Epilogue
epilogue
Las Vegas, Nevada
December
Eight months of traveling across the country. Thousands of miles. Dozens of rodeos. An infinite number of questionable bathrooms. All of it led us here.
Under the brightest lights in the world, I’m cheering on my Trouble as she makes her claim for the National Finals Rodeo crown. It’s a sold-out crowd, and the energy is palpable. I down the ice-cold beer, the aluminum bottle crumpling in my grip. She’s eighth tonight, and we’re only on rider number four. I’m an old hat at rodeos and the anticipation of watching the love of my life ride now, but everything about tonight is heightened. All my years in the boardroom, dealing with million-dollar contracts and managing my father, have nothing on being in the stands waiting to see Laramie achieve her dream. It’s a wholly different pressure. My leg bounces until Kit passes me another beer.
“Sip this one, Son. ”
“Yeah,” Tuesday says. “You’re making us nervous.”
Kit, Bond, Tuesday, and the rest of the Trail Creek crew showed up a few days ago, sporting Laramie Larson Fan Club: Trail Creek Branch shirts. Each evening since, they’ve joined Kit and me in cheering for Laramie, always bringing matching tops for us all. Tonight, it’s a hot pink sweatshirt my sister made that says Lucky Laramie Larson: I’m not lucky; I’m talented.
Tuesday grins and brushes off her shoulders. “This one’s my favorite.”
“I can’t wait for her to see it.” I already know how my girl will react. She’ll fight back tears and make some smart-ass comment about how amazing she is, and then she’ll take the shirt Tuesday gives her and carefully add it to the others. She’s saving them all to get a quilt made.
The announcer’s voice booms through the speakers, calling out the next rider’s name and stats.
From next to me, Kit grunts. “She’s good, but not as good as Mimi.”
I hum my agreement. Truthfully, though, it doesn’t matter if she comes in fifteenth or first; I’m so fucking proud of her. The format for the NFR differs from a lot of the smaller rodeos, so it’s been a long ten days. Laramie’s had great nights and ones where she and X didn’t get the time they wanted, but overall, she’s in excellent position for a top-five finish.
Riders five, six, and seven all put up commendable numbers. I’ve learned so much over the past eight months, like how to judge a race without even looking at the clock. I’ve also perfected the art of making Laramie fall apart on my fingers, tongue, and cock, but those skills aren’t helpful right now.
Discreetly adjusting myself, I push last night’s celebratory orgasm-fest from my mind and focus. It’s time. With bated breath, I watch the countdown clock flash until it hits zero.
The thunder of hooves fills the arena, mixing with the roar of the crowd to create a chaotic, frenzied symphony. Laramie and X move in perfect harmony, twin creatures of impulse and instinct. Together, they round the first barrel, Laramie trusting X with the certainty of someone born to ride.
She’s glorious. Her long brown hair flies behind her, and those same strong thighs that rode me last night hold her trim body just inches off the saddle. Though I only catch flickers of her face, I know it’s a mask of determination and joy.
I think about the second time I ever saw her, wrestling with a five-pound dumbbell, frustration pouring from her as she pushed through the pain. Later, in the hot tub, finding her underwater, my heart jumping into my throat, screaming at me to save her.
But in the end, she saved me. Sure, it was a rough road, but I wouldn’t give up where I am now for anything.
The group around me lets out a collective sigh, followed by a series of exuberant whoops and woos. Laramie’s time flashes on the jumbotron, the fastest of the night so far. I jump to my feet and push through the throngs of people until I reach the cordoned-off area separating the spectators from the athletes.
With all the confidence of a mediocre man who delusionally believes he’s great—thanks for teaching me this one, Dad—I walk past security like I belong there. No one stops me, so I speed up, needing to wrap Laramie in my arms.
I search through the cacophony of horses, competitors, trainers, and more. I clench my teeth and flex my fingers. Laramie could be anywhere back here.
“Excuse me?” I stop a young man wearing a lanyard. “Can you point me toward the cool-down area?” He waves in a general direction, and I take off before he realizes I don’t belong back here, as if my lack of boots and hat plus the bright pink sweatshirt with flowy script doesn’t give me away.
The crowd thins as I move away from the gate, the energy shifting from an urgent pressing to a soft hum. For a second, I worry I missed her somehow, but then, like my guiding beacon, I see her.
Laramie stands next to Xpresso, stroking her mane and whispering to her. No doubt, she’s giving the Boss a treat and praising her for their run. My feet carry me forward until I’m pressing my face into her neck, breathing her in.
“Who’s that sexy rider? I think I’m in love.”
With a laugh, she spins. “War!” Her eyes drop to my chest. “Oh, this one is my favorite so far!” Then she looks at me, a tiny crinkle forming between her eyebrows. “What are you doing back here?”
“Taking a page from your playbook and causing a little trouble.”
Laramie’s dark brown eyes radiate warmth and love as she smiles. “I’m a bad influence on you, Pretty Boy.”
X snorts her agreement, and I reach around Laramie to pat the horse. “Hey Boss, I’m not taking her away till she’s got you all taken care of, I promise.”
“She’s good. Watered and pepperminted. Now, it’s just the waiting game.” Laramie bites her lower lip and focuses on the screen. They’re up to number eleven, and based on the cumulative average speeds, my girl is sitting in third.
“I keep trying not to look, but I can’t seem to stop.”
“Anything I can do to help?”
Laramie snags my hand and guides us until her back is against a nearby wall. She cranes her head, glancing to see if anyone is nearby. People linger in the area, but we’re mostly hidden behind Xpresso and with the wall to our backs.
With a devilish grin, Laramie says, “Be a good boy and distract me.”
I drop my head to her shoulder and groan. “Fuck, Trouble.” My fingers grip her hips, kneading and squeezing them through the stiff material of her jeans. When she rises onto her tip-toes and settles her hat on my head, I know what she has in mind.
Despite all the blood rushing to my cock, I’m not looking for my release right now. No, my girl asked for a distraction, and I’m going to give her one. One hand slides up her back to her nape, collaring her. Her muscles instantly relax. As much as Laramie enjoys being in charge, she also drips when I take control.
I tilt her head back and kiss her. Taste her. Devour her. When she’s pliant, I turn her until her cheek presses against the wall. My jaw tics with the need to slide my cock between her thighs, but there’s not enough time. This has to be quick and dirty.
“Does my sweetheart want to ride my fingers? Do you need me to tease this pussy until you come?”
“Yes. Please!”
“Shhh, Laramie. We wouldn’t want to draw a crowd.” I thumb open the button of her jeans, then yank down the fly. Her Wranglers are so damn tight, I can hardly get my hand into them. But where there’s a will…
Working slowly, I tease a finger through her curls and around her clit, loving the way she shivers. I kick her feet wider, giving myself more room to work. That single finger continues its exploration, dipping inside her up to the first knuckle before pulling out. Then I do it again, this time sinking deeper but still toying with her.
She squirms and huffs. “War, we don’t have time?—”
One finger becomes two, and I search and curl them inside her. With my free arm, I muffle her cries, my hips thrusting forward when she sinks her teeth into my forearm. The heel of my palm works her clit, giving her pressure outside, while inside, I work that sensitive spot that will make her shatter .
“Come for me. I want to walk back out for the closing ceremonies with your scent on my hand, knowing you’re sitting in drenched panties.”
She whimpers my name, her knees giving out with her release. I grind my aching cock against her ass, doing what I can to take the edge off, but when she drops her head against my chest, her long lashes fluttering against her cheeks, and says, “I love you so fucking much, War,” all my discomfort melts away.
“To Laramie!” Bond holds up a drink as we offer our cheers.
“To me!” she chirps, downing her third glass of champagne.
We’re celebrating Laramie’s fourth-place finish in a massive suite at some swanky hotel on the Strip. The final rider blazed through fast enough to bump her down a spot, but nothing but pride radiates from Laramie.
With her refilled glass in the air, she clears her throat. “Attention, please!”
The room turns to her, and of course, she preens. “Thank you all for being here this week, supporting me, and wearing all these amazing shirts.” She gestures to the different tops behind her.
“You guys know us and our story. That we met in physical therapy, nursing shoulder injuries.” Laramie steps into my arms and grins up at me. “ My injury was from falling off a bronco and having surgery; a swimming pool brought War down.” There’s a round of laughter from our closest friends.
“You also know we had a rocky start.” Her voice softens, and she squeezes my arms where they rest around her waist. “I made a terrible mistake and hurt War. Then he pulled a me and ran.” This earns her another small laugh. “His pain brought him to Trail Creek and you amazing people. And then, in a weird, wonderful twist, he ended up in Lubbock of all places.
“The War who showed up at the rodeo that night was nothing like the one I left in Dallas, and the biggest difference was?—”
“The yeti beard!” Tuesday says.
“The overgrown hair?” Bond asks.
“The fifteen extra pounds?” This comes from me. I shrug and duck my head when everyone stares.
Laramie’s bright giggle sounds around the room. “Those are all excellent guesses. But, no, the biggest difference was his spirit. He was softer, a little fragile, but undeniably someone I needed to know.” She wiggles out of my grasp and crosses the room, digging through a bag. “And he also didn’t have his watch.”
My fingers absently rub my bare wrist, and I swallow back bitter bile at the memory of that stupid watch and all it symbolized. True to the word of his letter, neither Tuesday nor I have spoken with our parents since Warren Phillips, Sr. issued his ultimatum. But, I look around the room, we haven’t wanted for family.
“Trouble, where are you going with this?”
She pushes me into an empty chair and climbs into my lap. “I have something for you.”
There’s a brick in my stomach as I take the clumsily wrapped box. It’s cheap brown paper with printed horseshoes. Nothing like the last time I opened a box this size. There’s no way it’s another Breitling. Or, god forbid, the same damn one.
Laramie’s lips brush my ear. “Don’t worry. You’ll like it. ”
I tear through the cheap paper, letting it fall to the floor. When I slide off the lid, there nestled on a bed of thin tissue paper lies a simple wooden watch. The face is dark brown, and it only tells time. No bells, no whistles. No gold casing or phases of the moon.
“Turn it over.”
As I flip over the watch, my breath catches. Everyone else in the room disappears; it’s just Laramie and me.
May you never go to battle without your wild horse.
I run a finger over the engraving and pull her face to mine. “Marry me.”
Laramie jerks back. “What?”
Louder, I repeat the question. The one I need her to answer. “Will you marry me?”
Her mouth opens and closes as she nods, eyes wide and locked on mine.
“Need to hear you say it, sweetheart.”
“Yes! Yes, I’ll marry you!”
There’s a rush of congratulations and well wishes, but I hear none. All I can see, smell, sense is her—my favorite kind of trouble.