Chapter 16
Chapter Sixteen
Bailey
Aweek after meeting Beau and I am intimately aware of him as a man, and a partner.
I know his body, his beauty; I know what it’s like to be held by him, to be made love to by him.
I know the way his voice sounds as he comes, when he laughs, the way he breathes when asleep.
I can describe in intimate detail the way he dresses, which leg he puts in his jeans first, the way he slides up his zip without doing up the button until he’s pulled his shirt on—a weird thing that’s just uniquely Beau.
I can describe his masculine fragrance, the way his hands sit when he’s driving, his favourite music.
I can tell you almost everything about him, but none of that is what I want for my article.
A week and a half after meeting Beau, I’m sitting in the press section of another arena, soaking in the experience of a rodeo.
This time it feels old hat. And yet, it doesn’t.
There’s a different thrill that runs through my veins this time around.
An energy that floods me when I stand and sing the anthem and when I watch the pre-event entertainment, and when the commentator’s voice fills the stadium, hyping the crowd, something else charges my veins, lifting the hairs on my body.
It lands differently, seeing these younger guys climb the chute rails then ease down onto their bulls.
Beau talked a lot about them on the drive across to Albuquerque.
He talked about the way he feels like his duty, as one of the more experienced riders, is to keep them safe.
To show them that you can ride a bull, take the risks, but not lose your head.
When he talks, there’s something in his voice I doubt he even acknowledges to himself: fear.
Fear of what can go wrong, of the very fine line they walk between sport and injury.
The cost of doing what he loves, what they all love, and the risks inherent to that.
I scratch a line to that effect in my notepad then cap my pen.
Beau almost always rides after the break.
As one of the big names on the circuit, they use him to amp up the crowd.
It’s not just that he’s good, it’s his charisma and charm.
His easy smile, rugged good looks, commanding height.
He’s like a poster boy for bull riding; no wonder the organisers capitalise on it.
By the time he’s called up to ride, my nerves are stretched almost to breaking point.
He climbs the chute rails, then moves down on the bull.
I’ve watched him do this so many times online and at the rodeos in Fort Worth, I can see it with my eyes shut, yet I don’t look away.
I’m compelled to keep looking as he pulls on his gloves, tugs at the rope, tests his balance, focuses his gaze straight ahead, his body lithe and poised to react, his determination unyielding.
My heart shoots into my throat, my stomach knots.
The gate bursts open with a clang, and I lean forward.
His control is magnificent—each buck of the bull has him shifting, moving like he’s riding a wave, anticipating and staying balanced, his shoulders squared in a small outward sign of the depth of his concentration.
My pulse fires harder, so loud in my ears it’s like the ocean is raging through the stadium, a tidal wave of tension that’s pulling me under.
It’s only eight seconds but I don’t breathe, and my lungs start to burn.
The bull bucks and then Beau’s off, jumping down and landing hard on his feet, taking a few quick steps back as the bull rounds on him.
I life a hand to cover my gasp, seeing Beau as he is now and as he was back then, on the night of his accident, when his body was thrown clear through the air by a bull that looked just like this.
I make a strangled sound, aware of the reporter beside me—from some local paper—who glances in my direction. Aware, but not caring.
Beau’s name pounds through my brain; I barely see the bullfighters, but a second later they’re there, ropes moving, the bull furious but tamed, Beau’s body still tight, wary.
But in trademark Beau style, despite the tension, he’s lifting his hands and air punching, then waving to the stadium.
The audience erupts—their crowd pleaser has done his job. They’re ecstatic.
I feel like I’ve been through the wringer and barely escaped with my life.
Beau wins the event that weekend, but after watching him ride three more bulls over the course of two days, each of them meaner than the last, I am contemplating never going to another rodeo.
I’ve seen enough. I get the point. I don’t need to keep watching him do this for the sake of my article.
I can write about the atmosphere, the fans, the thrill of it all, without needing to witness it a single other time.
Beau, though, is on cloud nine. The prize pool for the event was decent, but he never talks about that.
Like money’s not a factor for him at all.
After the Sunday ride, we go to a bar with a heap of the other guys.
There are other media here too, and some Instagram- and TikTok-type people, filming content.
So I watch Beau from afar, rather than risk doing anything that might show what’s going on between us.
I watch as he chats and laughs with just about everyone, the quintessential cowboy: easygoing, likeable, tough, rugged and unbreakable.
It knots my stomach though, because every time I blink, just about, I have this image of him being tossed from the bull, flying across the arena, landing with a sickening, heavy thud and not moving.
It’s a part of his past, but every time he gets on a bull, I know it’s a possibility all over again.
One of the journalists who’s covering the tour for a paper out of Nashville comes up to me with a beer. I hesitate before taking it. We met a couple of days ago; his name is Nicholas.
‘It doesn’t bite,’ he says with a wink.
My smile is tight as I reach for the ice-cold drink.
‘This isn’t your usual beat, right?’
I shake my head. ‘What gives it away?’
He glances down at my suit.
‘I left my chaps at home,’ I joke, earning a wink from him.
‘Pity.’
I ignore the flirtation in his tone. ‘How about you?’ I ask instead. ‘Is this what you usually work on?’
‘It’s huge around here.’ He shrugs. ‘And this year’s shaping up to be particularly good.’
‘Why’s that?’
‘Rivalry,’ he says, nodding in Beau’s direction. ‘There’s three of them duking it out for the top spot and they’re neck-and-neck after tonight. Beau Donovan’s the sentimental favourite, but you never know.’
‘Do you think he’ll have many seasons after this?’ I hate that my voice sounds strained to my own ears. Hate that I care, when in a little over a week I’ll be back in my own city, my own apartment, working on this article and thinking about the next—or better yet, on my way to DC.
‘He’s in top form,’ Nicholas says. ‘But who knows? He’s pushing the limits, in terms of age. He doesn’t need the money.’
‘No?’
‘I mean, not when you factor in his sponsorships. Plus I heard he’s already knocked back a lucrative reporting job.’
I almost spit my beer. ‘Reporting?’
‘Sure. Commentating on the event. He’s got a way about him that TV cameras just eat up; you must have noticed?’
He’s looking at me as though maybe I have a screw loose, so I smile weakly. ‘Sure.’ At that moment, Beau’s eyes find mine, and he looks like he wants to eat me up, so my heart thumps into my ribs and I turn away again quickly, heat flushing my whole body.
‘But he turned it down?’
‘He’d need to stop riding and the word is he’s nowhere near ready.’
My stomach rolls, and I remind myself that this isn’t my business. Beau and I are involved in a meaningless fling; we each have our own lives, our own thoughts, our own wants.
‘What makes any of them ready?’ I ask seriously, the question one I realise I’ve been turning over in my mind for almost a week now.
‘How do you mean?’
‘Well, I guess all these guys share a similar passion for the sport. They’re here because they want to be the best damn bull rider in the world. But at some point, they retire. When? Why?’
‘Depends on the rider. Injury, money, life circumstances. It’s hard on your body, hard to have a family when you’re travelling around like this. Like anything, you do it till you don’t.’
Which isn’t overly helpful, because I don’t know which of those circumstances—if any—will apply to Beau.
‘You’re from the Standard?’ he asks, changing the subject.
I nod and he lets out a low whistle. ‘Impressive.’
I guess it is. As far as major papers go, it’s got a decent reputation.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see a couple of women in tiny denim shorts make their way toward Beau.
I ignore the knotting in my stomach, the pounding of jealousy.
Beau isn’t Kirk, and Kirk didn’t hook up with random women in bars anyway.
At least, not as far as I know. That’s the thing about betrayal though.
You can never believe any of it was as they said.
Once trust is broken, it’s broken completely, and it doesn’t matter what Kirk said about his feelings for me, his wife, about how broken up he was about everything, it was impossible to believe a word that came out of his mouth.
It’s impossible to look back on the time we spent together, the times that were objectively good, and see that through anything other than a film of heartbreak and hurt.
I place the beer down after only two sips, offer another smile in Nicholas’s direction and say, ‘I’m going to head back and type up some notes. I’ll see you at the next event, maybe.’ Then, as an afterthought, ‘Thanks for the drink.’
I don’t look in Beau’s direction as I weave through the crowd, toward the front door.