Chapter 2
CHAPTER
TWO
Quinn Jaxson
For the next two weeks, I’m in Jaxson Boots mode. Rodeo season is a big aspect of my family’s business. We sell quality boots, belts, and cowboy hats and for more than thirty-five years, Jaxson Boots has proudly supported the Black Western way of life. Whether it’s sponsoring local ranch rodeos or big-time events like this Millers Pointe Livestock & Rodeo, we’re committed to furthering Black cowboy values and traditions that have been passed down for generations.
My father founded Team Jaxson Boots ten years ago to help grow rodeo by directly supporting the new talent pool of athletes. Every year, athletes are carefully selected to represent Jaxson Boots on and off the dirt. Selection is a tedious process. Their rodeo accolades aren’t the only consideration, but also their leadership skills, character, and community involvement. Not only are we sponsoring them but they are representing us and our brand.
As the new Director of Branding, I’m responsible for the recruiting and oversight for all things Team Jaxson Boots. Our goal is to have twenty-five athletes and I’ve already acquired eleven for the team. I’m hoping to leave this rodeo with another five. The competitions are the biggest part of my recruitment, but the barbecue kickoff tonight will be my first impression of many of them. That’s why my car is loaded with sponsorship packets and Jaxson Boots merch and I’m flying down I-90 to the Phoxes Den in Millers Pointe. It’s about an hour and a half from my home in Crescent Falls and I need to check in and get ready for tonight.
Thankfully, I’m not alone. My homegirl, Taarini, is going to spend the first week with me. She’s a second grade teacher on spring break and she jumped at the chance to join me because she loves rodeo season. Her favorite event is tie-down roping. I need her too because she knows more about the rodeo than me.
Admittedly, I don’t follow the competitions like I should and this is my first time immersing myself in rodeo season. Because we are one of the biggest sellers of cowboy boots and sponsor many event competitors, I’ve attended a few over the years, but my main contribution to the business has primarily been in the office. My father has been the face at the events, until now. The torch has been passed and it’s my time to keep Jaxson Boots in the minds and hearts of the cowboys and cowgirls.
“Lana Mitchell?” Rini asks, continuing to quiz me on potential team members.
“Barrel Racing? Ranked twenty-five?” I ask, a little uncertain.
“Yes, but ranked twenty-four. The rankings matter. They take pride in their standings.”
She lifts the eight by eleven picture of Lana and I quickly glance over at it. I’m trying to put faces with the names. These athletes like it when people know and recognize them. I want my first interactions with them to go over well, knowing their faces and rankings will definitely help.
“Bobby Brighton?
“Bull rider. Ranked thirteen. From Odessa, Texas,” I say with certainty. I’m good with most of the bull riding candidates. She raises his picture and I glance at it just for sight recognition.
“Okay!” she says, impressed. “What about Destry Callahan?”
“Easy. Bull rider. Number five in the nation. Predicted to take the national champion title this year. Millers Pointe’s golden boy.”
“Damn, friend. You nailed him. Do you need the picture?”
“Girl no. I know who he is. He’s the one recruit my dad insisted on. The rest are my call but he wants Destry. The Callahans practically own Millers Pointe. I’m running to him first tonight at the barbecue.”
“You’ll get him. Who doesn’t want Jaxson Boots’ logo on their shirt,” she says. As usual, she’s my hype woman and I love her crazy ass for that. She flips through the stack of folders then says with her extra flare, “Titus Cole!”
“Tie-down roping. Ranked nineteen?”
“Yes, but eighteen. But listen, I need you to really look at this picture,” she stresses.
When I turn to see the picture, my damn mouth practically drools. Titus Cole is fine as hell. Chocolate goodness wrapped in jeans and a dark blue competition shirt. The tilt of his indigo cowboy hat on his head somehow angles his handsome face for the perfect view of his captivating eyes. He’s staring down at the roped calf in the picture. Sexy barely describes this man. While admiring him for probably too damn long, something happens and I hear a loud ass pop sound. I briefly lose control of my car and it skids to the left.
“Shit!” we both exclaim.
I grip the steering wheel and maneuver us to the right lane. “What was that!” I yell but my answer becomes loud and clear. My tire monitoring light comes on, followed by a low-pressure warning for my back passenger tire. Seconds later, my car slows and a loud thumping sound can be heard. “This can’t be happening.”
Rini lets her window down then looks out. “Your tire definitely blew out, sis. It’s bad. You have to pull over.”
“I am,” I admit.
After I press the button for my hazards, I ease over to the edge of the right lane then coast to the exit. I pray all the way to the gas station right off the exit. We just got on the road fifteen minutes ago. This is definitely not supposed to be happening.
“You got Triple A, right?”
“No. BMW has its own roadside assistance but I don’t need it. I can change a flat. As long as the rim isn’t bent or damaged, I can handle that.”
“I know you are Miss Independent but Quinn, you have on tight but cute ass jeans, those heeled boots, and a beige shirt. None of that screams getting on the dirty, wet ground and changing a damn tire. Call somebody please,” she begs but I dismiss her.
“These are our new snip toe boots,” I remind her. “This ultimate flex insole and heel are perfect for anything.”
“Okay, sounding like y’all damn commercials,” she teases. “At the end of the day, flex or no flex, they are too damn cute for you to be out there trying to change a tire.”
Anything basic on a car, I can do. I was raised by my dad, uncle, and older brother. I was taught never to depend on a man. So I can change a tire, change my oil, and even replace spark plugs if needed. Now, I can’t remember the last time I’ve done any of those but the knowledge is still embedded in my mind. However, when I get out and see just how bad it is, I relent and get back in the car.
“The tire is shredded. I don’t know what could have done that shit. If I ran over something, I definitely didn’t see it,” I admit. “Let me put in a roadside request.”
“I’m going inside. You want something?”
“I need one of those Black Ops Specialty peach teas but since I’m driving, a sweet tea if they have. Bottle, not fountain.”
“Okay. I got you. I’ll drink the bourbon if they sell them.” She smirks then leaves me in my ride.
I open the My BMW app and fill out the info for roadside assistance. The estimated wait time for help to arrive is too damn long, seventy-eight damn minutes. Frustrated, I decide to check one more time to see if I can change it myself. I just need the spare to get me to Millers Pointe. There’s a Luxury is Powers dealership there and if I can make it there before closing, the service department can fix it properly.
After popping my trunk, I get out of my X5 then walk to the back. Most newer model BMWs don’t come with spare tires but thankfully, I have the x5 M Competition Trim. My baby has a spare tire kit and I locate it in my trunk. As I’m pulling out the jack, I hear a deep, sexy, slightly raspy baritone.
“You need help with that?”
When I turn around, the very face that distracted me before this blowout is staring at me intently and he has a horse.
How the hell!