Chapter 6 #2
I roll my eyes, tug open the rear door, and slide into the backseat with a huff.
Most of the drive is quiet, the radio humming a soft mix of old and new country songs. Emmett rolled all the windows down, so my hair’s a windblown mess—but the warm air feels good against my freshly tanned skin. One of the few perks of working outside.
The tan lines suck, but that’s kind of unavoidable. I doubt Heath would appreciate me stocking the hayloft or filling water troughs in a little pink bikini.
My mind drifts—just for a second—to the kind of reaction I might get if Wesley or Emmett ever saw me like that. And right then, my eyes catch Wesley’s in the rearview mirror.
Heat floods my cheeks.
It feels like he can see the exact thought in my head—especially when a small smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth.
I snap my gaze back to the window, pretending to admire the view and trying my best to look unfazed.
We arrived later than they wanted, so the guys had to head straight to the registration booth and “prepare” to ride. I had no idea there was a process for something this reckless.
Not that I ever gave it much thought—but I figured they just hop on the back of the angry animal and hope for the best.
Turns out, Emmett, Wesley, and Landon actually train for this. Balance. Leg strength. Upper-body control.
I haven’t seen them ride yet, but judging by the way they toss hay bales and feed sacks like it’s nothing, I’d say the training’s paying off.
And, okay—fine. I’ve caught glimpses of them shirtless a few times.
Only in passing. But enough to know they look like something Michelangelo would’ve been proud of.
Emmett has those effortless golden-boy muscles, like he doesn’t even have to try; Wesley’s strong and intense.
Every movement is calculated and somehow maddeningly magnetic—I shouldn’t even be noticing.
And Landon…well, Emmett wasn’t kidding. Redwoods for legs.
Lydia and I have been wandering the fairgrounds for a while, exploring before the main events start.
There’s a little petting zoo set up for the kids, but that didn’t stop us from crouching down to coo over the baby goats. One tried to chew the fringe on her shorts and we both were laughing so hard, we were crying.
According to Lydia, you haven’t really “popped your rodeo cherry” until you’ve had one of the turkey legs.
I didn’t love that phrasing, but I’ve learned better than to argue with her.
So we each got one—giant, greasy, and wrapped in foil—and split a funnel cake.
Powdered sugar clings to our fingers as we pick at it while walking back to the stands.
We’re halfway to our seats when we pass a vendor booth covered in graphic tees, each one gaudier than the last.
Lydia stops short, letting out a squeal as she holds up a cropped white shirt like it’s a prize.
It’s simple—blocky navy letters across the front that say
SAVE A HORSE, RIDE A COWBOY.
“How is it even possible I don’t already own this shirt? I swear, every buckle bunny has one.”
I shrug, unsure what a buckle bunny is, and continue flipping through the rest of the rack, pausing when one catches my eye. It’s white too, but shorter, snugger, with a phrase printed in faded red
THIS IS, IN FACT, MY FIRST RODEO.
Lydia leans over my shoulder and gasps. “Oh. My. God. You absolutely have to get that.”
“It’s a little obvious, don’t you think?”
“Nope. It’s perfect. You’re getting it. Actually”—she snatches it off the hanger—“I’m getting it for you. My treat.”
Before I can protest, she’s already bouncing over to the woman running the booth and handing her cash.
A second later, she grabs my hand and pulls me through the crowd, weaving us through people and between the tented booths.
She makes a sharp turn and ducks between two booths, shoving the shirt into my hands.
“Okay. Hurry up and put yours on. I want to surprise the guys after they ride.”
She whips off her black tank top with zero hesitation, leaving her in a sheer bralette.
My eyes go wide.
“Lydia!” I whisper-shout, scanning the gaps in the tent wall. “Someone could see you!”
She rolls her eyes, unfazed. “Relax. I didn’t think you were such a prude. What—would you rather change in a porta-potty? Enjoy the shit sauna?”
I wince. She has a point. With a reluctant sigh, I peel off my plain V-neck, feeling far more exposed than she does.
The new shirt clings tighter than I expected, hitting high on my ribs and leaving at least three inches of my stomach bare above my cutoffs. I immediately wrap my arms around my middle, fingers tugging at the hem.
Lydia gives me a once-over, then beams. “You look so good. Definitely about to break a few cowboy hearts tonight. I find it hard to believe you don’t have a guy back home.”
“Nope,” I say, trying to keep my voice light and breezy.
“A girl?”
“Not my thing.”
She narrows her eyes, clearly not buying it, and grabs my old shirt, stuffing it into her tote. “Hm. Why do I feel like you’re lying?”
“Why would I lie?”
She shrugs, still studying me. “I don’t know. Just a vibe.”
I cross my arms. “Alright, fine. There was someone. But he couldn’t exactly date me publicly. And now that I’m stuck here for the summer, he moved on.”
Her eyes widen. “Couldn’t date you publicly? Why?”
“His family,” I say simply. It’s the quickest way to sum up something that doesn’t make any sense, even to me.
Lydia tilts her head. “So you’re recently heartbroken. That explains the moping. And the locking-yourself-in-bedrooms thing.”
I groan, scrunching my nose. “Who told you that? I’m not moping.”
She smirks. “Nobody told me. You act like I haven’t seen you these past two days.”
I sigh and look up at the sky, the clouds tinged with a soft blend of dusky pink and golden orange, like the whole world is blushing.
“I’m not sad because some guy didn’t want me,” I say quietly. “I just…I don’t even care about it anymore.” A pause, my voice coming out soft. “Um—how much did Heath and the guys tell everyone about why I’m here?”
“Literally nothing,” she says, shaking her head.
“Oh.” I blink, surprised. “Well, um—basically, my dad made me come here for the summer. I wasn’t exactly thrilled about it, and I didn’t handle it well.”
I bite down on my lip. Hard enough to feel the lingering sting.
Lydia nods, her expression surprisingly serious. Then she bumps her shoulder into mine. “I think we both need a nice, crispy beer before we watch the guys try to kill themselves. What do you think?”
I huff a small, relieved laugh. “I can’t. I don’t have a fake ID.”
She gives me a slow once-over. “How old are you?”
“Eighteen.”
Lydia snorts. “Yeah, that’s not gonna be a problem. Plus, you’re with me. And I’m very convincing.”
She gives me a mischievous grin and bats her eyelashes. I can’t help the smile pulling at my mouth.
“Okay,” I breathe. “Let’s go.”
She laces her fingers through mine and pulls me into the crowd without hesitation. When we reach the giant illuminated BEER sign, the whole thing feels ridiculous in the best way.
We find a gap in the bleachers big enough for the two of us. The seats are still warm from the lingering sun as we settle in, clear plastic cups in hand. I take a cautious sip. It’s lighter than I expected—cold, crisp, enough to feel grown-up but not gross.
She’s right. It’s weirdly good and exactly what I needed.
I’ve never actually had beer before. But sitting here, with everything around me softened by the sunset, my new friend beside me, and something light fizzing in my chest—I get it.
A low, smoky voice crackles over the speakers, announcing the start of the event.
My stomach knots. The cup slips in my grip, slick with condensation. Lydia bumps my shoulder. When I glance at her, her usual bright smile is pulled tight at the edges.
The guys know what they’re doing. They’ve trained for this. They’ve done this before. Even knowing the risks, they’re still down there—eagerly waiting for their turn.
“Cheers to your very first rodeo,” Lydia says, raising her cup.
We clink our half-full plastic cups together with a giggle and down the rest in one go.
“May it not be your last,” she adds with a wink.
Landon’s up first. He doesn’t last more than five seconds before he’s flung off the bull like a rag doll.
Lydia grips my hand the entire time, white-knuckled and tense. When Landon scrambles out of the arena and slams his fist against the railing, I see Wesley and a few others slap his back in support.
Lydia clicks her tongue. “Damn. He didn’t qualify. He’s gonna be in such a pissy mood on the ride home. Can’t wait for that.”
Before I can answer, Emmett’s in the chute, wrapping the rope around his gloved hand before drawing a breath, and nodding.
The gate swings open and the bull explodes from the stall—black, wild, violent. Emmett’s body snaps with every twist, one hand gripped tight, the other hovering for balance. He’s tossed in brutal arcs, but somehow holds on. Each second on the clock ticks by in slow motion.
Lydia’s hand tightens in mine. This time, I squeeze back.
The buzzer blares. The stands erupt. Lydia launches out of her seat, dragging me into a hug as she jumps up and down.
“He did it!” she screams. “Oh my God, he did it! That’s his first qualifying ride!”
By the time I look back toward the arena, Emmett has already pulled off his helmet. Wesley and Landon are hugging him, pounding his back. Emmett glances up at the stands, searching—until his eyes land on us. He winks and blows a kiss in our direction.
Butterflies burst in my chest, flapping hard all the way to my throat. I don’t even try to hide my smile.
Lydia bumps her knee against mine. “Told you. They’ve got everyone wrapped around their fingers,” she murmurs, twirling her pointer finger in the air.
I bite my cheek. No point denying it.