2. Sierra
Sierra
The thick nylon strap of my camera dug right into the sunburned spot on my neck. I adjusted it, rolling my shoulders in an attempt to work out the knots. I was almost tempted to book a massage. My muscles had been groaning at me all week long.
I crouched low against the metal fencing of the arena, waiting for a young cowboy to get his saddle situated. My thighs burned from the squat. In my twenties, I could bounce around rodeos all day without breaking a sweat. But at thirty-six, my body was starting to say no.
Not that the work was so hard, but the grind was.
Click. The shutter fired as the bull shifted, throwing a clump of dirt straight toward the lens.
Got it. That shot would sell to the local paper for sure.
I stood up, brushing a thick layer of dust off the thighs of my jeans. All I really wanted right now was to go back to the motel room, take a lukewarm shower with the world’s tiniest bar of soap, and pass out.
A couple walked past me, holding hands. They looked so sweet together, it almost made me wish I’d taken a different path in life.
My thoughts wandered back to my last serious boyfriend.
The one I hadn’t been in love with.
I’d tried so hard to make myself content… but I couldn’t.
Life would be different right now if I’d let myself settle down with him. Even if he hadn’t been my great big love affair, we could have a good life together.
But was good always enough?
A burst of loud, booming laughter echoed over the sounds of the crowd.
I sought out the owner of that voice, drawn by its exuberance for life.
I lifted my camera out of habit, letting it do the looking for me. The autofocus whirred, blurring past the rodeo arena and the concession stands until it locked on a group of three people sitting halfway up the wooden bleachers.
And there he was.
He was sitting on the aisle, a big man with shoulders broad enough to block out the people sitting behind him.
He had on a faded flannel shirt rolled up to his elbows, exposing thick forearms, and a pair of worn denim jeans.
He was grinning, leaning back with a relaxed, easygoing confidence that you just couldn’t fake.
He was hot. Unfairly, ridiculously hot.
I zoomed in a little closer, safely hidden behind my camera.
He was joking with the couple sitting next to him—a handsome guy in a ball cap and a pretty woman who looked completely smitten with her man.
The big guy in the flannel teased them about something, his smile flashing white against his tanned face.
I knew his type. I’d spent ten years on the rodeo circuit, and I’d photographed hundreds of guys just like him.
He was the charmer. A flirt. The guy who knew women were staring at his chest, and he liked it.
Men like that were fun for a Saturday night.
They’d buy you a beer, charm the pants right off you, and forget your name by the time you packed up your bags on Sunday morning.
I was so tired of that routine. I was tired of gas station dinners, doing my laundry in hotel sinks, and trying to date men who lived in the one-stop towns I visited for work.
Still, I couldn’t stop looking at him. I adjusted my shutter speed and snapped a picture of him laughing. Click.
Through the viewfinder, I watched his friend in the ball cap turn his attention fully to the woman at his side. He leaned in, whispering something right against her ear. She blushed, her face lighting up, and she rested her head gently on his shoulder.
I shifted my lens back to the big guy in the flannel.
So. Fucking. Hot.
He was watching the latest rider, which is what I should have been doing. But I was still waiting for my magic shot.
And just like that, his smile dropped.
It flat-out disappeared. He didn’t look angry, exactly. He looked… hollow. The charming, life-of-the-party energy vanished, leaving behind a guy staring blankly down at the dirt arena. He swallowed hard, his jaw flexing once, and suddenly he looked like the only person in a crowded stadium.
My finger twitched. Click.
I caught it. That split second where his mask dropped.
I lowered the camera, hitting the back button to look at the tiny LCD screen, and zoomed in on his face. The contrast was startling. Up close on the screen, he didn’t look like a player anymore. He looked… lonely.
I lifted the camera back to my eye, curiosity getting the better of me, and spotted him watching me. I quickly shifted my camera, snapping a few shots of the crowd, before focusing on the cowboy in the ring trying to ride the bull.
Had he noticed me?
My heart thumped a little faster for no good reason.
Then I swung my camera back in his direction, curiosity getting the better of me.
His eyes were on me again, but only for a second.
He stood up as another man approached, then threw a casual wave to his friends and started down the metal bleacher stairs.
Where were they going?
I stood frozen by the fence, calculating my next move.
The bull riders were getting ready in the pens right behind me. That was the main event. And what the rodeo magazines paid actual money for. If I wanted to pad my bank account, I needed to stay right here and shoot the bulls.
Mister-Hot-And-Sexy was heading to the charity arena. And that wasn’t where I’d find my money-maker shots.
I shoved my hand into my pocket, my fingers scraping against the rough edges of the plastic motel key.
Then I looked at the bucking chutes before turning my eyes to the side arena.
The big guy was already parting the crowd at the bottom of the stands, rolling his shoulders loose as he walked.
Oh hell, I was going to chase him over there.
I swapped my heavy telephoto lens for a shorter portrait one. Then I followed him to the smaller arena where the charity event was being held.