out he was back in town.”
“Which was when?”
“When I was sitting in one of his patient rooms at the clinic.”
His eyes widen. “Your shoulder,” he blurts out. “Oh, my gosh, tell me he’s not your doctor!”
“He most definitely is,” I reply, biting back a grin at the unbelievable expression painted over Whit’s face.
“Wow.” Blowing out a breath, Whit runs a hand through his hair. “This is…so fucked up.”
“I like to think of it as fun,” I quip.
Watching me with an arched brow and his lips pressed thin, Whit says, “Of course, you would.”
“Hey! I’m injured and unable to compete. Gotta pass the time somehow.”
As if realization dawns on him, his eyes dart over to mine, narrowing. “What are you going to do, Colt?”
A smirk splits my face as I give Whit my most innocent look. “Who, me? What makes you think I’m going to do anything?”
“Because you’re you, and trouble is your middle name. You cannot pursue him, Colt.”
“First of all”—I hold up a finger—“you’re not wrong. And secondly, why the hell not? We are two consenting adults.”
“Oh my God, you’re a moron,” he grumbles.
“Okay, ouch, jackass. What about you, then?”
Confusion takes over his expression as he pins me with a stare. “What about me?”
“Earlier, when I asked if you and Reggie were going to move in together, you looked at me like I’d lost my mind. What’s up with that?”
He sort of curls in on himself with the question, and I don’t even think he realizes he’s doing it. Glancing down at his lap, he shrugs. “I know this doesn’t make sense to you, since I don’t think you’ve ever been in a serious relationship before, but there’s no need to rush, okay? What Reggie and I have is fine the way it is. Why would we mess up a good thing by changing it?”
“Isn’t that typically the next step, though?” Whit hits me with a deadpan stare, and I hold my hands up in innocence. “Genuine question.”
“Sometimes,” he murmurs, looking down at his lap again. “He lives and works out of town, and I live and work here. Neither of us is planning on leaving our jobs, so moving in together would just create a commute for one of us, and frankly, I don’t want to move out of Copper Lake. I happen to love it here.”
I can’t help but smirk at the way he juts out his chin a little at the end. Whit’s on the quieter side. He can come off a bit stuffy more often than not, but he can get quite feisty if he needs to be. Though he may be but small, he’s mighty, or whatever that Shakespeare quote is.
“It has nothing to do with the fact that the last person you lived with was Conrad, would it?”
That earns me a chilling glare that I can practically feel . “No, Colt, my relationship and how we decide to move it forward has nothing to do with my ex-husband.”
Laughing, I say, “Oh my gosh, you are touchy about this shit. Down, boy.”
“I don’t know if you realize it, but people are constantly speculating about me and Conrad. People who come into the clinic, all of our friends, even Reggie! Conrad and I split up almost four years ago. We have never given anybody any reason to believe we’re getting back together or that there might still be something simmering there. We have moved on; I don’t know why everybody else hasn’t.”
“I’m sorry, man,” I say, and I mean it. “I was just messing with you, but I’m sorry. I guess I didn’t think about how annoying that must be for you to deal with.”
His shoulders relax, and he blows out a breath. “It’s fine. I know you’re joking around. I’m just…I don’t know, sensitive about it sometimes.”
Remembering what he said, something stands out to me. “Reggie says stuff about it?”
Eyes flitting to mine, it’s like he is just now realizing he let that slip. “Not often, but he has made a comment or two about it in the past.”
“Like what?”
Whit chews on the inside of his cheek for a moment. “I think it’s natural for him to question it, since Conrad and I still have to work together as often as we do. He’s just asked about if the divorce was civil, and if there’re still any feelings around on either of our parts. Stuff like that. Nothing too big.”
All conversation about hookups, boyfriends, and ex-husbands fades as he gets back to putting together this hutch thing. The directions are confusing as hell to understand, but eventually, we figure it out. Once he’s finished, he stands it up, admiring his work.
“This looks nice,” I offer, coming to stand beside him. “Where are you going to put it?”
“In the dining room,” he murmurs as he picks up the rest of the garbage and spare pieces. “These were all in storage bins in my spare bedroom closet up until a month ago when I got a hankering to do some building. I got them out and put them in my dining room, fully meaning to buy and build this right away, but time got away from me.”
“Here, I can help you move it into the dining room.”
“Uh, no, the hell you won’t,” he barks. “I told you, I’m not going to be responsible for you re-injuring yourself.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” I scoff. “I can use my free hand to lift it.”
“No, you will not. Besides, I need to vacuum and move some stuff around in there before I can put it in there, and that’s not happening today. I’ve used all of my energy just building it.”
Chuckling, I say, “Fair enough.”
“Want to stay for dinner?” he asks. “I don’t know what I’m having, but I can whip us up something.”
“Nah, I should get home. My mom said she’s making my favorite tonight.” I grin.
Nodding, Whit asks, “Do you know how long you have to stay there?”
“At least until my sling can come off.” Glancing down at my arm, I say, “I can’t do a whole lot for myself, like drive, until that happens, but it should get to come off soon, I would think.”
“Think you’ll be back on the circuit next year?”
“Shit, I sure as fuck hope so.”
The text Cope sent earlier, that I never responded to, comes to mind. It’s not the first time one of my buddies has checked in and I left them on read. It makes me feel like shit, because I don’t know why it’s so hard for me to respond. I appreciate them checking in, but I feel like some sort of… I don’t know, wet blanket or something. They’re off having the time of their life, competing every weekend, as they should, while I’m home, injured and unable to do shit. I can’t face them and see their pity.
I’ve tried not to think too much about it lately. The circuit and the time I’ve lost. All it does is pisses off, the fact that I’m at home while all my friends are on the road. I can’t help but feel like I’ve been robbed of my entire season, and then I start to ask myself why it had to happen to me, or why it happened this early in my career? Why couldn’t it happen later on when I’ve had time to make a name for myself?
I can’t rush my recovery time, or I risk making everything worse, but I pray like hell that by the time the next season starts, I’m in good enough shape to compete again. I need this. Without bull riding, I don’t know who the hell I am.
There is no Colt Bishop without the rodeo.