Chapter 7
Chapter Seven
By the time Seamus got back to the bull fighting…compound?…he was feeling much more relaxed.
He’d spent hours in bed, he’d had amazing breakfasts from the chef at the inn, and he was starting to feel a bit more like a movie star again.
He didn’t need to feel like it every day, or even every other day, but he figured about once a month he wanted to feel like what he was—somebody who had an enormous amount of money for doing the best job on earth.
He’d had a massage, he’d had a facial, he’d had a manicure and a pedicure. So had everybody else, of course, including Christopher, and they all felt better.
So he showed up to work Monday morning with a smile on his face.
He was not going to let the bull fighter bother him in the least. He was going to learn to do this as best he could with the knowledge that if he couldn’t learn how to do this, the studio was probably going to hire someone else to do it anyway, and there was nothing that this little fucker could do to teach him how to lie in a coffin and look dead or have an emotional connection with his co-star on screen.
So there. Ha.
He was rested, he was calm, and he’d had exceptional coffee. Bring it on.
Dawson met him at the practice arena, wearing his uniform of baggy shirt over some kind of pads or maybe a ballistic vest, long sports shorts, shin guards under socks, and athletic shoes.
Why that was… weirdly hot he didn’t know. But he didn’t need that in his brain. Nope. Not one bit.
Dawson walked up to him, coffee travel mug in one hand, straw work cowboy hat in the other.
“Hey. You have a good weekend?”
“I did, yes. I’m ready to work.” He tilted his chin up.
Challenging.
“Good deal.” Dawson cleared his throat. “I need to apologize to you. I’ve been an ass, and I’m sorry.”
“Is that the company line?”
“No, sir. That’s just me.”
“Fair enough.” Seamus wasn’t going to argue. He did accept the apology. The sentiment was good of the guy, whether or not he meant it. “I appreciate it. If I did anything to cause offense, it was absolutely unintentional, and I apologize.”
He wasn’t going to say he was sorry, because he didn’t know what he’d done, so he couldn’t be sorry, and he wasn’t going to say he wasn’t going to do it again, because he hadn’t done anything wrong, and he was going to continue to not do anything wrong.
Fortunately he didn’t say any of that out loud.
And he knew it didn’t show in his face, because it was his goddamn job not to have it show in his face. He was so proud of the fact that he could have whatever expression he wanted at any given time.
In fact he used to sit in front of a mirror for hours and practice— sad, happy, mad, happy, scared, disappointed, ecstatic.
Everybody needed a skill.
And a hobby.
“I was just uncomfortable, because I gotta be honest, you’re smokin’ hot. So I was trying to keep you at arm’s length.” Dawson’s cheeks went red, but to his credit, he brazened it out. “That’s on me, not you. If you’re still willing to work with me, we’ll get to it.”
Seamus shrugged, rolling his eyes so hard it hurt.
“What kind of an asshole would I be if I was like, you just complimented me, telling me I was smoking hot, and now I don’t want to work with you?
That’s just ridiculous.” He shook his head, letting himself relax and just be himself.
“Have you looked at yourself in the mirror? Especially in this—” Get-up was probably wrong, and costume was absolutely out.
“—uniform? You so are working the hotness. So yeah, no stress.”
He waggled his eyebrows and winked, going for funny and harmless.
“I swear to you, I’ve done nothing to be attractive.
I am an accident of genetics, as far as my looks go.
Well, this—” He pulled up his shirt and showed off his eight-pack.
“That’s work. With the face, no, I can’t take credit for it. ”
Christopher groaned. “Put your shirt down, Shay. You look like a porn star.”
“Bah.” He did put his shirt down, though, because bad image. “So like, from what you’re wearing right now, I’m gonna have a really bad day. Do I get to have pads and stuff, maybe a balloon suit to protect me?”
“We could wrap you in bubble wrap, I reckon.” Dawson winked.
“And I’m the one likely to have a bad day.
I’m going to show you me working a couple of real bulls so you can see the practical application of the shit I’m teaching you.
Then you’ll work on it without the animals.
Then we’ll pad you up so you can feel what it’s like with all the gear on. ”
Well, that was promising.
“Are you… I mean, I don’t want to be personal, but this isn’t going to hurt you, right? I mean, I would have incredible guilt if you did something and got hurt because of me. I’m serious. I don’t want anybody to get hurt on my behalf.” In fact, the thought just kind of horrified him
Dawson stared at him, unblinking. “Well, these aren’t rank bulls, so it ought to be okay, but anytime you’re working with animals of this size, you have to know it’s going to be dangerous.”
He wasn’t so scared about him; he could do this. He knew how to be hurt, but he wasn’t sure he could handle Dawson getting hurt.
Or anybody for that matter.
Just to show him how to do it? That seemed cruel.
“Well, if you think you’re okay… I just admit to having concerns.”
“Well, no need for concerns.” Dawes was looking at him a little bit as if he’d lost his mind, and he guessed maybe he had.
He didn’t know.
“So real bulls huh?”
“Yep, but you’re going to sit there on the fence, and you’re just going to watch. Clear?”
He nodded. He got it.
“Right now, though, we’re waiting for Mr. Coke and Nate to come out. At least one of them at any rate.”
“So, how many people are usually here training?” He wanted to get a feeling for what worked for the bullriders, day-to-day.
“They hold a training in the spring, and they usually hold a big training in the fall.”
“Is there a reason?” The schedule seemed odd.
“Why do they train then?”
“For the people who are needing to train early, in the spring, things are just getting started. When I say spring, I mean like March and April. There’s an eight-week intensive, usually.
Anyone can always come out and just train or rehab too, if they’re in that spot.
” Dawes started jogging, keeping himself warm.
“And then, in the fall, by then everybody’s voted on who they want to work in the finals and all, so that’s a better deal than just sitting on your thumbs. ”
God, this was way more complicated than he’d ever considered.
“They apparently do a bunch of two-week beginner bullfighter things, too. Summer is usually super busy in the actual rodeo, so they don’t have any need to have any training, except for people like me who are out here rehabbing and getting ready to get back on the road.”
He took notes on his phone, fascinated. “You work for the league?”
“Yeah, I get paid by the league. There’s a head bullfighter—right now that’s me—and then there’s my team. There’s always three working bullfighters, plus two alternates. So, it’s usually Deuce, me, and Davi. Then we got Ranger and that little boy from Canada.”
Dawes stopped, blinked. “I’m embarrassed. I can’t remember his name, Colin? Dakota? Dalton? He’s not a Carlos…”
Seamus chuckled and grabbed his phone, typing ‘Who are the alternates for the North American Bull Riding League?’
“Dakota Tritt with two t’s.”
“Dakota! I thought it was something with a D or a C, maybe an R.” Dawes chuckled deep in his chest. “So anyway, Ricardo came up, and I’m gonna go back. I figure the way I’m going, I’ll be on tour for the finals, if nothing else, but hopefully before that.”
Seamus couldn’t imagine. “And you’re not scared?”
“You’ve got to respect the bulls, sure, but I don’t think you can do what we do if you’re scared.”
He tilted his head. “No?”
“No, I mean…you think about it, right. I have to make split-second decisions all the time. And if I make the wrong one, someone could die. So, I can’t function with fear.
I have to function with respect, and I have to function with sense, knowledge.
I know these bulls—their habits and their tendencies, but even then sometimes mistakes are made and sometimes you gotta let yourself get hurt to save somebody else because that’s your job. ”
That stole his breath.
The idea that in order to save him, someone else might get seriously injured. Possibly die. He’d read about one bull fighter who wasn’t even on duty who had stepped into the ring to help out and ended up with his insides on the outside.
Man, he was going to gag if he wasn’t careful, and that wouldn’t do. He didn’t want Dawes to think that he was offended in any way.
“You’re looking at me like I’ve grown two heads,” Dawson said, grinning. “But it’s the truth. We know it when we’re going in, so it’s not like it’s a surprise to anybody.”
“Sure, I suppose that’s true. It just seems like something that I wouldn’t choose as a career.” He laughed, trying not to be straight-out ugly.
That statement got him a sharp burst of laughter from Dawson.
“Yeah, most of us wouldn’t have chosen it either.
We all went into the rodeo from high school or someplace like that because our families were rodeo people.
Thinking we were going to be riders, ropers, that kind of thing.
And most of us—turned out we weren’t very good at it.
But because we wanted to stick around, we found a way. ”
“He sure has got that one right.” Mr. Coke jogged into the arena. “Come on, Seamus. You got your shoes on? Let’s get to running.” Coke couldn’t quite look at Seamus because he had already run by and he wasn’t able to turn his head and look over his shoulder, really.
Christopher told him the guy amazed him, how he could do so much as beat up as he was. Nick said he had given Mr. Dillon some advice on how to help rehab that poor neck.