Chapter 27 #2
I clamp my lips together. All I can think of is Bailey, and how that loser Kirk hurt her, and how I’m doing the same—to Ash, and to Bailey.
‘I know you, Beau Donovan. I know what you’ve been through, what your life’s been like. I know you push people away who try to get close, and I never wanted that to be us.’
I stare straight ahead, acknowledging the truth of her words. If Ash had told me she loved me, I would have run a mile.
‘We haven’t been together in years,’ I mumble. ‘I thought you’d moved on, been with other guys; I really thought we were just friends, like always.’
She doesn’t reassure me, doesn’t tell me I’m right. I feel like an A-grade moron, and an asshole to boot.
‘How can I fix this?’
She shakes her head softly. ‘There’s nothing to fix. I know you love me, probably as much as you’ll ever love any woman. But I also know there’s no future for us. I just hate seeing you get hurt is all.’
I put my hand on her knee, recognising how different it feels compared to when I touch Bailey and my whole body catches alight.
Bailey’s the only person I’ve ever felt that with—not just normal chemistry, but the sort of whole-body explosion that makes me think my skin’s gonna catch fire.
I stand up, guilty at the betrayal to Ash, to be thinking about Bailey, and to Bailey, in being here with Ash.
‘I feel the same about you,’ I say belatedly. ‘I don’t want you to get hurt.’
‘I know that. Listen, Beau, I’m okay. I’ve known I love you for years; this isn’t new for me.’
‘I would have had this talk a long time ago, if I’d realised.’
‘Exactly. And we’d have been over. Because you’d never have slept with me if you knew how I felt.’
I try to take comfort from that. From the fact that Ash sees me as a decent guy, even if Bailey doesn’t.
‘What does this mean?’ I turn to face her, hands on my hips.
She smiles up at me, a smile that changes her eyes and makes her face glow.
‘It doesn’t change a damn thing, Beau Donovan, and don’t you think I won’t kill you if it does.
’ She stands up, walks toward me, puts her hands loosely around my waist. ‘We’re friends, and always will be.
I just want you to be happy, like I know you want for me.
I gave up on us being together a long time ago, okay?
You don’t need to worry about me. I’m going to be okay, I promise. ’
Two days later, as I throw my bags into the pick-up, I’m in a foul mood and can’t shake it. Austin has one hip propped against the truck bed, to favour his good leg, and he’s watching me in a way that gets right under my skin.
‘You don’t have to compete if you don’t want to.’
I stare at him, not understanding.
‘You just seem pissed as all hell is all. If it’s about Vegas, pull out.’
I shake my head. My life is in turmoil. None of the familiar feels right anymore. Even being here at the ranch has been wrong. But riding? That’s the one thing I can count on, the one thing I know will get everything making sense again.
‘I’m not quitting.’
He holds his hands up in the universal sign of surrender. Or ‘calm the fuck down’. ‘I’m not asking you to. I’m just saying, if you’re dreading it or whatever, take some time. It would be totally normal for you to have some concerns, after that ride. Given what you went through before …’
‘This isn’t some form of PTSD, bro,’ I snap, then wish I could eat those words up. Austin knows more than the average guy about PTSD, after the number of tours he’s served, the guys he’s lost.
‘Christ, I’m sorry.’ I drag a hand through my hair. He looks unfazed though, eyes holding mine.
He ignores my apology, homes in on my denial. ‘Isn’t it?’
‘No.’
‘You sure?’
‘Every rider gets thrown; it’s part of the business. That wasn’t even a bad fall.’
‘Sure, but after your accident—’
‘Y’all were more worried about that than I was.’ I can’t keep the irritation out of my voice. ‘I didn’t quit riding because I had trauma, it was because everyone else did.’
He nods once, but his eyes don’t leave mine. ‘So what’s going on then?’
‘Nothing,’ I say flatly, refusing to let his words in.
‘Bullshit.’
I grimace.
‘You’ve been like this since you got back from Phoenix.’
I grind my jaw.
‘Your whole life you’ve been the guy who laughs his way out of anything, jokes when he’s pissed off, shrugs as though he doesn’t have a care in the world.’
It’s like having something stripped off me, an important outer layer that hides who I am.
I feel vulnerable and exposed; I don’t like it.
I turn away, looking toward Mom’s rose garden.
It’s beautiful, as always, and just seeing it lodges something inside of me.
Loss. Grief. A perfect life, turned upside down.
‘It must be real bad if you can’t even try to do that now.’
‘It’s nothing,’ I lie. Bailey is in my mind with her furious face all pinched and pale.
‘Have it your way.’ He comes up behind me, puts his hand on my shoulder. ‘But I’m here if you need to talk. You know that, right? Just call, anytime.’
I ignore the thickening in my throat, the sense that I want to turn around and hug my brother and lose my shit, because I miss Bailey like I didn’t know it was possible to miss another person and I want to tell someone that. But I just straighten my spine and nod.
‘I’ll be back in a few weeks.’
There’s silence for a beat. ‘See you then.’
I drive off into the sunset, but not in that happily ever after kind of way. This is a heavy-hearted, gut-tightening, my-life-is-a-disaster feeling, and I hate it more than I can say.
Her feature piece gets published on the Sunday of the Vegas event.
To be honest, I’d forgotten about it. The article was secondary to Bailey.
She’s what’s filled my head, my every thought.
Bailey James and her smile, her sassy answers to anything I said.
Her laugh, her body, her hair, her bravery, sweetness and vulnerability, her courage.
All the parts of her. The way she’d thanked me for taking her to the ballet, the way she’d cried as she’d let it back into her life.
So the article wasn’t really on my mind at all, until Beth texted it to the family WhatsApp chat after the event.
I’ve had another couple of rough rides on rank-ass bulls, and my body is feeling it.
Every muscle hurts, and my wrist throbs beneath the tape.
I ignore that, though. The season’s almost at an end.
That’s all I can focus on. Just get through each week, and go from there.
When the text comes in from Beth, my stomach drops.
There’s that feeling again of being stripped raw, all my vulnerabilities out there in the open, so I can’t even click on the link at first. I stalk out of my hotel room, down to the bar.
I choose a dark corner out of the way, and order some wings and a beer.
Only once I’m settled, with my back to the room, do I man up and click into the damned thing.
There’s a photo of me right at the top, I guess taken by an event photographer.
I’m watching one of the younger guys ride, and my face is lined with concentration.
Beau Donovan has earned the nickname The Comeback King this season, but that’s not entirely accurate.
After all, how can you come back from something that never knocked you down?
It’s clear that Beau’s career-halting accident didn’t affect his love for the sport one bit.
This man is cowboy, through and through.
We’re all born with a need to breathe and eat, this man’s born with an insatiable ache to ride bulls, and effortlessly tame them.
Something sticks in my throat. That feeling of being seen. Understood. I think of the way Bailey talks about ballet, and it’s confirmation I don’t really need of how much she gets me.
I keep reading, ignoring the steady stream of WhatsApp notifications pinging at the top of my screen.
It’s a long article, and as I take it all in, I hear Bailey’s voice, like she’s narrating it to me.
The wings are brought over when I’m about halfway through.
I distractedly murmur my thanks, without looking away from the screen.
To watch Beau ride is to see something special. Whether you are a fan of the sport or not, it’s easy to understand why people flock to watch him. His mastery of these animals—even the meanest—is unmatched.
The Donovan family made it clear to me that they’d have preferred Beau to pursue anything but bull riding after his accident. But once he made his decision, they lined up to support him, cheering for him, no matter what.
Riding with a badly sprained wrist is the perfect metaphor for who Beau Donovan is.
No matter what life throws at him, he gets back on the bull and rides through the pain—courageous, determined, and probably a little bit foolhardy too.
Then again, what’s the point of life if you don’t take a risk, from time to time?
I close the article and stare straight ahead, not sure what to make of it. Not sure what to make of anything.
My phone keeps buzzing. I take a drink of my beer, then go back to the chat.
Cole: She sure got your measure.
Beth: It’s like she knows you like we know you.
Nash: How much did you pay her to get a piece like this?
Austin: And what’s with the photos?
I’d barely noticed the photos. I click back into the article and scroll through it, something twisting in my gut as realisation dawns.
I was wrong. These aren’t photographer snaps.
They’re Beth’s. She’s taken these. I should have picked it from that one on the top, where it shows my profile—it was clearly taken from where she was sitting that night.
Cole: What’s wrong with the photos?
Austin: They’re all a bit … flattering, aren’t they?
Mackenzie:
Mackenzie: Hate to break it to you, Marine, but there’s a reason anything we post of him goes crazy online.
Beth: That’s true.
Cole: Hey.
Beth:
Austin: Seriously, it’s a good article, bro. I’m proud of you.
Something sticks in my throat. I reach for a wing, eating it in the hope I’ll feel normal afterward, wiping my fingers on the napkin before picking up my phone again.
Cole: We all are.
I blink quickly.
Beth: Do you have her number @Beau? I’d love to message, to congratulate her.
Message to congratulate Bailey? If anyone does that, it should be me. But I can hardly say no to Beth. I copy Bailey’s number from my contacts and paste it into the chat.
Then a private message from Austin comes through: You know, Beth’s right. Any one of us could have written that article, if we could write half as damn well as Bailey. She really got your measure.
I swallow quickly.
That’s her job.
You sure that’s all it is? he replies.
I stare at the wall, that same urge to confide in him creeping over me.
You know what I’m like.
I’m someone who can’t help flirting, hooking up with women. Never mind that I haven’t really been like that in years. I’m casual and careless. I hurt Ash, I hurt Bailey, god knows how many other women there are that I hurt without meaning to, without even realising it.
Don’t do that.
I ignore the message. I’m not in the mood for a pep talk. Austin doesn’t realise it, though.
I saw how you were with her.
My heart jerks.
What does that mean? I type.
You looked at her like she was your world. I thought you were going to have kittens when she rode that damn pretend bull. It was different, Beau. You were different.
I squeeze my eyes shut, the pounding in my chest impossible to ignore.
And that wasn’t just an article. It was proof that she knows you, she gets you, and I reckon she’s probably in love with you.
I make a loud scoffing sound. Start to type fuck off, but something holds me back.
A thousand micro fragments of memories of Bailey in the hotel room burst through me.
Things she said, the way she acted. Her palpable grief.
At the time, I’d put it down to what happened with her and Kirk, presumed she was just feeling that all over again.
That I’d triggered some pain from her past.
But what if that was only partly true?
What if the pain was all her own, all new, and because of me? More specifically, how she feels about me.
I can well believe you, of all people, missed it.
That’s what she’d said, about me not realising Ash was in love with me. You of all people. Like I made a habit of not seeing it, when people loved me. When she loved me?
But we were so clear, from the very start, about what we were and what we weren’t. She has her whole life mapped out, and it’s as far from bull riding as can be.
Which means it’s hard to see a future for us, but that’s not the same thing as her not loving me.
In fact, I’d bet my last buck on her having thrown me out of her hotel room because I was breaking her heart just by being there and saying all the wrong things. Talking about always being careful with the women I ‘sleep with’, like that’s all we fucking were.
‘Holy shit.’ I stand up, wipe my hands on the napkin again, then stare around, like there’s someone here who can tell me what the hell to do.
How to fix this.
And what I want.
Because the truth is, if Austin’s right about Bailey, if I’m right, then what?
It doesn’t change anything. It doesn’t change the fact that I’m as shit scared as ever of loving someone and losing them.
It doesn’t change the fact I’ve always had a good idea of how to protect myself, and it doesn’t involve letting someone like Bailey in.
But how can I keep her out? How can I walk away, if she’s prepared to offer me her heart?
No matter what life throws at him, he gets back on the bull and rides through the pain—courageous, determined, and probably a little bit foolhardy too.
Is she right? Am I courageous enough, foolhardy enough, to take the biggest risk of my life and let myself love Bailey, and be loved by her, knowing there are no guarantees in anything?
Then again, what’s the point of life if you don’t take a risk, from time to time?
I stride toward the door of the bar, the question ricocheting inside my brain like a pinball, with no clear answer.